Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “But surely,” Arthur protested, “where a bank is able to show that it is solvent?”

  “I argued it with them. I told them that I agreed that the cure was to draw in, but that they should have entered on that path earlier; that to enter on it now suddenly and without discrimination after a period of laxity was the way to bring on the worst disaster the country had ever known. That to give help where it could be shown that moderate help would suffice, to support the sound and let the rotten go was the proper policy, and would limit the trouble. But I could not persuade them. They would not take the best bills, would in fact take nothing, discount nothing, would hardly advance even on government securities. When I left them — —”

  “Yes?” The banker had paused, his face betraying emotion.

  “I heard a rumor about Pole’s.”

  “Pole’s? Pole’s!” Arthur cried, astounded; and he turned a shade paler. “Sir Peter Pole and Co.? You don’t mean it, sir? Why, if they go scores of country banks will go! Scores! They are agents for sixty or seventy, aren’t they?”

  The banker nodded. His weariness was more and more apparent. “Yes, Pole’s,” he said gloomily. “And I heard it on good authority. The truth is — it has not extended to the public yet, but in the banks there is panic already. They do not know where the first crash will come, or who may be affected. And any moment the scare may spread to the public. When it does it will run through the country like wild-fire. It will be here in twenty-four hours. It will shake even Dean’s. It will shake us down. My God! when I think that for the lack of ten or twelve thousand pounds — which a year ago we could have raised three times over with the stroke of a pen — just for the lack of that a sound business like this — —”

  He broke off, unable to control his voice. He could not continue. Clement went out softly, and for a minute or so there was silence in the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock, the noise of wheels in the street, the voices of passers-by — voices that drifted in and died away again, as the speakers walked by on the pavement. Opposite the bank, at the corner of the Market Place, two dogs were fighting before a barber’s shop. A woman drove them off with an umbrella. Her “Shoo! Shoo!” was audible in the silence of the room.

  Before either spoke again, Clement returned. He bore a decanter of port, a glass, a slice of cake. “D’you take this, sir,” he said. “You are worn out. And never fear,” cheerily, “we shall pull through yet, sir. There will surely be some who will see that it will pay better to help us than to pull us down.”

  The banker smiled at him, but his hand shook as he poured out the wine. “I hope so,” he said. “But we must buckle to. It will try us all. A run once started — have there been any withdrawals?”

  They told him what had happened and described the state of feeling in the town. Rodd had been going about, gauging it quietly. He could do so more easily, and with less suspicion, than the partners. People were more free with him.

  Ovington held his glass before him by the stem and looked thoughtfully at it. “That reminds me,” he said, “Rodd had some money with us — three hundred on deposit, I think. He had better have it. It will make no difference one way or the other, and he cannot afford to lose it.”

  Arthur looked doubtful. “Three hundred,” he said, “might make the difference.”

  “Well, it might, of course,” the banker admitted wearily. “But he had better have it. I should not like him to suffer.”

  “No,” Clement said. “He must have it. Shall I see to it now? The sooner the better.”

  No one demurred, and he left the room. When he had gone Arthur rose and walked to the window. He looked out. Presently he turned. “As to that twelve thousand?” he said. “That you said would pull us through? Is there no way of getting it? Can’t you think of any way, sir?”

  “I am afraid not,” Ovington answered, shaking his head. “I see no way. I’ve strained our resources, I’ve tried every way. I see no way unless — —”

  “Yes, sir? Unless?”

  “Unless — and I am afraid that there is no chance of that — your uncle could be induced to come forward and support us — in your interest.”

  Arthur laughed aloud, but there was no mirth in the sound. “If that is your hope, if you have any idea of that kind, sir,” he said, “I am afraid you don’t know him yet. I know nothing less likely.”

  “I am afraid that you are right. Still, your future is at stake. I am sorry that it is so, lad, but there it is. And if it could be made clear to him that he ran no risk?”

  “But could it? Could it?”

  “He would run no risk.”

  “But could he be brought to see that?” Arthur spoke sharply, almost with contempt. “Of course he could not! If you knew what his attitude is towards banks generally, and bankers, you would see the absurdity of it! He hates the very name of Ovington’s.”

  The other yielded. “Just so,” he said. Even to him the idea was unpalatable. “It was only a forlorn hope, a wild idea, lad, and I’ll say no more about it. It comes to this, that we must depend on ourselves, show a brave face, and hope for the best.”

  But Arthur, though he had scoffed at the suggestion which Ovington had made, could not refrain from turning it over in his mind. He had courage enough for anything, and it was not the lack of that which hindered him from entertaining the project. The storm which was gathering ahead, and which threatened the shipwreck of his cherished ambition and his dearest hopes, was terrible to him, and to escape from its fury he would have faced any man, had that been all. But that was not all. He had other interests. If he applied to the Squire and the Squire took it amiss, as it was pretty certain that he would, then not only would no good be done and no point be gained, but the life-boat, on which he might himself escape, if things came to the worst, would be shipwrecked also.

  For that life-boat consisted in the Squire’s influence with Josina. The Squire’s word might still prevail with the girl, silly and unpractical as she was. It was a chance; no more than a chance, Arthur recognized that. But at Garth the old man’s will had always been law, and if he could be brought to put his foot down, Arthur could not believe that Josina would resist him. And amid the wreck of so many hopes and so many ambitions, every chance, even a desperate chance, was of value.

  But if he was to retain the Squire’s favor, if he was to fall back on his influence, he must do nothing to forfeit that favor. Certainly he must not hazard it by acting on a suggestion as ill-timed and hopeless as that which the banker had put forward. Not to save the bank, not to save Ovington, not to save anyone! The more, as he felt sure that the application would do none of these things.

  Ovington did not know the old man. He did, and he was not going to sink his craft, crank and frail as it already was, by taking in passengers.

  CHAPTER XXV

  While the leaven of uneasiness, fermenting into fear, and liable at any moment to breed panic, worked in Aldersbury, turning the sallow bilious and the sanguine irritable — while the contents of the mail-bag and the Gazette were awaited with growing apprehension, and inklings of the truth, leaking out, were turning to water the hearts of those who depended on the speculators, life at Garth was proceeding after its ordinary fashion. No word of what was impending, or might be impending, travelled so far. No echo of the alarm that assailed the ears of terrified men, forced on a sudden to face unimagined disaster, broke the silence of the drab room, where the Squire sat brooding, or of the garden where Josina spent hours, pacing the raised walk and looking down on that strip of sward where the water skirted the Thirty Acres wood.

  That strip of sward where she had met him, that view from the garden were all that now remained to her of Clement, all that proved to her that the past was not a dream; and they did much to keep hope alive in her breast, and to hold her firm in her resolve. So precious indeed were the associations they recalled, that while, with the hardness of a woman who loves elsewhere, she felt little sympathy with Arthur in his disappointment, sh
e actively resented the fact that he had chosen to address her there, and so had profaned the one spot, on which with some approach to nearness, she could dream of Clement.

  Living a life so retired, and with little to distract her, she gave herself to long thoughts of her lover, and lived and lived again the stolen moments which she had spent with him. It was on these that she nourished her courage and strengthened her will; for, bred to submission and educated to obey, it was no small thing that she contemplated. Nor could she have raised herself to the pitch of determination which she had reached had she not gained elevation from the thought that the matter now rested in her own hands, and that all Clement’s trust and all his dependence were on her. She must be true to him or she would fail him indeed. Honor no less than love required her to be firm, let her timid heart beat as it might.

  On wet days she sat in the Dutch summer-house, the squat tower with the pyramidal roof and fox-vane on top, which flanked the raised walk, and had, when viewed from below, the look of a bastion. But the day after Ovington’s return happened to be fine. It was one of those days of mild sunshine and soft air, which occur in late autumn or early winter and, by reason of their rarity, linger in the memory; and she was walking in the garden when, an hour before noon, Calamy came to tell her that “the master” was asking for her. “And very peevish,” he added, shaking his head as he stalked away under the apple-trees, “as he’s like to be, more and more till the end.”

  She overtook the man in the hall. “Is he alone, Calamy?” she asked.

  “Ay, but your A’nt’s been with him. He’s for going up the hill.”

  “Up the hill?”

  “Ay, he’s one that will walk while he can. But the next time, I’m thinking,” shaking his head again, “it won’t be his feet he’ll go out on.”

  “Mrs. Bourdillon has gone?”

  “Ay, miss, she’s gone — as we’re all going,” despondently, “sooner or later. She brought some paper, for I heard her reading to him. It would be his will, I expect.”

  Josina thought the supposition most unlikely, for if her father was close with his money he was at least as close with his affairs. As long as she could remember he had held himself in a crabbed reserve, he had moved a silent master in a dependent world, even his rare outbursts of anger had rather emphasized than broken his reticence.

  And since the attack which had consigned him to darkness he had grown even more taciturn. He had not repelled sympathy; he had rendered it impossible by ignoring the existence of a cause for it. While all about him had feared for his sight and, as hope faded, had dreaded the question which they believed to be trembling on his lips, he had either never hoped, or, drawing his own conclusions, had abandoned hope. At any rate, he had never asked. Instead he sat — when Arthur was not there to enliven him or Fewtrell to report to him — wrapped in his own thoughts, too proud to complain or too insensible to feel, and silent. Whatever he thought, whatever he feared, he hid all behind an impenetrable mask; and whether pride or patience or resignation were behind that mark, none knew. Complaint, pity, sympathy, these, he seemed to say, were for the herd. He had ruled; darkness and helplessness had come upon him, but he was still the master.

  Arthur might think that he failed, but those who were always about him saw few signs of it. To-day, when Josina entered his room she found him on his feet, one hand resting on the table, the other on his cane. “Get your hat and cloak,” he said. “I am going up the hill.”

  So far his longest excursion had been to the mill, and Josina thought that she ought to remonstrate. “Won’t it be too far, sir?” she said.

  “Do as I say, girl. And tell Calamy to bring my hat and coat.”

  She obeyed him, and a minute later they left the house by the yard door. He walked with a firm step, his hand sometimes on her shoulder, sometimes on her arm; but aware how easily she might forget to warn him of an obstacle, or to allow for his passage, she accompanied him with her heart in her mouth. Yet she owned a certain sweetness in his dependence on her, in the weight of his hand on her shoulder, in his nearness.

  Before they left the yard he halted. “Look in the pig-styes,” he said. “Tell me if that idle dog has cleaned them?”

  She went and looked, and assured him that they were in their usual state. He grunted, and they moved on. Passing beneath the gable end of the summer-house they descended the steep, rutted lane which led to the mill. “The first day of the year was such a day,” the Squire muttered, and raised his face that the sun might fall upon it.

  When they came to the narrow bridge beside the mill, with its roughened causeway eternally shaken by the roar and wet with the spray of the overshot wheel, she trembled. There was no parapet, and the bridge was barely wide enough to permit them to pass abreast. But he showed no fear, he stepped on to it firmly, and on the crown he halted. “Look what water is in the pound,” he said.

  “Had I not better wait — till you are over, sir?”

  “Do as I say, girl! Do as I say!” He struck his cane impatiently on the stones.

  She left him unwillingly, and more than once looked back, but always to see him standing, gaunt and slightly stooping, his sightless eyes bent on the groaning, laboring wheel, on the silvery cascade that poured over its black flanges, on the fragment of rainbow that glittered where the sun shot the spray with colors. He was seeing it all, as he had seen it a thousand times: in childhood, when he had lingered and wondered before it, fascinated by the rush and awed by the thunder of the falling water; in youth, when with gun or rod he had just glanced at it in passing; in manhood, when it had come to be one of the amenities of the property, and he had measured its condition with an owner’s eye; ay, and in later life, when to see it had been rather to call up memories, than to form new impressions. Now, he would never see it again with his eyes, and he knew it. And yet he had never seen it more clearly than he did to-day, as he stood in darkness, with the cold breath of the water-fall on his cheek.

  She grasped something of this as she hurried back, and satisfied as to the pound he went on. They ascended the lane which, on the farther side of the brook, led to the highway, and crossing the road began to climb the rough track, that wound up through that part of the covert which was above the road.

  Here and there a clump of hollies, a spreading yew, a patch of young beech to which the leaves still clung, blocked the view, but for the most part the eye passed unobstructed athwart trees stripped of foliage, and disclosing here a huge boulder, there a pile of moss-grown stones. A climb of a third of a mile, much of it steep, brought them without mishap — though a hundred times she trembled lest he should trip — to the abrupt glacis of sward that fringed, and in places ran up into, the limestone face.

  It was broken by huge stones, precariously stayed in their descent, or by outcrops of rock from which sprang slender birches, light, graceful, their white bark shining.

  “Are we clear of the wood?” he asked, lifting his face to meet the breeze.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned leftwards. “There’s a flat stone with a holly to north of it. D’you see it? I’ll sit there.”

  She led him to it and he sat down on the stone, his stick between his knees, the sunshine on his face. She sat beside him, and as she looked over the expanse of pleasant vale and the ring of hills that compassed it about, the sense of his blindness moved her almost to tears. At their feet Garth, its red walls, its buildings and yards and policies, lay as on a plan. Beyond it, the tower of Garthmyle Church rose in the middle distance, a few thatched roofs peeping through the half-leafless trees about it. Leftwards the valley narrowed as the Welsh hills closed in, while to their right it melted into the smiling plain with its nestling villages, its rows of poplars, its shining streams. She fancied that he had been in the habit of coming to this place, and the thought that he saw no more from it now than when he sat in his room below, that he viewed nothing of the bright landscape spread beneath her own eyes, swelled her breast with pity. She could have ca
st her arms about him and wept as she strove to comfort him — could have sworn to him that while he lived her eyes should be his! Ay, she could have done this, all this — if he had been other than he was!

  Perhaps it was as well — or perhaps it was not as well — that she did not give way to the impulse. For presently in a voice as dry as usual, “Do you see the gable of Wolley’s Mill, girl? Carry your eyes right of the hill, over the coppice at the corner of Archer’s Leasow?”

  She told him that she could see it.

  “That’s two miles away. It’s the farthest I own in that direction, but there’s a slip of Acherley’s land between us and it. Now look down the valley — d’you see five poplars in a row?”

  “Yes, sir, I see them.”

  “That’s our boundary towards the town. Behind us we march with the watershed. Facing us — the boundary is the far fence of Whittall’s farm at the foot of the hills.”

  “The black and white house, sir?”

  “Ay. Well, look at it, girl. There’s five thousand acres and a bit over; and there’s two hundred and ninety people living on it — there’s barely one of them I don’t know. I’ve looked after them, but I’ve not cosseted them, and don’t you cosset them. And it’s not only the people; there’s not a field I don’t know nor a bit of coppice that I can’t see, nor a slate roof that I have not slated, and the Lord knows how much of it I’ve drained. It’s been ours, the heart of it since Queen Bess, and part of it since Mary; sometimes logged with debt, and then again cleared. I came into it logged, and I’ve cleared it. It’s come down, sometimes straight, sometimes sideways, but always in a man’s hands. Well, it will soon be in a girl’s. In two or three years, more or less, it will be yours, my girl. And do you mark what I say to you this day. You’re the heir of tail, and I couldn’t take it from you, if I would — but do you mark me!” He found her hand and gripped it so hard as to give her pain, but she would not wince. “Don’t you part with an acre of it! Not with an acre of it! Not with an acre of it! Do you hear me, girl; or I think I’ll turn in my grave! If you are bidden to do it when your son comes of age, you think of me and of this day, and don’t put your hand to it! Hold to the land, hold to the land, and they as come after you shall hold up their heads as we have held ours! It isn’t money, it isn’t land bought with money, it’s the land that’s come down, that will keep Griffins where Griffins have been. When I am gone do you mark that! Whatever betide, let ‘em say what they like, don’t you be one of those that sell their birthright, the right to govern, for a mess of pottage!”