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diff --git a/38990-h/38990-h.htm b/38990-h/38990-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..05f9816 --- /dev/null +++ b/38990-h/38990-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,23488 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg Book of Ovington’s Bank, by Stanley J. Weyman</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5 {text-align: center;} + +span.sc2 {font-variant: small-caps; font-size:90%;} + +hr.W20 {width:20%; color:black; margin-top:12pt; margin-bottom:12pt} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ovington’s Bank, by Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Ovington’s Bank</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 26, 2012 [eBook #38990]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 9, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Bowen</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVINGTON’S BANK ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:75%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h2>OVINGTON’S BANK</h2> + +<h3>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</h3> + +<hr class="W20" /> + +<div style="margin-left:25%; font-weight:bold"> + +<p> +THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF +</p> + +<p> +THE NEW RECTOR +</p> + +<p> +THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE +</p> + +<p> +A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE +</p> + +<p> +THE MAN IN BLACK +</p> + +<p> +UNDER THE RED ROBE +</p> + +<p> +MY LADY ROTHA +</p> + +<p> +MEMOIRS OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE +</p> + +<p> +THE RED COCKADE +</p> + +<p> +SHREWSBURY +</p> + +<p> +THE CASTLE INN +</p> + +<p> +SOPHIA +</p> + +<p> +COUNT HANNIBAL +</p> + +<p> +IN KINGS’ BYWAYS +</p> + +<p> +THE LONG NIGHT +</p> + +<p> +THE ABBESS OF VLAYE +</p> + +<p> +STARVECROW FARM +</p> + +<p> +CHIPPINGE +</p> + +<p> +LAID UP IN LAVENDER +</p> + +<p> +THE WILD GEESE +</p> + +<p> +THE GREAT HOUSE +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h1>OVINGTON’S BANK</h1> + +<h5>BY</h5> <h2>STANLEY J. WEYMAN</h2> <h5>Author of “A Gentleman of +France,” “Count Hannibal,”<br /> +“The Castle Inn,” “The Great House,” etc., etc.</h5> + +<h4>NEW YORK<br /> +<span style="font-size:125%">LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.</span><br /> +55 FIFTH AVENUE<br /> +1922</h4> + +<h4><span class="sc2">Copyright, 1922<br /> +BY</span><br /> +STANLEY J. WEYMAN</h4> + +<h5>MADE IN THE UNITED STATES</h5> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER XLI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER XLII.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>OVINGTON’S BANK</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A man touched him on the sleeve. “Mr. Bourdillon, sir,” he said, +trying to stop him, “by your leave! I want to——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“All well, sir. Let me take that!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“All well, sir, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll find her at the window looking out. All gone swimmingly, I +hope, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still rising?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and Sir Charles. They came a little before time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clement is with them, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say he’s away to-day!” in a tone of vexation. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid he is,” Arthur admitted. “But they are all +right. I offered Sir Charles the paper, but they preferred to wait +outside.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Ovington! Just a——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not now!” Ovington answered curtly. “Call to-morrow.” +And when they had left the man behind, “What does he want?” +</p> + +<p> +“What they all want,” Arthur answered, smiling. “A good +thing, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he isn’t a customer.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they are doing well.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Including Stocks?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s a good fire! Come and warm yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I can’t do, my dear,” he said, taking off +his great coat. “Business first.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought you had done all that in London?” pouting. +</p> + +<p> +“Not all, but some. I shall be an hour, perhaps more.” +</p> + +<p> +She shot a mutinous glance at Arthur. “Why can’t he do it? And Mr. +Rodd?” +</p> + +<p> +“You think we are old enough, Betty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Apprentices should be seen, and not heard!” she snapped. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that that proverb applied to children,” he retorted. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell-tale!” she flung at Arthur. “If you must know, +father,” mildly, “I think that he’s——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +In the parlor which lay behind the public office were two men. One, seated in +an arm-chair by the fire, was reading the <i>Morning Post</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Baronet’s face fell. “Sold!” he ejaculated. “Parted +with them? But I never—my dear sir, I never——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, not to-day,” Ovington answered pleasantly. “But when +we have shaken the tree a little——” +</p> + +<p> +“One may fall, you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so. You will be unlucky if one does not.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll never believe it!” Wolley growled, anxious to assert +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“But not desirable,” Ovington continued blandly. “At any +rate, if we wait too long——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Under such circumstances the Valleys Railroad seemed a practical thing even to +Grounds, and Ovington’s question was answered by a general assent. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Charles shied at the word. “I don’t like a mortgage, Mr. +Ovington,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, d——n a mortgage!” Acherley chimed in. He had had +much experience of them. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A twinkle of greed passed from eye to eye. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five per +cent.! Ho, ho! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what about the game?” Sir Charles asked anxiously. “You +don’t think——” +</p> + +<p> +“On that point the greatest care will be taken. We shall see that no +covert is closely approached.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the—you won’t bring the line within sight +of——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Is my landlord’s, I’ll bet!” Wolley exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—is Garth. Mr. Griffin’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Wolley laughed rudely. “Garth? Ay, you’ll have your work cut out +there!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh. I don’t know!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do. And you’ll find I’m right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hope——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite!” Ovington struck in. “Entirely different! Another +thing altogether, Sir Charles. There can be only one opinion on that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, if I thought I was entering on anything +like——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Acherley looked over his shoulder at the secretary, who sat at a small table at +Ovington’s elbow. “Like the job, Arthur?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I think Sir Charles’s example will go a long way with him,” +Bourdillon answered. He was a tactful young man. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right, quite right,” Sir Charles murmured, much relieved. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll not take it!” Wolley persisted. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“You will see I am right.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, quite so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody may come forward, and the larger the applications the higher +the premium, gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The banker nodded. “And three hundred more on his standing loan.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur whistled. “I wonder you go on carrying him, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I cut him loose now——” +</p> + +<p> +“There would be a loss, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Gazette</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Splendidly! The way you managed them!” The lad laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The railroad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you think so. I was not sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +But Betty put her hands behind her back. “Why? Where are you +going?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have forgotten that it is Saturday. I am going home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Horrid Saturday! I thought that to-night, with father just +back——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“As you go at other times. On his feet.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fortunes?”—with disdain. “Whose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father’s for one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Silly! He’s made his.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then yours—and mine, Betty. Yours and mine—and +Clement’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think he’ll thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then Rodd’s. But, no, we’ll not make Rodd’s. +We’ll not make Rodd’s, Betty.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not Mr. Rodd’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, mother!” he said, stooping carelessly to kiss her. +“Hallo, Clement.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“A brace and a wood-pigeon. Has my father come?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter now, mother?” he asked, stooping to warm +his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Your uncle has been here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s no new thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he has behaved dreadfully, perfectly dreadfully to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that that is new, either.” +</p> + +<p> +“He began again about your refusal to take Orders, and your going into +that dreadful bank instead.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “That’s one for you, Clement.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There you are again, Clement!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I know, mother. He was passing rich on four hundred pounds a year. +But that is not going to do for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know what you want!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Jos!” Arthur said. “She has not a very bright life of +it. But this does not interest Clement, and we’re keeping him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say you know my cousin?” Arthur said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it may be yours some day,” with a sniff. “I’m +sure Jos is ready enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll have to do as he tells her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Garth must be hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“La, Arthur, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +If he had not done so, his sister’s face when he entered the dining-room +would have brought him to his level. +</p> + +<p> +“My eye and Betty Martin!” she said. “But you’ve done +it now, my lad!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked longingly at the table where supper awaited him. “What did he +say?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right!” he replied, and he turned to the door with something +of a swagger. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But after all a man must——” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose you forget that ‘<i>after all</i>,’” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid, sir, that I have not got a turn for it,” Clement +pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve not got his application. That’s the mischief! Your +heart’s not in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Release me from the bank, sir? And give me a—a very small capital +to——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I like an outdoor life,” Clement pleaded, his face scarlet. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say that I could—at first.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Clement cried angrily, and he went out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Yet so it was. And he could not change himself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>agréments</i> which he had +foreseen. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I may, sir? +</p> + +<p> +“I want a word with you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When the Peacock rose Jos hesitated. The Squire saw it. “Do you go, +girl,” he said. “Be off!” +</p> + +<p> +For once she wavered—she feared what might happen between the two. But +“Do you hear?” the Squire growled. “Go when you are +told.” +</p> + +<p> +She went then, but Arthur could not restrain his indignation. “Poor +Jos!” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! A devilish lot you know about women!” the old man snarled. +“But never mind that. I saw your mother yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she told me, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you have no man rise, sir?” Arthur ventured. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur kept his temper, oppressed by the other’s violence. “Still, +you must own, sir, that times are changed,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Changed? Damnably changed when a Griffin wants to go into trade in +Aldersbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“But banking is hardly a trade.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be not the less a Griffin.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, sir, if you look at it in that way——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any more wine?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you.” Arthur’s head was high. He did not lack +spirit. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think you’re mistaken, sir,” poor Jos ventured. +“I don’t think that he means——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he’s not to come to Garth, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I assure you, sir, he’s like a bear with a sore head,” +Arthur urged. +</p> + +<p> +“A bear will come to the honey if its head be sore,” the banker +answered, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“And perhaps upset the hive?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Quarterly Review</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I dunno as I ’ave, either,” Fewtrell admitted. +</p> + +<p> +“No, his eyes is allus on t’other side, a-counting up the Griffins +before him, and filling himself up wi’ pride.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dunno as I couldn’t see it another way,” said the bailiff +thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“What other way? Never to look at his own son’s moniment?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, mebbe——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Fewtrell considered. “Not right out the same,” he decided. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The bailiff grinned. “Mebbe he’ll take a stick same as +before.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d best not!” Thomas said, with an ugly look. +“He’d best take care, or——” +</p> + +<p> +“Whist! Whist! lad. You be playing for trouble. Here be Squire.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I thank you. I must be in town by noon.” +</p> + +<p> +“A glass of Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, Squire, I thank you. My business will not take long.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” The Squire’s tone was uncompromising. He +made no movement towards taking the plans. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will allow me to explain?” +</p> + +<p> +The old man sat back in his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Built?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no. Not yet, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Begun, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“Projected?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely, projected, the plans approved, the Bill in +preparation.” +</p> + +<p> +“But nothing done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing actually done as yet,” the banker admitted, somewhat +dashed. “But if we wait until these works are finished we shall find +ourselves anticipated. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire raised his eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But the old man put them aside. “I don’t want to see them,” +he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But, Squire, if you would kindly glance——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to see them. What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want to carry your railroad over Garth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a yard!” The old man tapped the table before him. “Not a +foot!” +</p> + +<p> +“But our terms—if you would allow me to explain them?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the railroad will not come within a mile of Garth.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may take your railroad any way you like, so long as you don’t +bring it over Garth.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean—by G—d, sir,” the Squire broke out, +“you mean that you will take my land whether I will or no?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not using any threat.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you do use a threat!” roared the Squire, towering tall and +gaunt above his opponent. “You do use a threat! You come +here——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pish!” said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Then with your permission I will seek my horse.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man turned to the window and opened it. “Thomas,” he +shouted violently. “Mr. Ovington’s horse.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he sees more clearly than you that times are changed.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not, I hope not. Good-day, Mr. Griffin. I can find my way out. +Don’t let me trouble you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, I thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The banker nodded. “None better, Purslow,” he answered. “What +is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I says, then—excuse me—is, if Grounds, why not me? Why +not me, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite——” +</p> + +<p> +“If he’s to be on the Board, he and his +mash-tubs——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” The banker looked grave. “You are thinking of the +Railroad, Purslow?” +</p> + +<p> +“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’.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And slave for every penny I make!” +</p> + +<p> +“Slow and sure is a good rule.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She understood him at once, and “Oh, father!” she cried, laying +down her work. “Who is it? Is it Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like that?” +</p> + +<p> +She replied by another question. “Is he really so clever?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cleverer than Mr. Rodd?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rodd! Pooh! Arthur’s worth two of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite the industrious apprentice!” she murmured, her hands in her +lap. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know,” lightly, “what happened to the industrious +apprentice, Betty?” +</p> + +<p> +She colored. “He married his master’s daughter, didn’t he? +But there are two words to that, father. Quite two words.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am going to offer him a small share. Anything more will depend +upon himself—and Clement.” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed. “Poor Clement!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think,” timidly, “that he does understand about those +things, father.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Though I was away!” the banker exclaimed. And he said some strong +things upon the subject, to which Betty had to listen. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur looked grave. “I am afraid, sir——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, lad,” the other answered pleasantly, “I like you. +Still, you had better take a short time to consider the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want no time,” Arthur declared. “My only difficulty is +about the money. My mother’s six thousand is charged on Garth, you +see.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there is—at three months. But I am afraid that my +mother——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try, sir,” Arthur replied. At that moment he felt that +he could move mountains. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +He burst into song. He stopped. “Betty!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that rude boy?” the girl retorted, appearing on the stairs +above him. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are cancelled! They are gone!” he retorted. “Come down, +Betty! Come down and I will tell you such things!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O my God!” Clement cried, and he reeled back, shielding his eyes +with his hands. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can I do anything? Get you some water?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw.” She smiled faintly. “But it +was—careless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Horribly! Horribly careless! It was wicked!” He could not humble +himself enough. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And you are Miss Griffin, are you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” smiling tremulously. +</p> + +<p> +“May I help you over the stile? Oh, your basket!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He colored. “Oh, nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it must have been something!” Her curiosity was strengthened. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you wish to know,” he confessed, shamefacedly, “I +was looking at those snowdrops.” +</p> + +<p> +“Those snowdrops?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you see how the sunlight touches them? What a little island +of light they make among the brown leaves?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——?” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she replied, smiling, “I shall not go off, as you call +it, now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will only come as far as the mill,” humbly. “Please let me +do that.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” he said, his tone deprecating the idea. He did not aspire +to that. +</p> + +<p> +“But what, then?” She did not understand. “Have you no +ambition?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to be—a farmer, if I had my way.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But farmers——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I know,” sorrowfully, “it must seem a very low thing to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Farmers don’t look at snowdrops, Mr. Ovington,” with a gleam +of fun in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“For nearly shooting me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—and thank God, thank God,” with emotion, “that it +was not worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought never to carry a gun again!” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t exact that penalty.” She looked at him very kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“And you will forgive me? You will do your best to forgive me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure that you will be safe now?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have no fresh accident with your firearms,” she laughed. +“Please be careful.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t go,” said Josina. “I was frightened by a +gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“A gun?” +</p> + +<p> +“And I felt a little faint.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Under the Thirty Acres—by the stile. A gun went off, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Josina agreed that it was very silly, and went quickly up to her room. Yes, the +less said about it the better! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is nice! Very nice!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“But this is in the hand!” Arthur cried, restraining himself with +difficulty. “This is in the hand!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve told me a hundred times!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“The truth is, mother, you are afraid of the Squire.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“But it cannot be lost, I tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn!” Arthur cried, fairly losing his temper at last. “The +truth is, mother, that my father knew nothing about money.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In a few years he will be worth a quarter of a million,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The figure flustered her. “Why, that’s——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She was shaken. “You know, if I thought it was for your good!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is! It is, mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it his money or yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, of course, Arthur, I thought that you knew that it was your +father’s.” She was very simple, and her pride was touched. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that is his look-out.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I say nothing about it,” Arthur declared. “If he chooses to +come between us that will be his doing, not mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur knew that it was not in his province to advise, and he shook his head. +“You must ask Mr. Ovington,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not too long,” said Sir Charles, sapiently. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t Arthur get round him?” Acherley suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Arthur replied, smiling. “Perhaps if +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you see him, Mr. Acherley?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’ll see him!” carelessly. “I don’t say I +shall persuade him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Friday would suit me better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Friday be it then, if Mr. Acherley—good. On Friday at noon, +gentlemen. Yes, Bourdillon?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The slip was passed from hand to hand, and “How’ll you have it, Mr. +Boumphry?” Rodd asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In shares!” cried a wit. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“A form!” cried a second wit. “Neither can we, farmer! Come, +out with ’em, gentlemen. Hullo, Mr. Purslow! That you? Ha’ you +turned banker?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hanged well!” said Acherley. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Charles acquiesced. “Er, I think so,” he said. “I +certainly think so.” But he felt himself a little out of place. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir——” +</p> + +<p> +The banker was shrewd. “Is it the money that is the trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you given your uncle notice?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the notice has been given now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then in three months, as I understand——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I like you,” the banker rejoined. “And, of course, I +see my own advantage in it. So that is settled.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” drily. “What are you doing here, Betty?” +</p> + +<p> +“I came to see the Lottery drawn,” she retorted, making a face at +him. “Mr. Rodd fetched me. No one else remembered me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And what would you have thought?” Betty asked pertly, reverting to +the sentence that he had not finished. +</p> + +<p> +“Only that Rodd might be better employed—at his work. This is just +the job he is fit for, giving out forms.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Clement, too, I suppose? It is his job, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“When he’s here to do it,” with a faint sneer. “That is +not too often, Betty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, more often of late, anyway. Do you know what Mr. Rodd says?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How, Betty? I didn’t tell you. I have told no one. Did +Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, father, not in so many words. But I guessed it.” And during +the rest of the evening she was unusually pensive. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Pugh quaked under the Squire’s hard eyes. “A letter from the +mistress, your honor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any answer?” +</p> + +<p> +Reluctantly Pugh gave up the hope of beer with Calamy the butler. +“I’d no orders to wait, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then off you go! I’ve all the idlers here I want, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am putting it into the bank,” she replied, her eyes averted. +“Arthur is going—to be taken in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Into the bank?” The Squire glared at her. “Into +Ovington’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He struck the floor with his cane. “And you think that it will be safe +there? Safe, ma’am, safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” she faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire could hardly believe his ears. That one of his men should answer +him! +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, little enough!” the man repeated impudently. “Beggarly +pay, and ’tis time you knew it, Master.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s where it be!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Share of it!” the old man ejaculated, thunderstruck by an argument +as new as the man’s insolence. “Share of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, begad?” the Squire exclaimed, staring at him. +“You’re the most impudent fellow I ever set eyes on!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him piteously, the color gone from her face. “I—I +don’t think—I understand, sir,” she quavered. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean, sir,” she stammered, “that I am not to see +Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall do as you wish, of course, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“From this day? Now, do you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And the snowdrops!” She, alas, was on the same plane of sapience. +“But when—when did you first, Clem?” +</p> + +<p> +“From the first moment we met! From the very first, Jos!” +</p> + +<p> +“When I saw you standing here? And looking——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Jos,” he said, his eyes looking bravely into hers, +“I must see your father.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father!” Fear sprang into her eyes. She stiffened. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear,” he repeated. “I must see your father—and +speak to him. There is no other course possible.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” she cried, despairing, “never! He will never allow +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she prayed, “can we not go on as we are?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But he will want to know——” her shoulders heaved in +her agitation, “he will want to know——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he is so—so hard!” she whispered, her face still hidden. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“True to you!” he cried, worshipping her, adoring her. “Oh, +Jos!” +</p> + +<p> +“And love me a little always?” +</p> + +<p> +“Love you? Oh, my darling!” The words choked him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, but the birds were singing now and the brook was sparkling as it rippled +over the shallows towards the deep pool. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, “When will you tell him?” she asked; and she asked it, +with scarce a quaver in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as I can. The sooner the better. This is Saturday. I will see +him on Monday morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“But isn’t that—market-day?” faintly. “Can you +get away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Does anything matter beside this?” he replied. “The sooner, +dear, the tooth is pulled, the better. There is only, one thing I fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you fear nothing,” she rejoined, gazing at him with +admiring eyes. “But what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not mind what comes,” she whispered, “if only we are +not parted.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +And through all, she who was so weak, so timid, so subject, must be firm. She +must not flinch. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Peacock was all of a flutter. “But I thought, sir, that the Bench +did not sit——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d best not think,” he retorted. “Ten, I +said.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll find me a queer customer if he starts spouting again! Why, +damme,” irritably, “one might almost think you agreed with +him!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Summat? Why, man,” in astonishment, “are you tarred with the +same brush?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you get as much?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire pulled up his horses. “D’you want me?” he asked, +civilly enough. +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Mr. Ovington’s son, Clement Ovington, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is upon private business, Mr. Griffin,” Clement replied, his +face burning. +</p> + +<p> +“Did your father send you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Clement was scarlet with mortification. “If I could see you a few +minutes—alone, sir, I think I could explain what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s not time—by an hour, man!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire resigned himself, “Very well, I’ll come,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>hodie nominis umbrae</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire thrust his cheque across the counter. “In gold,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what it does mean, sir,” the Squire answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, it is entirely your affair——” +</p> + +<p> +“Entirely.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we are most anxious to accommodate you. If there is anything that we +can put right, any cause of dissatisfaction——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not with me. And as my time is short——” +</p> + +<p> +The banker bowed. “In gold, I think? May we not send it for you? It will +be no trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I thank you,” the Squire grunted, hating the other for his +courtesy. “I will take it, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No need. I shall call for it in an hour. Lock it up yourself, Purslow. +That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“’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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you ought to!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Charles changed color. “My good name?” he said, bristling +feebly. “I don’t understand you, Griffin.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“But damme if he shall insult us!” Acherley cried, trembling with +passion. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see about that,” Acherley answered, bubbling with +rage. “There are more ways than one of cooking a goose.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire snapped at him. “Morning? Rubbish, man! Put it in.” He +made room for the bag at his feet. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I have a word with you, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Rodd said gravely. “If nothing more follows, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should anything follow? I know his reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the town doesn’t. And if it gets about, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve a lot of notes out, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we’ve a lot of money out—that could not be got in in a +hurry, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well secured.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We hold the lease of his mill.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you don’t want to run the mill!” Rodd replied, putting +his finger on the weak point. +</p> + +<p> +The banker reflected. “That’s the worst account we have. The worst, +isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Acherley’s, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Griffin——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But Rodd held his ground, and the banker explained. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I was speaking generally,” Rodd muttered. He looked sullen. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “I stand corrected,” he said. +“I didn’t know that Rodd ever went beyond his ledgers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he’s quite right to speak his mind. We are all in the same +boat—though we do not all steer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m glad of that, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still,” mildly, “it is a good thing to have an +opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it be worth anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Betty dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, I am flattered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Betty, you’ve no business here,” her father said. “You +mustn’t stop unless you can keep your opinions to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what has happened?” she asked, looking around in wonder. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Griffin has withdrawn his account.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Rodd,” Arthur added, with more heat than the occasion seemed +to demand, “thinks that we had better put up the shutters!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s been a universal rise,” Rodd muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“In a moment? Without warning?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what is it? What is it, man?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Or a woman!” interjected Betty, who was observing all with bright +inscrutable eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like my opinion, father?” Betty asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” sharply, “certainly not, child. Where’s +Clement?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m afraid he’s away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Again? Then he is behaving very badly!” +</p> + +<p> +“That was the opinion I was going to give,” the girl answered. +“That some were behaving better than others.” +</p> + +<p> +“If,” Arthur cried, “you mean me——” +</p> + +<p> +“There, enough,” said her father. “Be silent, Betty. +You’ve no business to be here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, people should behave themselves,” she replied, her eyes +sparkling. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +But Ovington shook his head. “I listened because there are times when a +straw shows which way the wind blows.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you don’t think that there is anything in what he said?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Still, there is no sign of a change, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What should it be! I don’t know what you mean,” she +retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, you do. What took you—to back up that ass in the bank just +now?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’re not——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s Mr. Bourdillon now, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—if you are going to behave to my friends as you did this +afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your friends!” scornfully. “You include Rodd, do you? Rodd, +Betty?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“So it’s Rodd now?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And without waiting for a reply she ran up the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo!” he shouted. “What is it? Is anything the +matter?” He urged his horse forward. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” Clement cried. “Here! Take care! There’s a man +in the road.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” Then, “Confound you, you nearly had me down! Are you +hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got your horse. I met him a couple of miles this side of the +town. What has——” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Squire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. He’s lying here, half dead. We must get him to the side +of the road at once.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” Clement cried. “I think that he is still +alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we’ve got to lift him in,” said Arthur, more practical. +“He’s a big weight.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t let her see him,” Clement cried. “Go, man, and +send her back.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<p> +The Squire was late. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +But Josina did not budge. “He is very late,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nearly eight!” Miss Peacock flung at him, and repeated her +statement. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve put the dinner back, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s a dark night, ma’am, to be sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gracious goodness, can’t I see that? If Thomas weren’t with +him——” +</p> + +<p> +The butler shook his head. “Under notice, ma’am,” he said. +“I think the worst of Thomas. On a dark night, with +Thomas——” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Peacock gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say my prayers, ma’am,” the butler murmured softly. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hadn’t you better,” said Josina from the darkness outside, +“send Fewtrell to meet him with a lanthorn?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Send him, Calamy,” said Josina. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that he had been there,” she murmured, too +self-conscious to ask further questions. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Thomas? You are sure that it was Thomas? What became of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s in livery, isn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing. And you think he’ll make for +Manchester?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then Clement, as he ate his supper, came to his point. “I’m going +after him,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The banker objected. “It’s not your business, my lad,” he +said. “You’ve done enough, I’m sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the point is—it’s bank money, sir.” Clement had +grown cunning. +</p> + +<p> +“It was—this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he was a client this morning—and may be tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, by someone. But I don’t see why you need be the one.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But your face?” Betty said. “Isn’t it painful? +It’s turning black.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bet that villain’s is as black!” he retorted. +“I know I got home on him once. Only let me be called.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not to-day,” Clement urged. “He’ll come through +to-day or to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, anyway, do your best.” +</p> + +<p> +“We might bill him and cry him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The constable’s eyes twinkled. “Now you’re on a line, +master,” he said. “Now we’ll do summat, maybe!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mebbe, mister. Do you see that stable?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“D’you go in there and I’ll—mebbe I’ll join +you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Clement was suspicious. “I am not going out of sight of the +street,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord!” contemptuously. “Your man’s gone these six +hours. He’s many a mile on by now! You come into the stable.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then fork out, squire. Open your purse, and I’ll open my +mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you come with me to the constable——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I. I ben’t sharing with no constable. That is flat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“What you want to know. Howsumdever, if you’ll give me your word +you’ll act the gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you, my lad?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but that can’t be the man!” Clement exclaimed, his face +falling. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you hear where he was going to in Manchester?” +</p> + +<p> +“Five pound, mister!” The man held out his grimy paw. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Clement gave him the other note. “He didn’t tell you where he was +going?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“He did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, you marked him. But you get one of Nadin’s boys. +You’ll not take him easy.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t think we need another man?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“’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. +</p> + +<p> +“We want a word with you,” said the officer. +</p> + +<p> +The man eyed them with dismay. “I never thout ’at he’d come +to thee,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“The chap you brought in this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Happen yes and happen no,” the policeman replied. +“What’s it all about?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, lad?” +</p> + +<p> +“’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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Which way? I see. Did he take the oats?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not he, nor t’ bag. An after mekking setch a din about his eauts! +I war no wi’ ’em five minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +The officer declined to commit himself. “Let us see them,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you make of it?” Clement asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Just so, I’d like to know,” shaking his head. +“Yes, Jerry, measure it back into the sack. How much is there?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +But the lad protested that he’d told all the truth. It had happened just +as he had told them. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +The officer did not respond. “Why, the devil, didn’t you seize +him?” he growled. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Right!” said Nadin’s man. “And now do you show us the +sack as you changed for his.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind who told us. We know, and that’s enough. There was a +twist o’ plait round the cord?” +</p> + +<p> +“There were.” +</p> + +<p> +“You said nothing about it before. But out with it now, and do you take +care, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said the officer darkly. “Let us see +the sack.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not agoing——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear? Jump, unless you want to get into trouble. You show us that +sack, and be quick about it, my lad.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Reluctantly the ostler pointed it out. “Then you get me a +horse-cloth.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not going—well, a wilful man must have his way. Will +that serve you? But if my oats is spilled and spiled——” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got the money,” Clement replied. And he waved the bag. +</p> + +<p> +“And Thomas?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he gave us the slip for the time. But I’ve got the money, +except a dozen pounds or so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +But Clement made no move to hand over. Instead, “How is he?” he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, pretty bad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will he get over it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s in bed?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s bad,” Clement said. “And how +is——” He was going to inquire after Miss Griffin, but Arthur +broke in on him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Right,” Arthur said, weighing it in his hand. “You counted +it, I suppose? Four hundred and thirty, or thereabouts?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>dénouement</i>. “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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t think Arthur——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, Clem did recover it,” Betty said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but who will ever know that he did?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good lad!” he muttered. “Good lad! Jos?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father.” She rose and came towards him. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“He went out with your message.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure! To be sure! I’m forgetting.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was a real <i>bouleversement</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he has just come in, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Prop me up. And send him to me. Do you leave us.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay. When’s that money due?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What else? What other money is there, that’s due? I forget things +but I dunno forget that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t forget much, sir,” Arthur replied cheerfully. +“But there’s no hurry about that.” +</p> + +<p> +“When?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, in two months from the twenty-first, sir. But there is not the +least hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the seventeenth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Somewhere about two hundred and seventy odd, I think, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can do that. Do you see to it, lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t wish to do it through Ovington’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” the Squire rapped out. “Do it yourself. And lose no +time. Write at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, sir. I suppose you have the certificates?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Course I have,” annoyed. “Isn’t the stock +mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir. I’ll see to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” The girl spoke listlessly. “I don’t think he +is.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s made a wonderful recovery,” his mother observed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—if it’s a real recovery.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl protested that she was well, quite well. But her heavy eyes and the +shadows under them belied her words. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m off to town,” he said, “I have to see +Welshes for him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, doctor!” Arthur cried as they met. “Are you going up +to the house to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Bourdillon. But I can if necessary. How is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean——” +</p> + +<p> +“Has this really shaken him? Will he be the same man again?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, an unusual recovery—from such injuries. And I say +nothing about the sight. I’m not hopeful of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Grounds shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t +double——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My wife wants a silk dress.” +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No? Well, I’ll tell you why if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t want to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“You might fall among crows and be plucked. I can tell you, you’d +be a sorry sight in your own feathers!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, Mr. Rodd is what he seems!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not hollow!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a good deal to learn,” she cried, bristling with anger, +“about women!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to think very ill of me,” he said once. “And yet +you trouble yourself a good deal about me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You make a mistake!” she replied. “I am not troubling myself +about you. I’m thinking of my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Now you are out of my reach. That’s beyond me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish he were!” +</p> + +<p> +“He knows his own business.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated. “I am afraid, sir,” he ventured at last, +“there’s a difficulty here that I had not foreseen. The +certificates——” +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t want the certificates—yet! Don’t they say +so? Plain as a pikestaff!” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, sir,” doubtfully. “If Welshes have got +them——” +</p> + +<p> +“Welshes have not got them!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +However, the riddle solved itself before many hours had passed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, ha’ mercy!” Calamy cried, eying the gaunt figure with +dismay. He hastened forward to support it. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway, I canna do it,” the Squire repeated, and remained +motionless for a moment. “I couldn’t manage the stairs if +’twere ever so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m weaker than I thought,” the Squire muttered. He suffered +himself to be put into bed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid so. Anyway I canna do it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Only feet foremost.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are quite alone, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one within hearing, lad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a soul, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am, sir, I quite understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be careful,” Arthur assured him. “I quite understand, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I do it now, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay. And bring back the keys. Don’t let ’em out of your +hands.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At Welshes? Perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been a long time about it, young man,” the Squire +grumbled. “What’s amiss?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay. It would take a clever rogue to find it,” complacently. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it’s old, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, go about the business and get it done. And now do you send Jos to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if we don’t teach him a lesson now?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“That would be the devil!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not have the patience.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is one of the things you have to learn.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Morning Post</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“My coat?” Arthur stared at the old man. He did not understand. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay. You thought that I’d forgotten it. But I’m not that +shaken. What about it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you wear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it Wolley?” Wolley’s case had been before them that +morning and sharp things had been said about his trading methods. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But our money is well covered.” +</p> + +<p> +“As things are.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we are as solvent, sir, as——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Even then, sir, we are well secured. We should have no difficulty in +finding accommodation.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not, but if it did?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you had any hint?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. But I see that iron is down—since Saturday. And the Manchester +market was flat yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Things that have happened before,” Arthur said. “I think, +sir, it is really Wolley’s affair that is troubling you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered soberly, “you will not lose me, if you +have patience.” +</p> + +<p> +“But have you patience?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must have.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +It began to come home to him. “Blind?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But for good? Do you mean—quite blind?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid!” +</p> + +<p> +“I say God forbid too, with all my heart. Still, if he does +not—what then? When may I——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And I must wait? I must go on waiting? Eating my heart out—doing +nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no other way. Indeed, indeed there is not.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is too much. It is too much, Jos, that you ask!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Clement——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“You must give me up.” She spoke firmly but her lips quivered, and +there were tears in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He was silent. At last, “Do you wish me to do that?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But Clement only shrugged his shoulders. He had become indifferent. He had his +own burden to bear. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But they were rising—rising nicely. And I thought, +sir——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Better make what you can,” Arthur replied, and rode on a little +more cavalierly than he would have ridden a few months before. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, stay,” Ovington answered. “You may as well hear what Mr. +Wolley has to say, though I have told him already——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” the clothier cried rudely. “Come! Let’s have it +in plain words!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“A customer. Who should he be?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t cash them? Not on no terms?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll not discount these bills?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” the banker said. “We go no farther.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He wants a drubbing,” said Clement. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur looked thoughtful. “Antwerps have fallen,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The banker shook his head. “No,” he said. “We can’t do +it, tell Mr. Hamar.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would support the shares,” Arthur suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are still at a premium of thirty shillings,” Arthur put in. +</p> + +<p> +“Is the door shut, Rodd?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The cashier nodded and went out. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” Arthur cried. “We could not do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you think—you must think”—Arthur’s voice +was not quite under his control—“that there is danger?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How much—I mean, what extra amount of reserve,” he asked, +“would make us safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Twelve thousand pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It is not a large sum. But it might make all the difference if it +came to a pinch.” +</p> + +<p> +“In cash?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no doubt that we are solvent, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“You should know that as well as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“We could realize the twelve thousand eventually?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, or we should not be solvent without it.” For once +Ovington spoke a little impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Then could we not,” Arthur asked, “by laying our accounts +before our London agents obtain the necessary help, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He turned at last to the papers. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean Josina, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh? Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said nothing to her. But it is possible that she may be aware of +my feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that’s it, is it?” the Squire said drily. It was +impossible to say whether he was pleased or not. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think it will be no surprise to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” modestly, “I think it will not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Willingly, sir,” Arthur answered. A great weight had been lifted +from him. +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll take her name, do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, sir. I shall be proud to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire sighed, and again he was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Then—then I may speak to her, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a bit! Wait a bit!” The Squire had more to say, it appeared. +“You’ll leave the bank, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The perspiration stood on Arthur’s brow. Here was a <i>débâcle!</i> 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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed a <i>débâcle</i>; 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay!” with grim irony. “I can believe that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And sorry for Josina’s.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, I will, sir!” Arthur cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Then—then you may speak to her,” the Squire said +reluctantly, and he marked the reluctance with another sigh. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let go!” she cried. “You’ll have it over! What’s +come to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Jos? Where’s Jos?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll cure her!” Arthur cried in a glow, and he gave Miss +Peacock another twirl. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“To me?” She looked at him candidly, with no inkling in her mind of +what he meant. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Arthur,” she protested, almost too much surprised for words, +“I had no idea——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not?” incredulously. “You’ve not known that +I——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jos!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Arthur, I have not, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t seen that I loved you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. And,” looking him steadily in the face, “I am not sure +that you do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know so much about love!” he scoffed. He was taken aback, but +he tried to laugh—tried to pass it off. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jos!” he pleaded earnestly. “You are joking! Surely you are +joking.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is your answer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it must be.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Withal he was spared one pang, the pang of disappointed love. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur went forward to attend to him. “What is it, Mr. Brownjohn?” +he asked. But already his suspicions were aroused. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” the man answered bluntly, “what we most of us +want, sir. The rhino!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’ve come to the right shop for that,” Arthur +rejoined, falling into his humor. “How much?” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s my account, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll take it,” the publican announced, gazing straight +before him. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” Mr. Brownjohn was a little taken aback. “Yes, +sir, very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But the door had hardly closed on him before Arthur asked the cashier how much +gold he had in the cash drawer. +</p> + +<p> +“The usual, sir. One hundred and fifty and thirty-two, thirty-three, +thirty-four—one hundred and eighty-four.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fetch up two hundred more before Mr. Brownjohn comes back,” Arthur +said. “Don’t lose time.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right—in one moment,” the lawyer replied. “Just put +that——” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“On Saturday, or Sunday, yes. Can I do anything for you!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good. I’ll tell him. He has been fretting about it. Good-day! Now, +Mr. Brownjohn?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like cash for these,” the innkeeper mumbled, thrusting +forward the notes, but looking thoroughly ill at ease. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur looked much disturbed. “As bad as that,” he said, “is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely,” Arthur protested, “where a bank is able to show +that it is solvent?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” The banker had paused, his face betraying emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard a rumor about Pole’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur looked doubtful. “Three hundred,” he said, “might make +the difference.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it might, of course,” the banker admitted wearily. +“But he had better have it. I should not like him to suffer.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Clement said. “He must have it. Shall I see to it now? +The sooner the better.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir? Unless?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But could it? Could it?” +</p> + +<p> +“He would run no risk.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + +<p> +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 +<i>Gazette</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She overtook the man in the hall. “Is he alone, Calamy?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but your A’nt’s been with him. He’s for going up +the hill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Up the hill?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bourdillon has gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do as I say, girl. And tell Calamy to bring my hat and coat.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Before they left the yard he halted. “Look in the pig-styes,” he +said. “Tell me if that idle dog has cleaned them?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Had I not better wait—till you are over, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do as I say, girl! Do as I say!” He struck his cane impatiently on +the stones. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we clear of the wood?” he asked, lifting his face to meet the +breeze. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned leftwards. “There’s a flat stone with a holly to north of +it. D’you see it? I’ll sit there.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +She told him that she could see it. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, I see them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The black and white house, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will remember, sir!” she said with tears. “I will, I will +indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t love him?” the Squire repeated—yet not half so +angrily as she expected. “What’s amiss with him?’” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, sir. But I do not love him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was all a mistake, sir,” she said with dignity. “I never +did think of him, or wish for him. It was a mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“A mistake! What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“You bade me think no more of him, and I obeyed. But—but I never +had any thought of him.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +That touched the Squire’s pride. It gave him to think. “Never made +love to you?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean, girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not fibbing, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She would have given much to know the direction of his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, never!” she answered, overwhelmed by a victory so +complete. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. I can see the new straw from here,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Have they brought it down over the eaves?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I can’t see that. It’s too far.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mind me to ask Fewtrell. Now get me home. Where’s your arm? +I’ll go down through the new planting.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s not so safe, sir,” she remonstrated. +“There’s the stone stile, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “It would be, if it were money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think that we are doing capitally—capitally so far,” +said Clement. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be the devil to pay!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we must try to pay him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo, sir!” Clement cried. “That’s the way to +talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, yes!” Arthur exclaimed. For a moment hope animated his +face. “Can you think of no way of getting it, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Arthur answered drily. “It wants only Rodd to be +complete.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so.” She made a face. “How much you think of him +lately!” +</p> + +<p> +“And unfortunately he’s taken his little all and left us.” +</p> + +<p> +The shot told. Her eyes gleamed, and she colored with anger. “What do you +mean? Dad”—brusquely—“what does he mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only that we thought it better,” the banker explained, “to +make Rodd safe by paying him the little he has with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he took it—of course?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I see. Things are as bad as that, are they? Any other +rats?”—with a withering look at Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Acherley.” +</p> + +<p> +Ovington shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it is after hours,” he +said, “but—I’ll see him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“One-ten,” the banker said. “They are barely that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally. But we don’t wish to take them, Mr. Acherley.” +</p> + +<p> +Acherley glowered at him. “You mean,” he said, “that the bank +can’t afford to take them? If that’s your +meaning——” +</p> + +<p> +“It does not suit us to take them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +The room was growing dark. Ovington stood facing such light as there was. He +looked very pale. “Yes, that’s quite flat,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Then what do you say to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I said before—No! No, Mr. Acherley!” +</p> + +<p> +“What? Do you mean it? Why, if you are such a fool as not to know your +own interests——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +His love suffered equally with his pride. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid!” he said, hardly able, on finding her so close to him, +to control his voice. “But we may be, Betty.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“They will bring us the closer together,” said Betty. +</p> + +<p> +“And to be looked down upon by those who have been your equals, and +shunned by those who have been your friends!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nice friends! We shall do better without them!” +</p> + +<p> +“And things will be said of me, things it will be hard to listen +to!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is, if——” +</p> + +<p> +“If it comes to the worst? I know. Then why did he take his money, when +he knew how things stood?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Betty. And for some minutes she said no more. Then she +roused herself, poked the fire, and rang for the lamp. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was well enough with her,” Arthur said resentfully, “till +lately. But she is changed, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, like enough. Girls are like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“There may be—someone else.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire snorted. “Who?” he said. “Who?”—more +roughly. “You’re talking nonsense.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>pis alter</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>pros</i> and <i>cons</i>, Arthur tried for time—time to +think. “What was it? What did you hear, sir?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Twelve thousand! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur seemed to consider it. “Oh, very well,” he said at last. He +followed her from the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry, sir,” said Arthur. “They are here. Will you sit here, +Jos?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here, sir,” lugubriously. “Where we’ll be +tomorrow——” +</p> + +<p> +“D—n you, don’t whine, man, but snuff the candles. And then +get out. Do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, best be careful,” the Squire agreed, squaring himself to +his task. “’Twon’t do to spoil ’em. Here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—just as you are now.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Right!” said the Squire. “Then, now for business. +Let’s have the lease. My hand’s in now.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur laid it before him, and guided his hand to the place. “Is there +ink enough in the pen?” the old man asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite enough, sir. It won’t do to blot it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right, lad, right!” The Squire wrote his name. “Now the +counterpart!” he continued briskly, holding the quill suspended. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur put it before him. He signed it, steadily and clearly. “All +right?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right. Couldn’t be better, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She was not as nervous as Miss Peacock, but she was anxious to make no mistake. +“Here?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now here,” he said. “Here! But wait! Is there enough ink in +the pen?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Capital!” he said. His voice betrayed relief. “That’s +done, and well done! Couldn’t be better. Now it’s my turn.” +</p> + +<p> +“But”—Jos looked up in doubt, the pen still in her +hand—“but I’ve signed three, Arthur! I thought there were but +two.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, lad,” the Squire announced. “I’ll do that myself +o’ Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“When?” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then, when? Surely now, or not at all. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +“Miss! Miss Josina!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Josina’s face burned. “A gentleman?” she faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss, a young gentleman,” Molly answered demurely. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s under the garden wall, miss—down the lane.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bad news?” she exclaimed. “What? Don’t keep me +waiting, Clement! What bad news?” +</p> + +<p> +“The worst for me,” he said. “For we must part. I have come +to say good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do,” he said soberly. “Something has happened, +dear—something that must divide us. Be brave, and I will tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” She pointed to his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean the night that my father was hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You held him up in the carriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father noticed it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, oddly enough, he did.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he had gone off, across the fields.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before Arthur came up, do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, some time before. However——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +He stared. “Well, of course it was,” he said. “Didn’t +you know that? Didn’t Arthur tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +She avoided the question, and instead, “Then it was your coat that was +spoiled?” she said. “This coat?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, of course it was. You can see that.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +But “No! no!” she said resolutely. “We are not going to +part.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps we are not going to part,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. He would not deceive her. “Nothing else is +possible,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Jos!” He could say no more, but his swimming eyes spoke for +him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Jos!” His eyes were overflowing now. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire did not say a word. He sat, his head erect still as a stone. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He saved your life!” she cried. She clung desperately to that. +</p> + +<p> +“And you love him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I do! I do!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +She told him that she had not known, that the part which Clement had taken on +that night was new to her also. +</p> + +<p> +“But you see him?” he snarled, speaking a little more like himself. +“You see him!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t call him that!” she cried. “He is good, +father. Indeed, indeed, he is good. And he saved your life.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Never, never again, sir!” she vowed. Then she told him afresh, +from point to point, what she had learned on the Sunday. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the lad didn’t come up till after?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, “Ovington’s son! Ovington’s son!” he +muttered in a tone of wonder. “Good God! Couldn’t you find a +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is a man,” she pleaded, “indeed, indeed, he is!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She shivered, but she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Deceiving your father when he was blind!” +</p> + +<p> +She clung to him. He felt her trembling convulsively. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she cried. “He came——” +</p> + +<p> +“You told me——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she protested. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +The Squire laughed mirthlessly at the notion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Empty? Quite empty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, quite empty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing in it?” desperately. “Are you sure, girl? Can you +see nothing? Nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, sir, I am quite sure,” she said. “There is nothing +in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, no papers.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. There is the lease you signed on Saturday. That is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But no—no loose papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I can see none.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“By G—d, I’ll see I get my money!” said one. “You +wait, Mr. Lello! You wait and——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“And ask for your own? Well, you are a ninny!” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe. May—be,” jingling the money in his fob. “But +I’ll wait. I’ll wait till to-morrow. No harm done afore +then!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it you want?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The lad sat down again in his seat. “Be Mr. Arthur here, sir?” he +inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Bourdillon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he is not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I be to follow ’ee wheresomever he be, axing your +pardon!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid you can’t do that, my lad,” Clement +explained. “He’s gone to London. He went by coach this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Squire Griffin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure, sir. He’s in a taking, and mun see him, whether or no! +Mortal put about he were!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure. And she were in a taking, too. Crazy she were.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it were Mr. Arthur——” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, but he’s half-way to London by now. And he won’t be +back till Thursday.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire turned in his chair. “Who?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there? Has he come?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Arthur?” Josina asked sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“He left for London this morning—by the coach.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay,” the Squire said. “That’s it.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something amiss!” The Squire repeated the words in an +indescribable tone. “That’s what he calls it! Something +amiss!” +</p> + +<p> +Clement looked from one to the other. “If there is anything I can +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“You?” bluntly. “Why, you be one of them!” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Josina interposed. “No, father. He has no part in it! I +swear he has not!” +</p> + +<p> +But, “One of them! One of them!” the Squire repeated in the same +stubborn tone, yet without lifting his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain!” the Squire muttered. Contempt could go no farther. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I tell him, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a fool, girl! The man knows.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure he does not!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Clement stared. “I don’t understand,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“What did he tell you?” Josina asked. “For heaven’s +sake speak, Clement! Tell us what he told you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But Clement was still at sea. “Managed it?” he repeated. +“What do you——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Josina shivered. “He took it without authority,” she said, her +voice low. +</p> + +<p> +“He stole it,” the Squire said, “out of that cupboard.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Signed and witnessed?” the Squire ejaculated. “Signed +and—signed, your grandmother! So that’s your story, is it? Signed +and witnessed, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“In whose favor, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Our brokers’, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire flared up. “I did not sign it!” he cried. +“It’s a lie, sir! I signed nothing! Nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve the securities?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but I am sure——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is not true!” Clement cried. “Not a word of that is +true!” +</p> + +<p> +“You ha’ stole my daughter!” +</p> + +<p> +Clement winced. She had told him, then. +</p> + +<p> +“And now you ha’ stole my money!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Josina. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” dryly, “when you have had the use of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, at once! Without the loss of an hour!” +</p> + +<p> +“You be found out,” said the old man bitterly. “You be found +out! That’s it!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No harm!” the Squire ejaculated. He raised his hand and let it +fall in a gesture of despair. “No harm?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” the old man cried, and struck his hand on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“But after all it is yours,” Clement argued. “And you must +see, sir——” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! Never!” the Squire repeated passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he promised her, “I will save him if I can.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wrong? No,” he answered. “Why should there be!” +</p> + +<p> +“But he disappeared so strangely. He said nothing about missing his +dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was to check some figures with Rodd this evening. He may have gone to +his rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—without his dinner?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Betty smiled. “You’re relieved to-night, dad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am, Betty,” he admitted. “Yes, I am—and +thankful.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that queer old man! I wonder,” as she turned her knitting on +her knee, “why he did it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose for Arthur’s sake. He’d have lost pretty +heavily—for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you didn’t expect that Mr. Griffin would come forward?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not many people would have been convinced?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, perhaps not.” +</p> + +<p> +Betty knitted awhile. “I thought that he hated the bank?” she said, +as she paused to rub her chin with a needle. +</p> + +<p> +“He does—and me. But he loves his money, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still it isn’t his. It is Arthur’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“True. But he’s a man who cannot bear to see money lost. He thinks +a good deal of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Rodd is here, asking for Mr. Clement, sir,” the maid said. +“He was to meet him at half after six, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask Mr. Rodd to come in.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And those who have stood by it!” Betty added softly. +</p> + +<p> +Rodd drank the toast with a muttered word. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Rodd has not the same reason to be thankful that we have,” +Betty continued carelessly, holding her knitting up to the lamp. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” Her father did not understand. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” innocently, as she lowered the knitting again, “he +does not stand to lose anything, does he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Except his place,” the cashier objected, his eyes on his glass. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” Betty said. “I’m sure that he would take +care of that.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“More likely some one hastening to get out of danger,” said Betty. +“<i>A sauve qui peut</i>, Mr. Rodd—if you know what that +means.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Out with it, lad! What is it? his father asked, fearing he knew not +what. +</p> + +<p> +“Bad news, sir!” was the answer. “I’m sorry to say I +bring very bad news!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“That loan of Mr. Griffin’s——” +</p> + +<p> +“The twelve thousand? +Yes?”—anxiously—“well?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a fraud, sir! A cursed fraud!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a tense silence. Then, “Impossible!” the banker +exclaimed. But he grasped a chair to steady himself. His face had turned grey. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The banker no longer protested. “Well—tell us!” he said +weakly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s hard on you, sir——” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” the banker asked, looking up. “What have we to do with +him? Why should we stop him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God, sir, that you see it as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“With clean hands, at any rate, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, lad, with clean hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rodd will be of more use to you here,” Clement said. “You +will be short-handed as it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall pay out the more slowly,” the banker answered with grim +humor. +</p> + +<p> +“And I doubt, besides,” said Clement, “if Bourdillon would +listen to Rodd.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will he listen to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your travelling cloak?” she cried. “I’ll air +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must eat something before you start,” said his father. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will. And, Rodd, do you get me the bank pistols—and see +that they are loaded!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +He was buying honesty at a great price. But he thought of Clement and Betty, +and towards morning he fell asleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Quakers? What the devil do you mean?” Clement cried, thinking that +the man was reflecting on him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said Clement, turning about, “I’ll take these +on to Meriden.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there must be something on,” Clement cried in despair, seeing +himself detained here, perhaps for the whole night. +</p> + +<p> +“Naught! Nary a ’oof in the yard, nor a lad!” the man +replied. “You’d best take a bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“But when will there be horses?” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe something’ll come in by daylight—like enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“By daylight? Oh, confound you!” cried Clement, enraged. +“Then I’ll walk on to Meriden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Walk? Walk on to——” the ostler couldn’t voice +his astonishment. “Walk?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nobody up. You’d best——” and again +the boots advised a bed. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who seized them?” Clement asked listlessly. But he awoke a second +later to the meaning of his words. +</p> + +<p> +“Hollins, Church Farm yonder. Bill for hay and straw. D’you know +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“A postboy? Well, there’s old Sam—he can ride. But +what’s the use of a postboy when there’s no horses?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Never fear,” Clement said to the man. “Only don’t +spare them! Time is money to me this morning!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The man looked at him suspiciously. “Yar! Yer kidding!” he said. +“Yer know as well as me!” +</p> + +<p> +Clement shook him in his impatience. “No, I don’t,” he +shouted. “I’m a stranger! What is it, man? A bank?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But is he here?” Clement cried, dancing with impatience. “Is +he here, man?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur turned as if he had been struck, saw him and stared, his mouth agape. +“The devil!” he ejaculated. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want a word with you,” said Clement. He was in no mood to mince +matters. +</p> + +<p> +“But why are you here?” with rising anger. “Why have you come +after me? What’s up?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you, if you’ll step aside.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Clement said firmly. “I must speak to you here.” +</p> + +<p> +But on that the broker interposed, his watch in his hand, “Anyway, I can +stop,” he said. “Who is this gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Ovington, junior,” Arthur said, with something of a sneer. +“I don’t know what he has come up for, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I posted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Posted? From Aldersbury? In heaven’s name, why? Why, man?” +</p> + +<p> +Clement pointed to the bag. “To take that over,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“This? Take this over?” Arthur turned a deep red. +“What—what the devil do you mean, man?” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you,” Clement retorted, his temper rising. “It’s +stolen property, if you will have it.” And he braced himself for the +fray. +</p> + +<p> +“Stolen property?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just that. And my father has commissioned me to take charge of it, and +to restore it to its owner. Now you know.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s to be seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it’s Miss Griffin’s, too,” Clement said, +marvelling at the other’s attitude and his audacity—if audacity it +could be called. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think, then,” furiously, “that I am going to run away +with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a penny!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have it your own way,” he said. “Take it.” And with a +last attempt at bravado, “I shall appeal to your father!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s some hundreds short. You know that?” Arthur muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll be the loser.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur did not thank him. Instead, “What?” he cried. “Come? +Come with you? And be dragged at your chariot wheels, you oaf! Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are aware that Poles’ and Williams’s have failed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I believe that our information is up to date.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that Garrard’s at Hereford closed yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The times are very serious, Mr. Dean. Very serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Practically.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning,” the other banker replied, and he rang for his +man-servant. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It wanted two—it wanted one minute of ten. Rodd gave the order to open. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Rodd, keeping his place in the book with his finger, looked at him. “Do +you want to pay in, Mr. Bevan?” he asked gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I want forty-two, seven, ten. Here’s my cheque.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want cash?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, sir.” Buffery knuckled his forehead +gratefully. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve brought a cheque?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was a stir of surprise. A dozen turned to look at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good lord!” someone exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty tidy.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how are things in Wolverhampton?” +</p> + +<p> +“So, so! But not so bad as they were.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. You’re the only sensible man I’ve seen to-day, +and we shall not forget it. Now, gentlemen, next please.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We daren’t wait, Mr. Ovington,” he said apologetically. +“Our people want it. I take it, it is all right, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite,” Ovington said. “You have them here? What is the +total?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eighteen hundred and twenty-eight, six, eight, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. Very unfortunate. Very unfortunate, indeed?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is no loser by them, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he is, sir, I am sorry to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I am sorry.” And when the lad had brought in the money, and +the account was settled, “Are you returning to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir. My instructions were to travel by daylight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you have an opportunity of stating outside, that you have been +paid? I am anxious, of course, to stop this foolish run.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you have not missed the others much?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you go in, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a minute,” smiling, “to scold them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, they are horrid!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, they are just frightened. Frightened, child! We should do the same +in their place.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Betty said stoutly. “I shouldn’t! And I could +never like anyone who did! Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did what?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve paid out thirteen thousand two hundred and ten, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The banker looked up in surprise. “Think!” he said. “Why, you +must know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there were two, sir, I am sure. But paying out all +day——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d remember who paid in, I should think. When there were but +two. You must remember who they were.” +</p> + +<p> +“One was from Wolverhampton, I know,” Rodd replied, “Mr. +Watkins—or Walker.” +</p> + +<p> +“Walker or Watkins? Of Wolverhampton? I don’t remember any customer +of that name. And the other? Who was he?” +</p> + +<p> +“From somewhere Bretton way. I could look him up.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +But Rodd shook his head. “No, sir. It was in gold and Bank of England +notes. I saw to that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Rodd muttered something, his mouth full of toast. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +The cashier started. “I, sir? I don’t think I——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no Mr. Walker,” her father explained, “and no +gentleman from Bretton. They are both Rodd. It’s his money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean——” in a very small voice. “I thought +that Mr. Rodd took his money out!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, we shall not close,” Rodd boasted, and he gulped down his tea, +his ears red. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +But Betty, murmuring something about an order for the servants, had already +hurried from the room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The explanation was serious enough, but, strange to say, Mrs. Bourdillon looked +relieved. “Oh! And I suppose that they all have to be there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose so.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that’s all?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that that is enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but you don’t mean that there may be a—a +failure?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“We? But I can’t see”—Mrs. Bourdillon spoke with sudden +sharpness, “what you have to do with it?” +</p> + +<p> +Josina blushed. “Of course we are all interested,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bourdillon saw the blush. “You haven’t—you and +Arthur—made it up?” she ventured. +</p> + +<p> +Josina shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“But why not? Now—now that he’s in trouble, Josina?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t! I couldn’t, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that that is enough—to make them all anxious!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” the Squire growled. Something of his old +asperity had come back to him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Take me to the house,” said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Peace, woman!” said the Squire. “Did he ask to see me, +or——” with an effort, “my nephew?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see him,” the Squire said heavily. He bade Calamy take +him in. +</p> + +<p> +“But you’ll take your egg-flip, Mr. Griffin? Before +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, dear sir, the doctor! You know he said” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But the Squire ruled otherwise. “No,” he said wearily, +“I’ll see him.” And he went in. +</p> + +<p> +The front door stood open. “There’s a po-chay, right enough,” +Calamy informed him. “And luggage. Seems to ha’ come some way, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! Take me in. And tell me who it is. Then go.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Ovington?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, the young gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” Clement answered soberly. “I’ve not come for +that. And my father——” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was silent for some seconds. “And come back?” he +exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes, sir,” with a smile. “I’m here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph? How did you do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I posted up and came down as far as Birmingham by the Bull and Mouth +coach. I posted on this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh!” the Squire said impatiently. “You may speak out! +Speak out, man! There is no one here.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s some danger, I’m afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“But that’s not all, sir,” Clement interposed. “I wish +I could have brought back the securities, or even the whole of the +money.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire laughed. “No doubt,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But I was too late to ensure that. The stock had already been +transferred.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he was quick, too!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve eleven thousand and a bit over,” Clement explained. +“Five thousand in gold and the rest——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the door, sir. I’ll bring it in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said the Squire passively. “Bring it in.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Between eighteen and nineteen pounds, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the notes?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Clement colored. He had not expected the question. “Well, I did, +sir,” he admitted. “Bourdillon——” +</p> + +<p> +“He was with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty full, I expect, eh? Pretty full?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” ruefully, “it was, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“A strong run, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! He came back to town with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bourdillon, sir? Yes—as far as the East Bridge. He left me +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +Clement hesitated. “I hope that he’s gone to the bank, sir,” +he said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait!” said the Squire. “And ring the bell, if you +please.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“All?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, all, I think, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bank of England?” He poked at her skirts with his stick. +“Bank of England, eh? Are you sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, so far as I can see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay. Well, count ’em! And mind what you are doing, girl!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I quite understand, sir,” Clement said—though it was the +last thing he had had it in his mind to say a moment earlier. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind whether you understand or not,” the Squire +retorted. “Ha’ you done, girl?” after an interval of silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite, sir. I have five heaps of ten.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, get on. We are keeping the young man.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no need, sir,” Clement ventured. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha’ you never deceived me? Wi’ that young man?” +sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you have! You have deceived me—with him.” +</p> + +<p> +She could not defend herself, and, suppressing her sobs, “I will call +Calamy,” she said. “He can read. He shall count the notes.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would cut off my hand first!” she cried. “And +Clement——” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” He sat up sharply. +</p> + +<p> +She was frightened, and she did not continue. “This is the place, +sir,” she said meekly. +</p> + +<p> +“Here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, where you are now.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Charles stared, stared aghast. “You don’t say so?” he +exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s true! True, man, true, as you’ll soon find +out!” +</p> + +<p> +“But this is terrible! Terrible!” +</p> + +<p> +Acherley shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be terrible for him,” +he sneered. +</p> + +<p> +“But—but what can we do?” the other asked, recovering from +his surprise. “If it is as bad as you say——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it’s Sir Charles, sir,” Calamy answered. +“It’s his jackets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! Well, I won’t go in, unless need be. Go you to the stables and +bid ’em wait.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>we</i> 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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay! You’ll have dropped us all into a pretty scalding pot, +then!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Squire groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who? Ovington?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” gloomily. “Ovington? The banker there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I do think he is. Yes, I do think so. I’ve no reason to +think otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a director, ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of the Railroad? Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Responsible as you are?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose he is!” +</p> + +<p> +“A kind of trustee, then, ain’t he—for the +shareholders.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do?” Sir Charles exclaimed, his spirits rising. “You do +think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go in at once,” Sir Charles replied, thankfully. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was the auctioneer from Iron Ferry. “Ay, Mr. Ovington, it is,” +he said, the perspiration on his face, “and you know my position.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How much is it, Mr. Yapp?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You can,” Ovington replied. He had got himself in hand, and he +spoke cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Well——” +</p> + +<p> +“You can hold your tongue, Yapp,” smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s done, sir. I won’t have a tongue except to say that the +money’s paid. You may depend upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Yapp followed the clerk. His appearance in the bank was greeted by half a dozen +voices. “Ha’ you got it?” they cried. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But behind the parlor door things wore a different aspect. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>mauvaise honte</i> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you didn’t pay it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may be called upon for another six thousand, then, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rodd?” Clement eyes sparkled. “God bless him! He’s a +Trojan, and I shan’t forget it! Bravo, Rodd!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wolley’s Mill?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and other things. Other things.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“He would be no loser.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, we should be the losers.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but it was not we, it was Bourdillon, lad!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, it was Bourdillon. And we are not Bourdillon! Not yet! Nor ever, +sir!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, poor father!” she cried. “Is there no hope, +Clement?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +The banker smiled. “You wish to know if it’s safe?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes—precisely,” with relief. “You’ll +forgive me, I am sure. But people are talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” Sir Charles said, when they were alone, “to +trouble you at this time, but——” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” Ovington answered. “Show them in as soon as they +arrive.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Woosenham said, “Mr. Ovington is here.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am, Mr. Griffin. Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The banker’s eyes grew hard. “If it is about the Railroad +moneys,” he said, “and Sir Charles is not +satisfied——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s none of his business. Naught to do with the Railroad,” +the Squire answered. Then sharply, “Where’s my nephew? Is he +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he is not at the bank to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment,” Ovington said. Rodd had tapped at the door and put in +his head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Ovington reddened, but retained his presence of mind. “They can see me in +ten minutes,” he said, coldly. “Tell them so.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell them I will see them in ten minutes,” said the banker. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you pay ’em all to-day?” asked the Squire, at his +driest. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who will be the loser, then, if the bank closes? Who’ll lose, +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“The bank. No one else.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t pay ’em to-day, banker?” +</p> + +<p> +“That may be.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Griffin——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he, by Jove! Our friend at Halston could hardly have beaten +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>coram public</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, sir, we weren’t drawn down to that—quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“We were mighty near it, my lad. And easily might have been.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” Clement assented drily. “And if Bourdillon had +not——” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! Yes. But—where is he? Do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t quarrel?” +</p> + +<p> +Clement shrugged his shoulders. “Not more than we can make up,” he +said lightly, “if it is to his interest.” +</p> + +<p> +The banker moved uneasily in his chair. “What is to be done about +him?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The banker rose, conscience-stricken. “No, poor girl, and she must be +anxious. I quite forgot,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Betty!” her father cried sternly. “What is the meaning of +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But that’s an odd way of showing it, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I did witness it,” gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I didn’t say that I should give him my daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, father; she gave herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said you’d come to it, father, by and by. In good time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m——” But what the banker was, was lost +in the peal of laughter that Clement could no longer restrain. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a>CHAPTER XLI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Closed, has it?” he said, dully. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, and no wonder. From London, to be sure! Can I bring you anything +up, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But the bank?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the bank’s gone,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid the Squire——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hang the Squire! It’s not to him,” impatiently. +“It’s to Josina, if you must know.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I know you’re very clever, Arthur. But +Jos——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why—why, surely you’re not going to turn against me?” +he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“And he was blind! Blind! And he trusted you. He trusted you, +Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He does.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He has felt it terribly! Terribly,” she continued. “He was +blind, and you deceived him. Whom can he trust now, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I help you? He will not hear your name.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you how—quite easily, if you will let me +explain?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“But you can. If you are willing, that is. Of course, if you are +not——” +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do? He knows all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” He tried to bluster afresh, but the stick shook +in his hand. “Confound it, what do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you believe him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You believe him against me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, “for it is the truth, Arthur. I know that he +would not tell me anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I? Do you mean to say that I would?” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a>CHAPTER XLII</h2> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said a small voice within him, “he would take +the name of Griffin, and in time——” +</p> + +<p> +“Mud’s mud,” replied the Squire silently. “You +can’t change it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he’s honest,” quoth the small voice. +</p> + +<p> +“So’s Calamy!” +</p> + +<p> +“He saved——” +</p> + +<p> +“And I ha’ paid him! Damme, I ha’ paid him! Ha’ +done!” And then, “It’s that blow on the head has moithered +me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure it’s small enough, sir,” Miss Peacock +answered, feebly defending herself. “You said you liked it small, Mr. +Griffin.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never said I liked mince-meat! Where is the girl? What ails +her?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing, sir. She’s been looking a little peaky the +last week or two. That’s all. And to-day——” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only a headache, sir. She’ll be well enough when the +spring comes. Josina was always nesh—like her mother.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +He sat long, thinking of this. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Which field?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Where they ha’ just lifted the turnips,” the man said. +“Oh!” said the Squire. “Who is it? What’s he doing +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The devil, he did!” the Squire exclaimed, kicking up the old mare, +who was leaning over sleepily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Devil he did!” repeated the Squire. “Said that, did +he?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it the banker’s son?” asked the Squire on a sudden +suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think he be,” Fewtrell answered, shading his eyes. +“He be going up to the house now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you can take me in,” to the groom. “I’ll go by +the gap.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He was at the door in the act of dismounting when Clement appeared. +“D’you want me?” the old man asked bluntly.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, principal and interest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you drawn a receipt?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! All there, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, “Who was your grandfather?” the Squire asked. +</p> + +<p> +Clement started and colored. “He had the same name as my father,” +he said. “He was a clothier in Aldersbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, I mind him. I mind him now. And his father, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +“His name was Clement,” and foreseeing the next question, “he +was a yeoman at Easthope.” +</p> + +<p> +“And his father?” +</p> + +<p> +Clement reddened painfully. He saw only too well to what these questions were +tending. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And you set up—you set up,” said the Squire, leaning forward +and speaking very slowly, “to marry my heiress?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, your daughter!” Clement said, his face burning. “If +she’d not a penny——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I love her!” Clement said softly, his eyes shining. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVINGTON’S BANK ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. 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