Weyman Stanley John
Ovington's Bank
CHAPTER XXXVIII
But before they crossed the threshold they were intercepted. Miss Peacock, her plumage ruffled, and that which the Squire was wont to call her "clack" working at high pressure, met them at the door. "Bless me, sir, here's a visitor," she proclaimed, "at this hour! And won't take any denial, but will see you, whether or no. Though I told Jane to tell him-"
"Who is it?"
"Goodness knows, but it's not my fault, sir! I told Jane-but Jane's that feather-headed, like all of them, she never listens, and let him in, and he's in the dining-parlor. All she could say, the silly wench, was, it was something about the bank-great goggle-eyes as she is! And of course there's no one in the way when they're wanted. Calamy with you, and Josina traipsing out, feeding her turkeys. And Jane says the man's got a portmanteau with him as if he's come to stay. Goodness knows, there's no bed aired, and I'm sure I should have been told if-"
"Peace, woman!" said the Squire. "Did he ask to see me, or-" with an effort, "my nephew?"
"Oh, you, sir! Leastwise that's what Jane said, but she's no more head than a goose! To let him in when she knows that you're hardly out of your bed, and can't see every Jack Harry that comes!"
"I'll see him," the Squire said heavily. He bade Calamy take him in.
"But you'll take your egg-flip, Mr. Griffin? Before you-"
"Don't clack, woman, don't clack!" cried the Squire, and made a blow at her with his stick, but with no intention of reaching her. "Begone! Begone!"
"But, dear sir, the doctor! You know he said"
"D-n you, I'll not take it! D'you hear? I'll not take it! Get out!" And he went on through the house, the tap of his stick on the stone flags going before him and announcing his coming. Half-way along the passage he paused. "Did she say," he asked, lowering his voice, "that he came from the bank?"
"Ay, ay," Calamy said. "And like enough. Ill news has many feet. Rides apace and needs no spurs. But if your honor will let me see him, I'll sort him! I'll sort him, I'll warrant! One'd think," grumbling, "they'd more sense than to come here about their dirty business as if we were the bank!" The man was surprised that his master took the matter with any patience, for, to him, with all the prejudices of the class he served, it seemed the height of impertinence to come to Garth about such business. "Let me see him, your honor, and ask what he wants," he urged.
But the Squire ruled otherwise. "No," he said wearily, "I'll see him." And he went in.
The front door stood open. "There's a po-chay, right enough," Calamy informed him. "And luggage. Seems to ha' come some way, too."
"Umph! Take me in. And tell me who it is. Then go."
The butler opened the door, and guided the old man into the room. A glance informed him who the visitor was, but he continued to give all his attention to his master, in this way subtly conveying to the stranger that he was of so little importance as to be invisible. Nor until the Squire had reached the table and set his hand on it did Calamy open his mouth. Then, "It's Mr. Ovington," he announced.
"Mr. Ovington?"
"Ay, the young gentleman."
"Ah!" The old man stood a moment, his hand on the table. Then, "Put me in my chair," he said. "And go. Shut the door."
And when the man had done so, "Well!" heavily, "what have you come to say? But you'd best sit. Sit down! So you didn't go to London? Thought better of it, eh, young man? Ay, I know! Talked to your father and saw things differently? And now you've come to give me another dose of fine words to keep me quiet till the shutters go up? And if the worst comes to the worst, your father's told you, I suppose, that I can't prosecute-family name, eh? That's what you've come for, I suppose?"
"No, sir," Clement answered soberly. "I've not come for that. And my father-"
The Squire struck his stick on the floor. "I don't want to hear from him!" he cried with violence. "I want no message from him, d'you hear? I'm not come down to that! And as for your excuses, young gentleman-"
"I am not come with any excuses," Clement answered, restraining himself with difficulty-but after all the old man had had provocation enough to justify many hard words, and he was blind besides. As he sat there, glaring sightlessly before him, his hands on his stick, he was a pathetic figure in his anger and helplessness. "I've been to town, as I said I would."
The Squire was silent for some seconds. "And come back?" he exclaimed.
"Well, yes, sir," with a smile. "I'm here."
"Umph? How did you do it?"
"I posted up and came down as far as Birmingham by the Bull and Mouth coach. I posted on this morning."
"Well, you've been devilish quick!" The Squire admitted it reluctantly. He hardly knew whether to believe the tale or not. "You didn't wait long there, that's certain. And did as little, I suppose. Bank's going, I hear?"
"I hope not."
"Pooh!" the Squire said impatiently. "You may speak out! Speak out, man! There is no one here."
"There's some danger, I'm afraid."
"Danger! I should think there was! More than danger, as I hear!" The Squire drummed for a moment with his fingers on the table. He was thinking not of the bank, or even of his loss, but of his nephew and the scandal that would not pass by him. But he would not refer to Arthur, and after a pause, "Well," with an angry snort, "if that's all you've come to tell me, you might have spared yourself-and me. I cannot say that your company's very welcome, so if you please, we'll dispense with compliments. If that's all-"
"But that's not all, sir," Clement interposed. "I wish I could have brought back the securities, or even the whole of the money."
The Squire laughed. "No doubt," he said.
"But I was too late to ensure that. The stock had already been transferred."
"So he was quick, too!"
"And selling for cash in the middle of such a crisis he had to accept a loss of seven per cent. on the current price. But he suggests that if you reinvest immediately, a half, at least, of this may be recovered, and the eventual loss need not be more than three or four hundred. I ought perhaps to have stayed in town to effect this, but I had to think of my father, who was alone at the bank. However, I did what I could, sir, and-"
Clement paused; the Squire had uttered an exclamation which he did not catch. The old man turned a little in his chair so as to face the speaker. "Eh?" he said. "Do you mean that you've got any of the money-here?"
"I've eleven thousand and a bit over," Clement explained. "Five thousand in gold and the rest-"
"What?"
"Sir?"
"Do you mean" – the Squire spoke haltingly, after a pause-he did not seem to be able to find the right words. "Do you mean that you've brought back the money?"
"Not all. What I've told you, sir. There's six thousand and odd in notes. The gold is in two bags in the chaise."
"Here?"
"At the door, sir. I'll bring it in."
"Ay," said the Squire passively. "Bring it in."
Clement went out and returned, carrying in two small leather bags. He set them down at the Squire's feet "There's the gold, sir," he said. "I've not counted it, but I've no doubt that it is right. It weighs a little short of a hundred pounds."
The old man felt the bags, then, standing up, he lifted them in turn a few inches from the floor. "What does a thousand pounds weigh?" he asked.
"Between eighteen and nineteen pounds, sir."
"And the notes?"
"I have them here." Clement drew a thick packet from the pocket of his inner vest and put it into the Squire's hands. "They're Bank of England paper. They were short even at the bank, and wanted Bourdillon to take it in one-pound notes, but he stood out and got these in the end."
The Squire handled the packet, felt its thickness, weighed it lovingly in his hand. So much money, so much money in so small a space! Six thousand and odd pounds! It seemed as if he could not let it go, but in the end he placed it in the breast pocket of his high-collared old coat, the shabby blue coat with the large gilt buttons that was his common wear at home. The money secured, he sat, looking before him, while Clement, a little mortified, waited for the word of acknowledgment that did not come. At last, "Did you call at your father's?" the old man asked-irrelevantly, it seemed.
Clement colored. He had not expected the question. "Well, I did, sir," he admitted. "Bourdillon-"
"He was with you?"
"As far as the town. He was anxious that the money should be seen to arrive. He thought that it might check the run, and I agreed that it might do some good, and that we might make that advantage of it. So I took it through the bank."
"Pretty full, I expect, eh? Pretty full?"
"Well," ruefully, "it was, sir."
"A strong run, eh?"
"I'm afraid so. It looked like it. It was full to the doors. That's why," glancing at his watch as he stood by the window, the table between him and the Squire, "I must get back to my father. We took it through the bank and out by the garden, and put it in the chaise again in Roushill."
"Umph! He came back to town with you?"
"Bourdillon, sir? Yes-as far as the East Bridge. He left me there."
"Where is he?"
Clement hesitated. "I hope that he's gone to the bank, sir," he said.
He did not add, as he might have, that, after Arthur and he had left the coach at Birmingham and posted on, there had been a passionate scene between them. No doubt Arthur had never given up hope, but from the first had determined to make another fight for it; and there was no police officer at their elbows now. He had appealed to Clement by all that he loved to take the money to the bank, and there to deal with it as his father should decide. Finding Clement firm and his appeals useless, he had given way to passion, he had stormed and threatened and even shed tears; and at last, seizing the pistol case that lay at their feet, he had sworn that he would shoot himself before the other's eyes if he did not give way. In his rage he had seemed to be capable of anything, and there had been a struggle for the pistol, blows had been exchanged, and worse might have come of it if the noise of the fracas had not reached the postboy's ears. He had pulled up, turned in his saddle, and asked what the devil they would be at; he would have no murder in his master's carriage.
That had shamed them. Arthur had given way, had flung himself back, white and sullen, in his corner, and they had continued the journey on such terms as may be imagined. But even so, Arthur had proved his singular power of adaptation. The environs of the town in sight, he had suggested that at least they should take the money through the bank. Clement, anxious to make peace, had consented to that, and on the East Bridge Arthur had called on the postboy to stop, had jumped out, and, turning his back on his companion, had made off without a word.
Clement said nothing of this to the Squire, though the scene had been painful, and though he felt that something was due to him, were it but a word of thanks, or an expression of acknowledgment. It had not been his fault or his father's, that the money had been taken; it was through him that the greater part of it had been recovered, and now reposed safe in the Squire's pocket or in the bags at his feet.
At the least, it seemed to him, the old man might remember that his father was alone and needing him-was facing trouble, and, it might be, ruin. He took up his hat. "Well, sir, that's all," he said curtly. "I must go now."
"Wait!" said the Squire. "And ring the bell, if you please."
Clement stepped to the hearth, and pulled the faded drab cord, which once had been blue, that hung near it. The bell in the passage had hardly tinkled before Calamy entered. "Bid your mistress come here," said the old man. "Where is she? Fetch her?"
The blood mounted to Clement's face, and his pulses began to throb, his ideas to tumble over one another. The old man, who sat before him, his hands on his stick, stubbornly confronting the darkness, the old man, whom he had thought insensible, took on another hue, became instead inscrutable, puzzling, perplexing. Why had he sent for his daughter? What was in his mind? What was he going to say? What had he-but even while Clement wondered, his thoughts in a whirl, strange hopes jostling one another in his brain, the door opened, and Josina came in.
She came in with a timid step, but as soon as her eyes met Clement's, the color rose vividly to her cheeks, then left her pale. Her lip trembled. But her look-fleeting as it was and immediately diverted to her father-how he blessed her for that look! For it bade him take confidence, it bade him have no fear, it bade him trust her. Silently and incredibly, it took him under her protection, it pledged her faith to him.
And how it changed all for him! How it quelled, in a moment, the disappointment and anger he was feeling, ay, and even the vague hopes which the Squire's action in summoning her had roused in him! How it gave calmness and assurance where his aspirations had been at best to the extravagant and the impossible.
But, whatever his feelings, to whatever lover's heaven that look raised him, he was speedily brought to earth again. The old man had proved himself thankless; now, as if he were determined to show himself in the worst light, he proceeded to prove himself suspicious. "Come here, girl," he said, "and count these notes." Fumbling, he took the parcel from his pocket and handed it to her. "Ha' you got them? Then count them! D'you hear, wench? Count them! And have a care to make no mistake! Lay 'em in piles o' ten. They are hundreds, are they? Hundreds, eh?"
She untied the parcel, and brought all her faculties to bear on the task, though her fingers trembled, and the color, rising and ebbing in her cheeks, betrayed her consciousness that her lover's eyes were upon her. "Yes, sir, they are hundred-pound notes," she said.
"All?"
"Yes, all, I think, sir."
"Bank of England?" He poked at her skirts with his stick. "Bank of England, eh? Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir, so far as I can see."
"Ay, ay. Well, count 'em! And mind what you are doing, girl!"
Clement did not know whether to smile or to be angry, but a moment later he felt no bent towards either. For with a certain dignity, "I ha' been deceived once," the Squire continued. "I ha' signed once and paid for it. I'm in the dark. But I don't act i' the dark again. If I can't trust my own flesh and blood, I'll not trust strangers. No, no! I don't know as there's any one I can trust."
"I quite understand, sir," Clement said-though it was the last thing he had had it in his mind to say a moment earlier.
"I don't mind whether you understand or not," the Squire retorted. "Ha' you done, girl?" after an interval of silence.
"Not quite, sir. I have five heaps of ten."
"Well, well, get on. We are keeping the young man."
He spoke as he would have spoken of any young man in a shop, and Clement winced, and Josina knew that he winced and she reddened. But she went on with her work. "There are sixty-one, sir," she said. "That makes-"
"Six thousand one hundred pounds. Ay, it's right so far. Right so far. And the gold" – he paused and seemed to be at a nonplus-"I'm afraid 'twould take too long to count it. Well, let it be. Get some paper and write a receipt as I tell you."
"There is no need, sir," Clement ventured.
"There's every need, young man. I'm doing business. Ha' you got the pen, girl? Then write as I tell you. 'I, George Griffin of Garth, in the County of Aldshire, acknowledge that I have this 16th day of December 1825 received from Messrs. Ovington of Aldersbury, six thousand one hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, and'-ha' you got that? Ha' you got that? – 'two bags stated by them to contain five thousand pounds in gold.' Ha' you got that down? Then show me the place, and-"
But as she put the pen in his hand he let it drop. He sat back in his chair. "Ay, he showed me the place before," he muttered, his chin on his breast. "It was he gave me the pen, then, girl. And how be I to know? How be I to know?"
It came home to them-to them both. In his voice, his act, his attitude was the pathos of blindness, its helplessness, its dependence, its reliance on others-on the eyes, the hand, the honesty of others. The girl leant over him. "Father," she said, tears in her voice, "I wouldn't deceive you! You know I wouldn't. I would never deceive you!"
"Ha' you never deceived me? Wi' that young man?" sternly.
"But-"
"Ay, you have! You have deceived me-with him."
She could not defend herself, and, suppressing her sobs, "I will call Calamy," she said. "He can read. He shall count the notes."
But he put out his hand and grasped her skirts. "No," he said. "What'll I be the better? Give me the pen. If you deceive me in this, wench-what matter if the notes be short or not, or what comes of it?"
"I would cut off my hand first!" she cried. "And Clement-"
"Eh?" He sat up sharply.
She was frightened, and she did not continue. "This is the place, sir," she said meekly.
"Here?"
"Yes, sir, where you are now."
He wrote his name. "Dry it," he said. "And ring the bell. And there, give it to him. He wants to be off. Odds are the shutters'll be up afore he gets there. Calamy!" to the man who had appeared at the door, "see this gentleman off, and be quick about it. He's no time to lose. And, hark you, come back to me when he's gone. No, girl," sternly, "you stay here. I want you."
CHAPTER XXXIX
In ordinary times, news is slow to make its way to the ears of the great. Protected from the vulgar by his deer park, looking out from the stillness of his tall-windowed library on his plantations and his ornamental water, Sir Charles Woosenham was removed by six miles of fine champaign country from the common fret and fume of Aldersbury. He no longer maintained, as his forefathers had maintained, a house in the town, and in all likelihood he would not have heard the talk about the bank, or caught the alarm in time, if one of his neighbors had not made it his business to arouse him.
Acherley, baffled in his attempt at blackmail, and thirsting for revenge, had bethought him of the Chairman of the Valleys Railroad. He had been quick to see that he could use him, and perhaps he had even fancied that it was his duty to use him. At any rate, one fine morning, some days before this eventful Wednesday, he had mounted his old hunter, Nimrod, and had cantered across country by gaps and gates from Acherley to Woosenham Park. He had entered by a hunting wicket, and leaping the ha-ha, he had presented himself to Sir Charles ten minutes after the latter had left the breakfast table, and withdrawn himself after his fashion of a morning, into a dignified seclusion.
Alas, two minutes of Acherley's conversation proved enough to destroy the baronet's complacency for the day. Acherley blurted out his news, neither sparing oaths nor mincing matters. "Ovington's going!" he declared. "He's bust-up-smashed, man!" And striking the table with a violence that made his host wince, "He's bust-up, I tell you," he repeated, "and I think you ought to know it! There's ten thousand of the Company's money in his hands, and if there's nothing done, it will be lost to a penny!"
Sir Charles stared, stared aghast. "You don't say so?" he exclaimed. "I can't believe it!"
"Well, it's true! True, man, true, as you'll soon find out!"
"But this is terrible! Terrible!"
Acherley shrugged his shoulders. "It'll be terrible for him," he sneered.
"But-but what can we do?" the other asked, recovering from his surprise. "If it is as bad as you say-"
"Bad? And do, man? Why, get the money out! Get it out before it is too late-if it isn't too late already. You must draw it out, Woosenham! At once! This morning! Without the delay of a minute!"
"I!" Sir Charles could not conceal the unhappiness which the proposal caused him. No proposal, indeed, could have been less to his taste. He would have to make up his mind, he would have to act, he would have to set himself against others, he would have to engage in a vulgar struggle. A long vista of misery and discomfort opened before him. "I? Oh, but-" and with the ingenuity of a weak man he snatched at the first formal difficulty that occurred to him-"but I can't draw it out! It needs another signature besides mine."
"The Secretary's? Bourdillon's? Of course it does! But you must get his signature. D-n it, man, you must get it. If I were you I should go into town this minute. I wouldn't lose an hour!"
Sir Charles winced afresh at the idea of taking action so strong. He had not only a great distaste for any violent step, but he had also the feelings of a gentleman. To take on himself such a responsibility as was now suggested was bad; but to confront Ovington, who had gained considerable influence over him, and to tell the banker to his face that he distrusted his stability-good heavens, was it possible that such horrors could be asked of him? Flustered and dismayed, he went back to his original standpoint. "But-but there may be nothing in this," he objected weakly. "Possibly nothing at all. Mere gossip, my dear sir," with dignity. "In that case we might be putting ourselves in the wrong-very much in the wrong."
Acherley did not take the trouble to hide his contempt. "Nothing in it?" he replied, and he tossed off a second glass of the famous Woosenham cherry-brandy which the butler, unbidden, had placed beside him. "Nothing in it, man? You'll find there's the devil in it unless you act! Enough in it to ease us of ten thousand pounds! If the bank fails, and I'll go bail it will, not a penny of that money will you see again! And I tell you fair, the shareholders will look to you, Woosenham, to make it good. I'm not responsible. I've no authority to sign, and the others are just tools of that man Ovington, and afraid to call their souls their own! You're Chairman-you're Chairman, and, by G-d, they'll look to you if the money is left in the bank and lost!"
Sir Charles quailed. This was worse and worse! Worse and worse! He dropped the air of carelessness which he had affected to assume, and no more flustered man than he looked out on the world that day over a white lawn stock or wore a dark blue coat with gilt buttons, and drab kerseymeres with Hessians. But, again, true to his instincts, he grasped at a matter of form, hoping desperately that it might save him from the precipice towards which his friend was so vigorously pushing him. "But-my good man," he argued, "I can't draw out the money-the whole of the capital of the concern, so far as it is subscribed-on my own responsibility! Of course I can't!" wiping the perspiration from his brow. "Of course I can't!" peevishly. "I must have the authority of the Board first. We must call a meeting of the Board. That's the proper procedure."
Acherley rose to his feet, openly contemptuous. "Oh, hang your meeting!" he said. "And give a seven days' notice, eh? If you are going to stand on those P's and Q's I've said my say. The money's lost already! However, that's not my business, and I've warned you. I've warned you. You'll not forget that, Woosenham? You'll exonerate me, at any rate."
"But I can't-God bless my soul, Acherley," the poor man remonstrated, "I can't act like that in a moment!" And Sir Charles stared aghast at his too violent associate, who had brought into the calm of his life so rude a blast of the outer air. "I can't override all the formalities! I can't, indeed, even if it is as serious as you say it is-and I can hardly believe that-with such a man as Ovington at the helm!"
"You'll soon see how serious it is!" the other retorted. And satisfied that he had laid the train, he shrugged his shoulders, tossed off a third glass of the famous cherry-brandy, and took himself off without much ceremony.
He left a flustered, nervous, unhappy man behind him. "Good G-d!" the baronet muttered, as he rose and paced his library, all the peace and pleasantness of his life shattered. "What's to be done? And why-why in the world did I ever put my hand to this matter!" One by one and plainly all the difficulties of the position rose before him, the awkwardness and the risk. He must open the thing to Bourdillon-in itself a delicate matter-and obtain his signature. If he got that, he doubted if he had even then power to draw the whole amount in this way, and doubted, too, whether Ovington would surrender it, no meeting of the Board having been held? And if he obtained the money, what was he to do with it? Pay it into Dean's? But if things were as bad as Acherley said, was even Dean's safe? For, of a certainty, if he removed the money to Dean's and it were lost, he would be responsible for every penny-every penny of it! There was no doubt about that.
Yet if he left it at Ovington's and it were lost, what then? It was not his custom to drink of a morning, but his perturbation was so great that he took a glass of the cherry-brandy. He really needed it.
He could not tell what to do. In every direction he saw some doubt or some difficulty arise to harass him. He was no man of business. In all matters connected with the Company he had leant on Ovington, and deprived of his stay, he wavered, turning like a weathercock in the wind, making no progress.
For two days, though terribly uneasy in his mind, he halted between two opinions. He did nothing. Then tidings began to come to his ears, low murmurs of the storm which was raging afar off; and he wrote to Bourdillon asking him to come out and see him-he thought that he could broach the matter more easily on his own ground. But two days elapsed, during which he received no answer, and in the meantime the warnings that reached him grew louder and more disquieting. His valet let drop a discreet word while shaving him. A neighbor hoped that he had nothing in Ovington's-things were in a bad way, he heard. His butler asked leave to go to town to cash a note. Gradually he was wrought up to such a pitch of uneasiness that he could not sleep for thinking of the ten thousand pounds, and the things that would be said of him, and the figure that he would cut if, after Acherley's warning, the money were lost. When Wednesday morning came, he made up his mind to take advice, and he could think of no one on whose wisdom he could depend more surely than on the old Squire's at Garth; though, to be sure, to apply to him was, considering his attitude towards the Railroad, to eat humble pie.
Still, he made up his mind to that course, and at eleven he took my lady's landau and postillions, and started on his sixteen-mile drive to Garth. He avoided the town, though it lay only a little out of his way, but he saw enough of the unusual concourse on the road to add to his alarm. Once, nervous and fidgety, he was on the point of giving the order to turn the horses' heads for Aldersbury-he would go direct to the bank and see Ovington! But before he spoke he changed his mind again, and half-past twelve saw him wheeling off the main road and cantering, with some pomp and much cracking of whips, up the rough ascent that led to Garth.
He was so far in luck that he found the Squire not only at home, but standing before the door, a gaunt, stooping figure, leaning on his stick, with Calamy at his elbow. "Who is it?" the old man asked, as he caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the roll of the wheels. He turned his sightless eyes in the direction of the approaching carriage.
"I think it's Sir Charles, sir," Calamy answered. "It's his jackets."
"Ay! Well, I won't go in, unless need be. Go you to the stables and bid 'em wait."
Sir Charles alighted, and bidding the postillions draw off, greeted his host. "I want your advice, Squire," he said, putting his arm through the old man's, and, after a few ceremonial words he drew him a few paces from the door. It was a clear, mild day, and the sun was shining pleasantly. "I'm in a position of difficulty, Griffin," he said. "You'll tell me, I know, that I've only myself to thank for it, and perhaps that is so. But that does not mend matters. The position, you see, is this." And with many apologies and some shamefacedness he explained the situation.
The Squire listened with gloomy looks, and, beyond grunting from time to time in a manner far from cheering, he did not interrupt his visitor. "Of course, I ought not to have touched the matter," the baronet confessed, when he had finished his story. "I know what you think about that, Griffin."
"Of course you ought not!" The Squire struck his stick on the gravel. "I warned you, man, and you wouldn't take the warning. You wouldn't listen to me. Why, damme, Woosenham, if we do these things, if we once begin to go on 'Change' and sell and buy, where'll you draw the line? Where'll you draw the line? How are you going to shut out the tinkers and tailors and Brummagem and Manchester men when you make yourselves no better than them! How? By Jove, you may as well give 'em all votes at once, and in ten years' time we shall have bagmen on the Bench and Jews in the House! Aldshire-we've kept up the fence pretty well in Aldshire, and kept our hands pretty clean, too, and it's been my pride and my father's to belong to this County. We're pure blood here. We've kept ourselves to ourselves, begad! But once begin this kind of thing-"
"I know, Griffin, I know," Woosenham admitted meekly. "You were right and I was wrong, Squire. But the thing is done, and what am I to do now? If I stand by and this money is lost-"
"Ay, ay! You'll have dropped us all into a pretty scalding pot, then!"
"Just so, just so." The baronet had pleaded guilty, but he was growing restive under the other's scolding, and he plucked up spirit. "Granted. But, after all, your nephew's in the concern, Griffin. He's in it, too, you know, and-"
He stopped, shocked by the effect of his words. For the old man had withdrawn his arm and had stepped back, trembling in all his limbs. "Not with my good will!" he cried, and he struck his stick with violence on the ground. "Never! never!" he repeated, passionately. "But you are right," bitterly, "you are right, Woosenham. The taint is in the air, the taint of the City and the 'Change, and we cannot escape it even here-even here in this house! In the concern? Ay, he is! And I tell you I wish to heaven that he had been in his grave first!"
