Weyman Stanley John
Ovington's Bank
"No, no!" she protested.
"Yes, yes! Yes, yes! But he'll find that he's not got a girl to deal with now! Help him? Save his bank? Pluck him from the debtors' prison he's due to rot in! Why, I'll see him-in hell first!"
She had risen and moved from him. She was standing on the other side of the table now. "He saved your life!" she cried. And she, too, was changed. She spoke with something of his passion. "He saved your life!" she repeated, and she stamped her foot on the floor.
"Well, the devil thank him for it!" the Squire cried with zest. "And you," with fresh anger, "do you begone, girl! Get out of my room before you try my patience too far!" He waved his stick at her. "Go, or I'll call up Calamy and have you put out! Do you hear? Do you hear? You ungrateful, shameless slut! Go!"
She had fancied victory, incredible, unhoped-for-victory to be almost within her grasp; and lo, it was dashed from her hand, it was farther from her than ever. And she could do no more. Courage, strength, hope were spent, shaken as she was by the emotions of the past hour. She could no no more; a little more and he might strike her. She crept out weeping, and went, blinded by her tears, up the stairs, up, stair by stair, to hide herself in her room. There had been a moment when she had fancied that he was melting, but all had been in vain. She had come close to him, but in the end he had put her from him. He had thrust her farther from him than before. Her only consolation, if consolation she had, was that she had spoken, that the truth was known, that she had no longer any secret to weigh her down. But she had failed.
CHAPTER XXX
Meantime the old man, left to himself, sat for a while, deeply moved. He breathed quickly, wiping his brow from time to time with a hand that trembled, and for some minutes it was upon the last and the least unwelcome aspect of the matter that he dwelt. So that was the point of it all, was it? That was the end and the aim of this clandestine, this disgraceful intrigue! This conspiracy! They had made this silly woman-child, soft like all her sex, their puppet, and using her they had thought that he, too, might be drawn into their game and used and exploited for their profit. But they had been mad, mad, as they would learn, to think it. They must have been mad to dream of it. Or desperate. Ay, that must be it. Desperate!
But as he grew cooler, and the first impulse, so natural in him, to pin his enemies and shake them, began to lose its force, less pleasant aspects of the matter rose before him. For the girl and her nonsense and her bad, bad behavior, he did not tell himself, he would not allow, that it was that which hurt him most. On the contrary, he affected to put that from him-for the time. He told himself and strove to believe that he could deal with it when it pleased him. He could easily put an end to that folly. Girls were only girls, and she'd forget. He would deal with that later.
But Arthur's five thousand-that would be lost, if the girl's story were true. Five thousand! It was a fine sum and a d-d pity! The Squire's avarice rose in arms as he thought of it. Five thousand! And that silly woman, Arthur's mother-he would have to provide for her. She would be penniless, almost penniless.
And Arthur himself? Confound him, what had the lad been doing? Why had he been silent about the bank's difficulties and the peril in which his money stood? For, it was only two days ago that he had denied the existence of any peril. And then, again, what was this story about that unlucky night which had cost him his sight? If it really was young Ovington who had come to his rescue and beaten off Thomas, why had not Arthur said so? Why had he never let fall a single word about him, never mentioned the young fellow's name, never given him the credit that-that was certainly due to him, rogue as he was, if this story were true. There was something odd about that-the Squire moved uneasily in his chair-something underhand and-and fishy! He had a glimpse of Arthur in a new light, and he did not like what he saw.
He liked it almost less, if that were possible, than he liked another thing-the idea that this young Ovington's silence was creditable to him. If it were indeed he who had done the thing, why had he been quiet all this time, and never even said "I did it"? If a gentleman had behaved after that fashion, the Squire would have known what to think of it. But that this low-bred young cub, who had behaved so disgracefully to his daughter, should bear himself in that way-no, he was not going to believe it. After all, the world wasn't turned upside down to that extent.
No! For in his connection with the girl the young scamp had shown what he was-a sneaking, underhand, interloping puppy. In connection with his girl! As he thought of it, the veins swelled on the Squire's forehead and he shook with rage. His girl! "Damn him! Damn him!" he cried, trembling with passion. And again and again he cursed the man who had dared to raise his eyes to a Griffin-who had stolen his child's heart from him. No fate, no punishment, no lot was too bad for such a one. Help him! Help him, indeed!
The Squire laughed mirthlessly at the notion.
After that there remained only his daughter to think of, and as he came back to her and to her share in the matter, more, far more than he wished, recurred to his memory: her prayers and her pleading, her clinging arms and her caresses, the tears that had fallen on his hands, her warm, slender body pressed against his. He could not forget the sound of her voice in his ears, nor the touch of her hand, nor the feel of her body. Words that she had used returned and beat on his old heart, and beat and beat again, tormenting him, trying him, softening, ay, softening him. He thought of the boy, dead these many years at Alexandria, and, yes, she was all that he had, all. And he must thwart her, he must make her unhappy. It was his duty. She knew not what she asked. And she had behaved ill, ay, very ill.
But on that, with a vividness which the reflection had never assumed before-for the old man, like other old men, did not feel old-he saw that he had but a very short span to live-a year or two, or it might be three or four years. The last page of his life was all but turned, the book was near its end. Two or three years and all that he treasured would be hers. Even now he was dependent on her for care and affection, and to the last he must be dependent. A little while and she would be alone, her own mistress; and he who had ruled his lands and his people for more than half a century would be a memory. A memory of what?
Again, and yet again, he felt her arms about his knees, her little head pressed against his breast. Again and yet again her tears, her prayers beat upon his heart. She was a silly woman-child, a fool; but a dear fool, made dear to him in the very hour of her misbehavior. It was his duty to deny her. It was for him to order, for her to obey. And yet, "He saved your life!" that cry so oft repeated, so often dinned into his ears, that, too, came back to him. And before he was aware of it he was wondering what manner of man this young fellow was, what spell he had woven about the girl, whence his power over her.
And why had the man been silent about that night? Had he in truth intended to beard him and claim her in the road that morning-when they met? He remembered it.
The son of that man, Ovington! Lord Almighty! It could hardly be worse. And yet "He saved your life!" The Squire could not get over that-if it were true. If it were really true.
He thought upon it long, forced out of the usual current of his life. Miss Peacock, bringing up his frugal luncheon, found him silent, sunk low in his chair, his chin upon his breast. So he appeared when anyone stole in during the next two hours to attend to the fire or to light his pipe. Calamy, safe outside the door, uttered his misgivings. "It's the torpor," he told Miss Peacock, shaking his head. "That's how it takes them before the end, miss. I've seen it often. The torpor! He'll not be long now!"
Miss Peacock scolded the butler, but was none the less impressed, and presently she sought Josina, who was lying down in her room with a headache. She imparted her fears to the girl, and unwillingly Jos rose, and bathed her face and tidied her hair, and by and by came out. She must take up the burden of life again.
By that time Miss Peacock had disappeared, and Josina went down alone. Half-way down the upper flight she halted, for she heard a slow, heavy step descending the stairs below her. She looked down the well of the staircase, and to her astonishment she saw her father going down before her, stair by stair, his hand on the rail, a paper and his stick in the other hand. It was not the first time that he had done such a thing, but hitherto some one had always gone with him, to aid him should aid be necessary.
Josina's first impulse was to hurry after him, but seeing the paper in his hand and recognizing, as she fancied, the agreement that he had signed on the Saturday, she followed him softly, without letting him know that she was there. He reached the foot of the staircase, and with an accustomed hand he groped for and found the door of the dining-room. He pushed open the door and went in. He closed the door behind him, and distinctly-the house was very quiet, it was the dead of the afternoon-she heard him turn the key in the lock.
That alarmed her, for if he fell or met with an accident, there would be a difficulty in assisting him. She moved to the door and listened. She heard him passing slowly and carefully across the floor, she heard the table creak under his hand, as he reached it. A moment later her ear caught the jingle of a bunch of keys.
His visit had a purpose, then. He might be going to deposit the lease, but she could not imagine where. His papers were in his own room or in his bedroom. And Calamy had the wine, it could not be that he wanted. For a moment her thoughts reverted to her own trouble, and she sighed. Then she caught again the jingle of keys, and she listened, her head bent low. What could he be doing? And would he be able to find the door again?
Presently the silence was broken by an oath, followed by a rustling sound, as if he were handling papers. This lasted for quite a minute, and then there came from the room a strange, half-strangled cry, a cry that stopped the beating of her heart. She seized the handle of the door and turned it, shook it. But the door, as she knew, was locked, and, terrified, she cried, "Father! Father! What is it? What is it?" She beat on the door.
He did not answer, but she heard him coming towards her, moving at random, striking against the table, overturning a chair. She trembled for him; he might fall at any moment, and the door was locked. But he did not fall. He reached the door and turned the key. The door opened. She saw him.
Her fears had not been baseless. The light in the doorway was poor on that cheerless December day, but it was enough to show her that the Squire's face was distorted and drawn, altered by some strange shock. And he was shaking in all his limbs. The moment that she touched him he gripped her arm, and "Come here! Come here!" he ordered, his voice piping and high. "Lock the door! Lock the door, girl!" And when she had done this, "Do you see that cupboard? D'you see it?"
She was alarmed, for, whatever might be its cause, she was sure that the excitement under which he labored was dangerous for him. But she had her wits about her, and the nerved herself to do what he wanted. She saw the open cupboard, of the existence of which she had not known, but she showed no surprise. "Yes, I see it, sir," she said. She put his arm through hers, striving to calm him by her presence.
He drew her across the room till they stood before the cupboard. "Do you see a box?" he demanded, hardly able to articulate the words in his haste. "Ay? Then do you look in it, girl! Look in it. What is there in it? Tell me, girl. Tell me quick! What is in it?"
The box, its lid raised, stood on the shelf before him, and he laid his trembling hand on it. She looked into it. "It is empty, sir," she said.
"Empty? Quite empty?"
"Yes, sir, quite empty."
"Nothing in it?" desperately. "Are you sure, girl? Can you see nothing? Nothing?"
"Nothing, sir, I am quite sure," she said. "There is nothing in it."
"No papers?"
"No, sir, no papers."
An idea seemed to strike him. "They may ha' fallen on the floor," he exclaimed. "Look! Look all about, girl! Look! Ah," and there was something like agony in the cry, "curse this blindness! I am helpless, helpless as a child! Can you see no papers-on the floor, wench! Thin papers? No? Nor on the shelves?"
"No, sir. There is the lease you signed on Saturday. That is all."
"For God's sake, make no mistake, make no mistake, girl!" he cried in irrepressible agitation. "Look! Look 'em over. Two papers-thin papers-no great size they are."
She saw that there was something very much amiss, and she searched carefully, but there were no loose papers to be seen. There were boxes on one shelf and bundles of deeds below them, and a great many packets of letters on a shelf above them, but all tied up. She could see no loose papers. None!
He seemed on the verge of collapse, but a new thought came to his support, and he drew her, almost as if he could see, to the other side of the hearth. There he felt for and found the moulding of the panel, he fumbled for the keyhole. But his shaking hands would not do his will, and with a tremulous curse he gave the key to her, and obeying his half-intelligible directions, she unlocked and threw wide first the panel and then the door of the second cupboard.
"Two small papers! Thin papers!" he reiterated. "Look! Look, girl! Are they there? Some one may have moved them. He may have put them here. Search, girl, search!"
But though she obeyed him, looking everywhere, a single glance showed her that there were no two papers there, papers such as he had described. She told him what she saw-the bundles of ancient deeds, the tarnished plate, the jewel cases.
"But no-no loose papers?"
"No, sir, I can see none."
Convinced at last, he uttered an exceeding bitter cry, a cry that went to the girl's heart. "Then he has robbed me!" he said. "He has robbed me! A Griffin, and he has robbed me! Get-get me a chair, girl."
Horrified, she helped him to a chair, and he sank into it, and with a shaking hand he sought for his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his lips. Then his hands fell until they rested on his lap, his chin dropped on his breast. Two tears ran down his withered cheeks. "A Griffin!" he whispered. "A Griffin! And he has robbed me!"
CHAPTER XXXI
In Aldersbury there had been a simmering of excitement through all the hours of that Monday. At the corner of the Market Place on which the little statue of the ancient Prince looked down, in the shops on Bride Hill, in the High Street under the shadow of St. Juliana's, knots of people had gathered, discussing, some with scared faces and low voices, others with the gusto of unconcern, the rumors of troubles that came through from Chester, from Manchester, from the capital; that fell from the lips of guards in inn-yards, and leaked from the boots of coaches before the Lion. Gibbon's, one of the chief banks at Birmingham, had closed its doors, Garrard's had stopped payment at Hereford, there was panic on the stones in Manchester, a bank had failed at Liverpool. It was reported that a director had hung himself, a score had fled to Boulogne, dark stories of '15 and '93 were revived. It was asserted that the Bank of England had run out of gold, that cash payments would be again suspended. In a dozen forms these and wilder statements ran from mouth to mouth, gathered weight as they went, blanched men's faces and turned traders' hearts to water. But the worst, it was agreed, would not be known until the afternoon coaches came in and brought the mails from London. Then-ah, then, people would see what they would see!
Idle men, with empty pockets, revelled in news which promised to bring all to their level. And malice played its part. Wolley, who had little but a debtor's prison in prospect, was in town and talking, bent on revenge, and the few who had already withdrawn their accounts from Ovington's were also busy; foxes who had lost their tails, they felt themselves marked men until others followed their example. Meanwhile, Purslow and such as were in his case lay low, sweated in their shop-parlors, conned their ledgers with haggard faces, or snarled at their womenfolk. Gone now was the pride in stock and scrip, and bounding profits! Gone even the pride in a directorship.
Purslow, perhaps, more than anyone was to be pitied. A year before he had been prosperous, purse-proud, free from debt, with a good business. Now his every penny was sunk in unsaleable securities, his credit was pledged to the bank, his counter was idle, while trade creditors whom in the race for wealth he had neglected were pressing him hard. Worst of all, he did not know where he could turn to obtain even the small sum needed to pay the next month's wages.
But, though the pot was boiling in Aldersbury as elsewhere, it did not at once boil over. The day passed without any serious run on either of the banks. Men were alarmed, they got together in corners, they whispered, they marked with jealous eyes who entered and who left the banks. They muttered much of what they would do on the morrow, or when the London mail came in, or when they had made up their minds. But to walk into Ovington's and face the clerks and do the deed required courage; and for the most part they were not so convinced of danger, or fearful of loss, as to be ready to face the ordeal. They might draw their money and look foolish afterwards. Consequently they hung about, putting off the act, waiting to see what others would do. The hours slipped by and the excitement grew, but still they waited, watching their neighbors and doing nothing, but prepared at any moment to rush in and jostle one another in their panic.
"By G-d, I'll see I get my money!" said one. "You wait, Mr. Lello! You wait and-"
In another part, "I'd draw it, I'd draw it, Tom, if I were you! After all, it's your own money. Why, confound it, man, what are you afraid of?"
"I ain't afraid of anything," Tom replied surlily. "But Ovington gave me a leg-up last December, and I'm hanged if I like to go in and-"
"And ask for your own? Well, you are a ninny!"
"Maybe. May-be," jingling the money in his fob. "But I'll wait. I'll wait till to-morrow. No harm done afore then!"
A third had left Dean's under a cloud, and if he quarrelled with Ovington's, where was he to go? While a fourth had bills falling due, and did not quite see his way. He might be landing a trout and losing a salmon. He would see how things went. Plenty of time!
But though this was the general attitude, and the Monday passed without a run of any consequence, a certain number of accounts were closed, and the excitement felt boded ill for the morrow. It waxed rather than waned as the day went on, and Ovington's heart would have been heavy and his alarm keen if the one had not been lightened and the other dispersed by the good news which Arthur had brought from Garth that morning-the almost incredibly good news!
Aldersbury, however, was in ignorance of that news, and when Clement issued from the bank a few minutes after the doors had closed, there were still knots of people hanging about the corners of the Market Place, watching the bank. He viewed them with a sardonic eye, and could afford to do so; for his heart was light like his father's, and he could smile at that which, but for the good news of the morning, would have chilled him with apprehension. He turned from the door, intending to seek the Lime-Walks by the river, and, late as it was, to get a breath of fresh air after the confinement of the day. But his intention was never carried out. He had not gone half a dozen yards down the street before his ear caught the sound of a horse breasting Bride Hill at an unusual pace, and something in the speed at which it approached warned him of ill. He waited, and his fears were confirmed. The vehicle, a gig, drew up at the door of the bank, and the driver, a country lad, began to get down. Clement retraced the half-dozen steps that he had taken.
"Who is it you want?" he asked.
The lad sat down again in his seat. "Be Mr. Arthur here, sir?" he inquired.
"Mr. Bourdillon?"
"Ay, sure, sir."
"No, he is not."
"Well, I be to follow 'ee wheresomever he be, axing your pardon!"
"I'm afraid you can't do that, my lad," Clement explained. "He's gone to London. He went by coach this morning."
The lad scratched his head. "O Lord!" he said. "What be I to do? I was to bring him back, whether or no. Squire's orders."
"Squire Griffin?"
"Ay, sure, sir. He's in a taking, and mun see him, whether or no! Mortal put about he were!"
Clement thought rapidly, the vague alarm which he had felt taking solid shape. What if the Squire had repented of his generosity? What if the help, heaven-sent, beyond hope and beyond expectation, which had removed their fears, were after all to fail them? Clement's heart sank. "Who sent you?" he asked. "The young lady?"
"Ay, sure. And she were in a taking, too. Crazy she were."
Clement leapt to a decision. He laid his hand on the rail of the gig. "Look here," he said. "You'd better take me out instead, and, at any rate, I can explain."
"But it were Mr. Arthur-"
"I know, but he's half-way to London by now. And he won't be back till Thursday."
He climbed up, and the lad accepted his decision and turned the horse. They trotted down the hill between the dimly lighted shops, past observers who recognized the Garth gig, by groups of men who loitered and shivered before the tavern doors. They swung sharply into Maerdol, where the peaks of the gables on either hand rose against a pale sky, and a moment later they were crossing the bridge, and felt the cold waft of the river breeze on their faces. Two minutes saw them trotting steadily across the open country, the lights of the town behind them.
Clement sat silent, lost in thought, wondering if he were doing right, and fearing much that the Squire had repented of his generosity and was minded to recall it. If that were so, the awakening from the hopes which he had raised, and the dream of security in which they had lost themselves, would be a cruel shock. Clement shrank from thinking what its effect would be on his father, whose relief had betrayed the full measure of his fears. And his own case was hardly better, for it was not only his fortune that was at stake and that he had thought saved. He had given rein, also, to his hopes. He had let them carry him far into a roseate country where the sun shone and Josina smiled, and all the difficulties that had divided them melted into air. There might be need of time and patience; but with time and patience he had fancied that he might win his way.
It was cruel, indeed, then if the old man at Garth had changed his mind, if he had played with them, only to deceive them, only to disappoint them! And Clement could not but fear that it was so. The closing day, the wintry air, the prospect before him, as they swung across the darkening land, seemed to confirm his fears and oppress him with misgivings. A long cloud, fish-shaped, hung lowering across the western sky; below it, along the horizon, a narrow strip of angry yellow, unnaturally bright, threw the black, jagged outline of the hills into violent contrast, and shed a pale light on the intervening plain. Ay, he feared the worst. He could think of nothing else that could be the cause of this sudden, this agitated summons. The Squire must have repented. He had changed his mind, and-
But here they were at the bridge. The cottages of the hamlet showed here and there a spark of light. They turned to the left, and five minutes later-the horse quickening its pace as they approached its stable-they were winding up the sunken drive under the stark limbs of the beeches. The house stood above them, a sombre pile, its chimneys half obscured by the trees.
Heavily Clement let himself down, to find Calamy at his elbow. The man had been waiting for him in the dimly lighted doorway. "Mr. Bourdillon has gone to London," Clement explained. "I have come instead if I can be of any use." Then he saw that the butler did not know him, and "I am Mr. Clement Ovington," he added. "You'd better ask your master if he would like to see me."
"There's times when the devil'd be welcome," the man replied bluntly. "It's tears and lamentations and woe in the house this night, but God knows what it's all about, for I don't. Come in, come in, sir, in heaven's name, but I'm fearing it's little good. The devil has us in his tail, and if the master goes through the night-but this way, sir-this way!"
He opened a door on the left of the hall, pushed the astonished Clement into the room, and over his shoulder, "Here's one from the bank, at any rate," he proclaimed. "Maybe he'll do."
Clement took in the scene as he entered, and drew from it an instant impression of ill. The room was in disorder, lighted only by a pair of candles, the slender flames of which were reflected, islanded in blackness, in the two tall windows that, bald and uncurtained, let in the night. The fire, a pile of wood ashes neglected or forgotten, was almost out, and beside it a cupboard-door gaped widely open. A chair lay overturned on the floor, and in another sat the Squire, gaunt and upright, muttering to himself and gesticulating with his stick, while over him, her curls falling about her neck, her face tragic and tear-stained, hung his daughter, her shadow cast grotesquely on the wall behind her. She had a glass in her hand, and by her on the table, from which the cloth had fallen to the floor, stood water and a medicine bottle.
In their absorption neither of the two had heard Calamy's words, and for a moment Clement stood in doubt, staring at them and feeling that he had been wrong to come. The trouble, whatever it was, could not be what he had feared. Then, as he moved, half minded to withdraw, Josina heard him, and turned. In her amazement, "Clement!" she cried. "You!"
The Squire turned in his chair. "Who?" he exclaimed.
"Who's there? Has he come?"
The girl hesitated. The hand that rested on the old man's shoulder trembled. Then-oh, bravely she took her courage in her hands, and "It is Clement who has come," she said-acknowledging him so firmly that Clement marvelled to hear her.
"Clement?" The old man repeated the word mechanically, and for a moment he sought in his mind who Clement might be. Then he found the answer, and "One of them, eh?" he muttered-but not in the voice that Clement had anticipated. "So he won't face me? Coward as well as rogue, is he? And a Griffin! My God, a Griffin! So he's sent him?"
"Where is Arthur?" Josina asked sharply.
"He left for London this morning-by the coach."
"Ay, ay," the Squire said. "That's it."
Clement plucked up courage. "And hearing that you wanted him, I came to explain. I feared from what the messenger said that there was something amiss."
"Something amiss!" The Squire repeated the words in an indescribable tone. "That's what he calls it! Something amiss!"
Clement looked from one to the other. "If there is anything I can do?"
"You?" bluntly. "Why, you be one of them!"
"No!" Josina interposed. "No, father. He has no part in it! I swear he has not!"
But, "One of them! One of them!" the Squire repeated in the same stubborn tone, yet without lifting his voice.
"No!" Josina repeated as firmly as before; and the hand that rested on her father's shoulder slid round his neck. She held him half embraced. "But he may tell you what has happened. He may explain, sir?"
"Explain!" the Squire muttered. Contempt could go no farther.
"Shall I tell him, sir?"
"You're a fool, girl! The man knows."
"I am sure he does not!" she said.
Again Clement thought that it was time to interpose, "Indeed I do not, sir," he said. "I am entirely in the dark." In truth, looking on what he did, seeing before him the unfamiliar room, the dark staring windows, and the old man so unlike himself and so like King Lear or some figure of tragedy, he was tempted to think the scene a dream. "If you will tell me what is the matter, perhaps I can help. Arthur left this morning for London. He went to raise the money with which he was entrusted-"
"Entrusted?" the Squire cried with something of his old energy. He raised his head and struck the floor with his stick. "Entrusted? That's what you call it, is it?"
Clement stared. "I don't understand," he said.
"What did he tell you?" Josina asked. "For heaven's sake speak, Clement! Tell us what he told you."
"Ay," the Squire chimed in. "Tell us how you managed it. Now it's done, let's hear it." For the time scorn, a weary kind of scorn, had taken the place of anger and subdued him to its level.
But Clement was still at sea. "Managed it?" he repeated. "What do you-"
"Tell us, tell us-from the beginning!" Jos cried, at the end of her patience. "About this money? What did Arthur tell you? What did he tell you-this morning?"
Then for the first time Clement saw what was in question, and he braced himself to meet the shock which he foresaw. "He told us," he said, "what Mr. Griffin had consented to do-that he had given him securities for twelve thousand pounds for the use of the bank and to support its credit. He had the stock with him, and he received from the bank, in return for it, an undertaking to replace the amount two months after date with interest at seven per cent. It was thought best that he should take it to London himself, as it was so large a sum and time was everything. And he went by the coach this morning-to realize the money."
Josina shivered. "He took it without authority," she said, her voice low.
