Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  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.

  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.

  “‘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.”

  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.

  “Well, you ought to!”

  “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!”

  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.”

  “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!”

  Sir Charles changed color. “My good name?” he said, bristling feebly. “I don’t understand you, Griffin.”

  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 — —”

  “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?”

  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.”

  “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.”

  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 — —”

  “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 — —”

  “But damme if he shall insult us!” Acherley cried, trembling with passion.

  “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 — —”

  “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?”

  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!”

  “We’ll see about that,” Acherley answered, bubbling with rage. “There are more ways than one of cooking a goose.”

  “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.”

  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.

  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!

  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?

  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 so
me 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.

  “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?”

  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.

  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?”

  The Squire snapped at him. “Morning? Rubbish, man! Put it in.” He made room for the bag at his feet.

  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 — —”

  “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?”

  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.

  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.

  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.

  CHAPTER XIII

  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.

  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.

  “Can I have a word with you, sir?”

  “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?”

  “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.”

  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.

  “No,” Rodd said gravely. “If nothing more follows, sir.”

  “Why should anything follow? I know his reasons.”

  “But the town doesn’t. And if it gets about, sir?”

  “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?”

  “We’ve a lot of notes out, sir!”

  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.”

  “And we’ve a lot of money out — that could not be got in in a hurry, sir.”

  “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.”

  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.”

  “Well secured.”

  “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.”

  “We hold the lease of his mill.”

  “But you don’t want to run the mill!” Rodd replied, putting his finger on the weak point.

  The banker reflected. “That’s the worst account we have. The worst, isn’t it?”

  “Mr. Acherley’s, sir.”

  “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?”

  “Mr. Griffin — —”

  “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?”

  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.

  But Rodd held his ground, and the banker explained.

  “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.

  “I was speaking generally,” Rodd muttered. He looked sullen.

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “I stand corrected,” he said. “I didn’t know that Rodd ever went beyond his ledgers.”

  “Oh, he’s quite right to speak his mind. We are all in the same boat — though we do not all steer.”

  “Well, I’m glad of that, sir.”

  “Still,” mildly, “it is a good thing to have an opinion.”

  “If it be worth anything.”

  “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?�
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  “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?”

  Betty dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, I am flattered.”

  “Betty, you’ve no business here,” her father said. “You mustn’t stop unless you can keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “But what has happened?” she asked, looking around in wonder.

  “Mr. Griffin has withdrawn his account.”

  “And Rodd,” Arthur added, with more heat than the occasion seemed to demand, “thinks that we had better put up the shutters!”

  “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?”

  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.

  “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.”

  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.”

  “There’s been a universal rise,” Rodd muttered.

  “In a moment? Without warning?”

  “No, but — —”

  “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!”