Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Squire raised himself painfully on his elbow and hid the bagbetween pillow and tester, where he could assure himself of itspresence by a touch. Then he sank back with a grunt of relief and hishand went to the keys, which also had their home under his pillow. Heclung to them--they were his badge of authority, of power. While hehad them, sightless as he was, he was still master; about his room,the oak-panelled chamber, spacious but shabby, with the uneven floorand the low wide casement, the life of the house still circled.

  "Good lad!" he muttered. "Good lad! Jos?"

  "Yes, father." She rose and came towards him.

  "Where's Arthur?"

  "He went out with your message."

  "To be sure! To be sure! I'm forgetting."

  But, once started on the road to recovery, he did not forget much.From his high, four-post bed with the drab hangings in which hisfather and grandfather had died, he gripped house and lands in a firmgrip. Morning by morning he would have his report of the lambs, of thewheat, of the hay-corps, of the ploughing on the eight acres where theSwedish turnips were to go. He would know what corn went to the mill,what mutton to the house. The bounds-fence that Farmer Bache hadneglected was not forgotten, nor the young colt that he had decided totake against Farmer Price's arrears, nor the lease for lives thatinvolved a knotty point of which he proved himself to be in completepossession.

  Indeed, he showed himself indomitable, the old heart in him stillstrong; so that neither the shock that he had borne, nor the pain thathe had suffered, nor the possibility of permanent blindness which theycould not wholly hide from him, sufficed to subdue or unman him.

  Only in one or two things was a change apparent. He reverted moreoften to an older and ruder form of speech familiar to him when Georgethe Third was young, but which of late he had only used when talkingwith his tenants. He said "Dunno you do this!" and "I wunt ha' that!"used "ship" for sheep, and "goold" for gold, called Thomas a "gallusbad rascal," and the like.

  And in another and more important point he was changed. For eyes hemust now depend on someone, and though he showed that he liked to haveJos about him and bore with her when the Pea-hen's fussiness drove himto 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'sArthur?" a score of times a day. Arthur must come, must go, must beever at his elbow. He must check such and such an account, see theoverseers about such an one, speak to the constable about another, gointo Aldersbury about the lease. Even when Arthur was absent theSquire's thoughts ran on him, and often he would mutter "Good lad!Good lad!" when he thought himself alone.

  It was a real _bouleversement_, but Josina, supposing that Arthur hadsaved her father's life at the risk of his own, and had then added tohis merit by recovering the lost money, found it natural enough. Forthe full details of the robbery had never been told to her. "Betterleave it alone, Jos," Arthur had said when she had again shown adesire to know more. "It was a horrid business and you won't want todream of it. Another minute and that d--d villain would have--butthere, I'd advise you to leave it alone."

  Jos, suspecting nothing, had not demurred, but on the contrary hadthought Arthur as modest as he was brave. And the doctor, with an eyeto his patient's well-being, had taken the same view. "Put noquestions to him," he said, "and don't talk to him about it. Timeenough to go into it by and by, when the shock's worn off. The oddsare that he will remember nothing that happened just before thescoundrel 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 thinkabout your stomach till your victuals trouble you."

  So Josina knew no particulars except that Arthur had saved his uncle'slife, and Clement--she shuddered as she thought of it--had come up intime to be of service. And no one at Garth knew more. But, knowing somuch, it was not surprising to her that Arthur should be restored tofavor, and, lately forbidden the house, should now rule it as amaster. And clearly Arthur, also, found the position natural, soeasily did he fall into it. He was up and down the old shallowstairs--which the Squire, true to the fashions of his youth, had nevercarpeted--a dozen times a day. He was as often in and out of hisuncle's bedroom, or sitting on the deep window-seat on whichgenerations of mothers had sunned their babes; and all this with alaugh and a cheery word that wondrously brightened the sick room.Alert, quick, serviceable, and willing to take any responsibility, hemade himself a favorite with all. Even Calamy, who shook his head overevery improvement in the Squire, and murmured much of the "old lampflickering before it went out," grew hopeful in his presence. MissPeacock adored him. He put Josina's nose out of joint.

  Of the young fellow, whose moodiness had of late perplexed hiscompanions in the bank, not a trace remained. Had they seen him as hewas now they might have been tempted to think that a weight had beenlifted from him. But he seemed, for the time, to have forgotten thebank. He rarely mentioned the Ovingtons.

  There was one at Garth, however, who had not forgotten either the bankor the Ovingtons; and proved it presently to Arthur's surprise. "Jos,"said the Squire one afternoon. And when she had replied that she wasthere, "Where is Arthur?"

  "I think he has just come in, sir."

  "Prop me up. And send him to me. Do you leave us."

  She went, wondering a little for she had not been dismissed before.She sent Arthur, who, after his usual fashion, scaled the stairs atthree bounds. He found the old man sitting up in the shadow of thecurtains, a grotesque figure with his bandaged head. The air of theroom was not so much musty as ancient, savoring of worm-eaten wood andlong decayed lavender, and linen laid by in presses. On each side ofthe drab tester hung a dim flat portrait, faded and melancholy, in acarved wooden frame, unglazed; below each hung a sampler. "You sentfor me, sir?"

  "Ay. When's that money due?"

  The question was so unexpected that for a moment Arthur did not takeit in. Then the blood rushed to his face. "My mother's money, sir?"

  "What else? What other money is there, that's due? I forget things butI dunno forget that."

  "You don't forget much, sir," Arthur replied cheerfully. "But there'sno hurry about that."

  "When?"

  "Well, in two months from the twenty-first, sir. But there is not theleast hurry."

  "This is the seventeenth?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, I'll pay and ha' done with it. But I'll ha' to sell stock. EastIndia Stock it is. What are they at, lad?"

  "Somewhere about two hundred and seventy odd, I think, sir."

  "And how do you sell 'em?" The Squire knew a good deal about buyingstock but little about selling it, and he winced as he put thequestion. But he bore the pang gallantly, for had not the boy earnedhis right to the money and to his own way? Ay, and earned it by aservice as great as one man could perform for another? For the Squirehad no more reason than those about him to doubt that he owed his lifeto his nephew. He had found him beside his bed when he had recoveredhis senses, and putting together this and certain words which hadfallen from others, and adding his own hazy impressions of thehappenings of the night, and of the young man on whose shoulder he hadleant, he had never questioned the fact. "How do you go about to sell'em?" he repeated. "I suppose you know?"

  "Oh, yes, sir, it's my business," Arthur replied. "You have to get atransfer--they are issued at the India House. You've only to sign itbefore two witnesses. It is quite simple, sir."

  "Well, I can do that. Do you see to it, lad."

  "You wouldn't wish to do it through Ovington's?"

  "No!" the Squire rapped out. "Do it yourself. And lose no time. Writeat once."

  "Very well, sir. I suppose you have the certificates?"

  "'Course I have," annoyed. "Isn't the stock mine?"

  "Very good, sir. I'll see to it."

  "Well, see to it. And, mark ye, when you're in Aldersbury see Welshes,and tell them I'm waiting for that lease of lives. I signed theagreement for the new lease six
weeks ago and I should ha' had thelease by now. Stir 'em up, and say I must have it. The longer I'mwaiting the longer the bill will be! I know 'em, damn 'em, thoughWelshes are not the worst."

  When he had settled this he wanted a letter written, and Arthur satdown at the oaken bureau that stood between the windows, its fadedgreen lining stained with the ink of a century and its pigeon-holescrammed with receipts and sample-bags. While he wrote his thoughtswere busy with the matter that they had just discussed, but it was notuntil he found himself standing at a window outside the room, staringwith unseeing eyes over the green vale, that he brought his thoughtsto a head, and knew that even at the eleventh hour he hesitated.

  Yes, he hesitated. The thing that he had so much desired, that hadpresented itself to him in such golden hues, that had dazzled hisambition and absorbed his mind, was within his grasp now, ready to begarnered--and yet he hesitated. Ovington was a just man and beyonddoubt would release him and cancel the partnership agreement, if hedesired to have it cancelled. And he was very near to desiring it atthis moment.

  For he saw now that there were other things to be garnered--Garth, itsbroad acres, its fine rent-roll, the old man's savings, Josina. Secureof the Squire's favor he had but to stretch out his hand, and allthese things might be his; might certainly be his if he gave up thebank and his prospects there. That step, if he took it, would removehis 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 thepast--for he would no longer need the five thousand--a thing whichtroubled his conscience and harassed him when he lay awake at night.It would erase that blot, it would make all clean behind him, and itwould at the same time remove the impalpable barrier that had risenbetween him and his mother.

  It was still in his power to do all this. A word would do it. He hadonly to go back to the Squire and tell him that he had changed hismind, that he no longer wanted the money, and was not going into thebank.

  He hesitated, standing at the window, looking on the green vale andthe hillside beyond it. Yes, he might do it. But what if he repentedlater? And what security had he for those other things? His unclemight live for years, long years, might live to quarrel with him anddiscard him. Did not the proverb say that it was ill-work waiting fordead men's shoes? And Josina? Doubtless he might win Josina, for thewooing; he had no doubt about that. But he was not sure that he wantedJosina.

  He decided at last that the question might wait. Until he had writtenthe letter to the brokers, until then, at any rate, either course wasopen to him. He went downstairs. In the wainscoted hall, small andsquare, with a high narrow window on each side of the door, his motherand Josina were sitting on one of the window seats. The door stoodopen, the spring air and the sunshine poured in. "I'm telling her thatshe's not looking well," his mother said, as he joined them.

  "She spends too much time in that room," he answered. Then, after amoment's thought, rattling the money in his fob, "Is Farmer comingto-day?"

  "No." The girl spoke listlessly. "I don't think he is."

  "He's made a wonderful recovery," his mother observed.

  "Yes--if it's a real recovery."

  "At any rate, the doctor hopes that he may come downstairs in tendays. And then, I'm afraid, we shall have Josina to nurse."

  The girl protested that she was well, quite well. But her heavy eyesand the shadows under them belied her words.

  "Well, I'm off to town," he said, "I have to see Welshes for him."

  He left them, and ten minutes later he was on the road to Aldersbury,still undecided, still uncertain what course he would pursue, and atone moment accusing himself of a weakness that deserved the contemptof every strong man, at another praising moderation and a countrylife. Had he had eyes and ears for the things about him as he rode, hemight have found much to support the latter view. The cawing of rooks,the murmur of wood-doves, the scents of late spring filled the balmyair. The sky was pure blue, and beneath it the pastures shone yellowwith buttercups. Tree and field, bank and hedge-row rioted in freshestgreen, save where the oak wood, slow to change and careless offashion, clung to its orange garb, or the hawthorn stood out, a globeof snow. The cuckoo and the early corncrake told of coming summer, andbehind 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 thedelight of the eye and the spring-tide of all growing things wouldhave found ground to rejoice, whatever his trouble.

  But Arthur, wrapt in his own thoughts, barely noticed these things. Herode with his eyes fixed on his horse's ears, and only roused himselfwhen he saw the very man whom he wished to see coming to meet him. Itwas Dr. Farmer, in the mahogany-topped boots, the frilled shirt, andthe old black coat--shaped as are our dress coats but buttoned tightlyround the waist--which the dust of a dozen summers and every road inthe district had whitened.

  "Hallo, doctor!" Arthur cried as they met. "Are you going up to thehouse to-day?"

  "No, Mr. Bourdillon. But I can if necessary. How is he?"

  "That is what I want you to tell me. One can't talk freely at thehouse and I have a reason for wishing to know. How is he, doctor?"

  "Do you mean----"

  "Has this really shaken him? Will he be the same man again?"

  "I see." Farmer rubbed his chin with the horn-handle of hisriding-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 littlegouty--but tough. Tough! You never know, of course. There may be someharm we haven't detected, but I should say that he had a good fewyears of life in him yet."

  "Ah!"

  "Of course, an unusual recovery--from such injuries. And I say nothingabout the sight. I'm not hopeful of that."

  "Well," said Arthur. "I'll tell you why I asked. There's a questionarisen about a lease for lives--his is one. But you won't talk, ofcourse."

  Farmer nodded. He found it quite natural. Leases for lives were stillcommon, and doctors were often consulted as to the value of liveswhich survived or which it was proposed to insert. With another wordor two they parted and Arthur rode on.

  But he no longer doubted. To wait for eight or ten years, dependent onthe whims of an arbitrary and crotchety old man? No! Only in a momentof imbecility could he have dreamed of resigning for this, the goldenopportunities that the new world, opening before him, offered to allwho had the courage to seize them. He had been mad to think of it, andnow he was sane. Garth was worth a mass. He might have served a yearor two for it. But seven, or it might be ten? No. Besides, why shouldhe 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 toexploit the other? He had his foot in at Garth and he was no fool, hecould make himself useful. Already, he was well aware, he had madehimself liked.

  It was noon when he rode into Aldersbury, the town basking in thefirst warmth of the year, the dogs lying stretched in the sunshine.And he was in luck, for, having met Farmer, he now met Frederick Welshcoming down Maerdol. The lawyer, honestly concerned for his oldfriend, was urgent in inquiry, and when he had heard the news, "ThankGod!" he said. "I'm as pleased to hear that as if I'd made a ten-poundnote! Aldshire without the Squire--things would be changing, indeed!"

  Arthur told him what the Squire had said about the lease. But that wasanother 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 officeis full, and more haste less speed. We'll let him know when it'sready." Like all old firms he was dilatory. There was no hurry. All ingood time.

  They parted, and Arthur rode up the street, alert and smiling, andmany eyes followed him--followed him with envy. He worked at the bank,he had his rooms on the Town Walls, he chatted freely with thistownsman 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 hadrisen and was rich, but he came as they came, of common clay. But thisyoung man, riding up the street in the sunshine, smil
ing and noddingthis 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 moneymight fly from him, but he would still be a Griffin, one of the castethat ruled as well as reigned, that held in its grasp power andpatronage. They looked after him with envy.