CHAPTER XXXVII
That the Squire suffered was certain; whether he suffered more deeplyin pocket or in pride, whether he felt more poignantly the loss of hishoarded thousands or the dishonor that Arthur had done to his name,even Josina could not say. His ruling passions through life had beenpride of race and the desire to hoard, and it is certain that sorelywounded in both points he suffered as acutely as age with itsindurated feelings can suffer. But after the first outburst, after theirrepressible cry of anguish which the discovery of his nephew'streachery had wrung from him, he buried himself in silence. He satmorose and unheeding, his hands clasping his stick, his sightless eyesstaring at the fire. He gave no sign, and sought no sympathy. He wasimpenetrable. Even Josina would not guess what were his thoughts.
Nor did she try to learn. The misfortune was too great, the injury onone side beyond remedy, and the girl had the sense to see this. Shehung over him, striving to anticipate his wishes and by mute signs ofaffection to give him what comfort she might. But she was too wise totrouble him with words or to attempt to administer directly to a mindwhich to her was a mystery, darkened by the veil of years thatseparated them.
She was sure of one thing, however, that he would not wish anything tobe said in the house; and she said nothing. But she soon found thatshe 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 aweek. She had usually some errand to put forward, and her pretext onthis occasion was the Squire's Christmas list. Near as he was, hethought much of old customs, and he would not for anything haveomitted to brew a cask of October for his servants' Christmasdrinking, or to issue the doles of beef to the men and of blankets tothe women which had gone forth from the Great House since the reign ofQueen Anne. Mrs. Bourdillon was never unwilling to gain a littlereflected credit, or to pay in that way for an hour's job-work, sothat there were few years in which she did not contrive to graft aname or two on the list.
That was apparently her business this afternoon. But Josina, whosefaculties were quickened by the pity which she felt for theunconscious 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, shelet her eyes wander, she broke off and began again. By and by as thestrain increased she let her anxiety appear, and at last, "I wish youwould tell me," she said, "what is the matter with Arthur. He is notopen 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 onSunday, and I am sure you know. Is there"--and Josina saw withcompassion that her mittened hands were trembling--"is thereanything--wrong?"
The girl had her answer ready, for she had already decided what shewould say. "I am afraid that they are anxious about the bank," shesaid. "There is what they call a 'run' upon it."
The explanation was serious enough, but, strange to say, Mrs.Bourdillon looked relieved. "Oh! And I suppose that they all have tobe there?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And that's all?"
"I am afraid that that is enough."
"But--but you don't mean that there may be a--a failure?"
"I hope not. Indeed, I hope not. But people are so silly! They thinkthat they can all have their money out at once. And of course," Josinacontinued, speaking from a height of late-acquired knowledge, "a banklends its money out and cannot get it in again in a minute. But I'veno doubt that it will be all right. Mr. Ovington is very clever."
Mrs. Bourdillon sighed. "That's bad," she said. And she seemed tothink 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 knowwhat we should do!" But, all the same, Josina was clear that this wasnot the fear that her visitor had had in her mind when she entered theroom. "Nor why Arthur was so set upon putting it in," the good ladycontinued. "For goodness knows," bridling, "we were never in trade.Mr. Bourdillon's grandfather--but that was in the West Indies andquite different. I never heard anyone say it wasn't. So where Arthurgot it from I am sure I don't know. And, oh dear, your father was soangry about it, he will never forgive us if it is lost."
"I don't think that you need be afraid," Josina said, as lightly asshe could. "It's not lost yet, you know. And of course we must not saya word to anyone. If people thought that we were afraid----"
"We? But I can't see"--Mrs. Bourdillon spoke with sudden sharpness,"what you have to do with it?"
Josina blushed. "Of course we are all interested," she said.
Mrs. Bourdillon saw the blush. "You haven't--you and Arthur--made itup?" she ventured.
Josina shook her head.
"But why not? Now--now that he's in trouble, Josina?"
"I couldn't! I couldn't, indeed."
The mother's face fell, and she sighed. She stared for awhile at thefaded carpet. When she looked up again, the old anxiety peeped fromher eyes. "And you don't think that--there's anything else?" sheasked, as she prepared to rise.
"I am afraid that that is enough--to make them all anxious!"
But later, when the other was gone, Josina wondered. What had arousedthe mother's misgivings? What had brought that look of alarm to hereyes? Arthur's sudden departure might have vexed her, but it couldhardly have done more, unless he had dropped some hint, or she hadother grounds for suspicion? But that was impossible, Josina decided.And she dismissed the thought.
She went slowly upstairs. After all she had troubles enough of herown. She had her father to think of--and Clement. They were her world,hemispheres which, though her whole happiness depended upon it, shecould hardly hope to bring together, divided as they were by an oceanof prejudice. How her father now regarded Clement, whether his hatredof the name were in the slightest degree softened, whether under theblow which had stunned him, he thought of her lover at all, orremembered that it was he, and not Arthur, who had saved his life, shehad no notion.
Alas! it would be but natural if the name of Ovington were morehateful to him than ever. He would attribute--she felt that he didattribute Arthur's fall to them. He had said that it was the poison oftrade, their trade, their cursed trade, which had entered his veins,and, contaminating the honest Griffin blood, had destroyed him. It wasthey who had ruined him!
And then, as if the stain were not enough, it was from them again thatit could not be hid. They knew of it, they must know of it. There mustbe interviews about it, dealings about it, dealings with them. Theymight feign horror of it, they who in the Squire's eyes were the realcause 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 herfather's mortification, it was that the Ovingtons were involved in thematter.
With every stair, the girl's heart sank lower. Once more in herfather's room, she watched him. But she was careful not to let hersolicitude appear, and though she was assiduous for his comfort andconduced 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 hesighed, but it was only when she reminded him that it was his hour forbed that he let a glimpse of his feelings appear.
"Ay," he muttered, "I'm better there! Better there, girl!" And withone hand on his stick and the other on his chair he raised himself upby his arms as old men do. "I can hide my head there."
She lent him her shoulder across the room and strove by the dumb showof her love to give him what comfort she might, what sympathy. Buttears choked her, and she thought with anguish that he was conquered.The unbreakable old man was broken. Shame and not the loss of hismoney had broken him.
It would not have surprised her had he kept his bed next day. Buteither there was still some spring of youth in him, or old age hadhardened him, for he rose as usual, though the effort was apparent. Heate his breakfast in gloomy silence, and about an hour before noon hedeclared it his will to go out. Josina doubted if he was fit for it,but whatever the Squire willed his womenfolk acce
pted, and she offeredto go with him. He would not have her, he would have Calamy--perhapsbecause Calamy knew nothing. "Take me to the stable," he said. AndJosina thought "He is going to see the old mare--to bid her farewell."
It certainly was to his old favorite that he went, and he stood forsome minutes in her box, feeling her ears and passing his hand betweenher forelegs to learn if she were properly cleaned; while the greysmelled delicately about his head, and nuzzled with her lips in hispockets.
"Ay," said Calamy after a while, "she were a trig thing in her time,but it's past. And what are the legs of a horse when it's a race wi'ruin?"
"What's that?" The Squire let his stick fall to the ground. "What doyou mean?" he asked, and straightened himself, resting his hand on themare's withers.
"They be all trotting and cantering," Calamy continued with zest, ashe picked up the stick, "trotting and cantering into town sincemorning, 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 therace."
"What do you mean?" the Squire growled. Something of his old asperityhad come back to him.
"Mean, master? Why, that Ovington's got the shutters up, or as good.Their notes is no better than last year's leaves, I'm told. And allthe 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 thetownsfolk will have left anything for them! Watkins o' the Griffin,he's three fi-pun notes of theirs, and he was away before it waslight, and Blick the pig-killer and the overseer with him, in histax-cart. And parson he's gone on his nag--trust Parson for everthinking o' the moth and rust except o' Sunday! They've tithe money ofhis. 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 shewas, I'm told! Wouldn't even stay to have the mud wiped off, and sheso particular! And there's three more of 'em started to walk it. I'mtold the road is black with them--weavers from the Valleys and theirmissuses, every sort of 'em with a note in his fist! There was two ofthem came here, wanted to see Mr. Arthur--thought he could dosomething for 'em."
"D----n Mr. Arthur!" said the Squire. But inwardly he was thinking,"There goes the last chance of my money! A drowning man don't thinkwhether the branch he can reach is clean or dirty! But there never wasa chance. That young chap came to bamboozle me and gain time, andthat's their play." Aloud, "Give me my stick," he said. "Who toldyou--this rubbish?"
"Why, it's known at the Cross! The rooks be cawing it. Ovington isover to Bullon or some-such foreign place, these two days! And Dean hewon't be long after him! They're talking of him, too. Ay, Parsonshould ha' thought of the poor instead of laying up where thievesbreak through and steal. But we're all things of a day!"
"Take me to the house," said the Squire.
"Shadows as pass! Birds i' the smoke!" continued the irrepressibleCalamy, 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 withhim, and 'Where's that d--d young banker?' he asks. Thinks I, ifthe Squire heard you, you'd get a flip o' the tongue you wouldn'tlike! But he's a random-tandem talker as ever was! And"--haltingabruptly--"by gum, I expect here's another for Mr. Arthur! There'ssome one drove up the drive now, and gone to the front door."
"Take me in! Take me in!" said the Squire peevishly, his heart verybitter within him. For this was worse than anything that he hadforeseen. His twelve thousand pounds was gone, but even thatloss--monstrous, incredible, heart-breaking loss as it was--was notthe worst. Ruin was abroad, stalking the countryside, driving rich andpoor, the widow and the orphan to one bourne, and his name--his namethrough his nephew--would be linked with it, and dragged through themire by it, no man so poor that he might not have a fling at it. Hehad held his head high, he had refused to stoop to such things, hehad condemned others of his class, Woosenham and Acherley, and theirlike, because they had lowered themselves to the traffic of themarket-place. But now--now, wherever men met and bragged of theirlosses and cursed their deluders, the talk would be of his nephew! Hisnephew! They might even say that he had had a share in it himself, andcanvass and discuss him, and hint that he was not above robbing hisneighbors--but only above owning to the robbery!
This was worse, far worse than the worst that he had foreseen when thelad had insisted on going his own way. Worse, far worse! Even hissense of Arthur's dishonor, even his remembrance of the vile, wicked,reckless act which the young man had committed, faded beside theprospect before him; beside the certainty that wherever, in shop ortavern, men cursed the name of Ovington, or spoke of those who hadruined the country-side, his name would come up and his share in thematter be debated.
Ay, he would be mixed up in it! He could not but be mixed up in it!His nephew! His nephew! He hung so heavily on Calamy's arm, thatthe servant for once held his tongue in alarm. They went into thehouse--the house that until now dishonor had never touched, thoughhard times had often straitened it, and more than once in thegenerations poverty had menaced it.
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