Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  The next day, Sunday, was raw and wet. Mist blotted out the hills, andbeneath it the vale mourned. The trees dripped sadly, pools gatheredabout the roots of the beeches, the down-spouts of the eaves gurgledsoftly in the ears of those who sat near the windows. Miss Peacockalone ventured to church in the afternoon, Arthur walking with her asfar as the door, and then going on to the Cottage to have tea with hismother. Josina stayed at home in attendance on her father, but tenminutes after the others had left the house, he dismissed her with afractious word.

  She went down to the dining-room, where she could hear his summons ifhe tapped the floor. She poked up the smouldering logs, and lookedthrough the windows at the dreary scene--the day was already drawingin--then, settling herself before the fire, she opened a book. But shedid not read, indeed she hardly pretended to read, for across the pageof the Sunday volume, in black capitals, blotting out the type,forcing itself on her brain, insistent, inexorable, unavoidable, theword "When?" imprinted itself.

  Ay, when? When was she going to summon Clement, and give him leave tospeak? When was she going to keep her word, to make a clean breast ofit to her father and confront the storm, the violence of which herworst fears could not picture or exaggerate?

  "When?"

  With every day of the past fortnight the question had confronted herwith growing insistence. Now, in this idle hour, with the house silentabout her, with nothing to distract her thoughts, it rose before her,grim as the outlook. It would not be denied, it came between her andthe page, it forced itself upon her, it called for, nay, it insistedupon, an answer. When?

  There was no longer any hope that the Squire would regain his sight,no longer any fear for his general health. He was as well as he everwould be, as well able to bear the disclosure. Delay on that groundwas a plea which could no longer avail her or deceive her. Then, when?Or rather, why not now? Her conscience told her, as it had told heroften of late, that she was playing the coward, proving false to herword, betraying Clement--Clement whom she loved, and whom, craven asshe was, she feared to acknowledge.

  Then, when? Surely now, or not at all.

  Alas, the longer she dwelt on the avowal she must make, the moreappalling the ordeal appeared. Her father, indeed, had been moregentle of late; that walk on the hill had brought them closertogether, and since then he had shown himself more human. Glimpses ofsympathy, even of affection, had peeped through the chinks of hisharshness. But how difficult was the position! She must own to stolenmeetings, to underhand practices, to things disreputable; she mustproclaim, maid as she was, her love. And her love for whom? Astranger, and worse than a stranger--a nobody. Then apart from herfather's contempt for the class to which Clement belonged, and withwhich he was less in sympathy than with the peasants on his lands, hisprejudice against the Ovingtons was itself a thing to frighten her!Hardly a day passed that he did not utter some jibe at their expense,or some word that betrayed how sorely Arthur's defection rankled. Andthen his blindness--that added the last touch of deceit to herconduct, that made worse and more clandestine what had been badbefore. As she thought of it, and imagined the avowal and the way inwhich he would take it, the color left her cheeks and she shiveredwith fright. She did not know how she could do it, or how she couldlive through it. He would lose all faith in her. He would pluck fromhis heart even that affection for her which she had begun to discernunder the mask of his sternness--to discern and to cherish.

  Yet time pressed, she could no longer palter with her love, she mustbe true to Clement now or false, she must suffer for him now or playthe coward. She had given him her word. Was she to go back on it?

  Oh, never! never! she thought, and pressed her hands together. Thosespring days when she had walked with him beside the brook, when hiscoming had been sunshine and her pulses had leapt at the sound of hisfootsteps, when his eyes had lured the heart from her and the touch ofhis lips had awakened the woman in her, when she had passed whole daysand nights in sweet musings on him--oh, never!

  No, he had urged her to be brave, to be true, to be worthy of him; andshe must be. She must face all for him. And it would be but for atime. He had said that her father might separate them, and wouldseparate them: but if they were true to one another----

  "Miss! Miss Josina!"

  She turned, her dream cut short, and saw Molly, the kitchen-maid,standing in the doorway. She was surprised, for the stillness of aSunday afternoon held the house--it was the servants' hour, and one atwhich they were seldom to be found, even when wanted. "What is it?"she asked, and stood up, alarmed. "Has my father called?" He mighthave rapped, and deep in thought she might not have heard him.

  "No, miss," Molly answered--and heaven knows if Molly had an inklingof the secret, but certainly her face was bright with mischief. "Thereis a gentleman asking for you, if you please, miss. He bid me give youthis." She held out a three-cornered note.

  Josina's face burned. "A gentleman?" she faltered.

  "Yes, miss, a young gentleman," Molly answered demurely.

  Josina took the note--what else could she do?--and opened it withshaking fingers. For a moment, such was her confusion, she failed toread the few words it contained. Then she collected herself--thewords became plain: "Very urgent--forgive me and see me for tenminutes.--C."

  Very urgent? It must be urgent indeed, or, after all she had said, hewould not come to her unbidden. She hesitated, looking doubtfully andshamefacedly at Molly. But the eyes of young kitchen-maids are sharp,and probably this was not the first glimpse Molly had had of the youngmistress's love story, or of the young gentleman. "You can slip outeasy, miss," she said, "and not a soul the wiser. They are all offabout their business."

  "Where is he?"

  "He's under the garden wall, miss--down the lane."

  Jos took her courage in her hands. She snatched up a shawl from thehall-table, and with hot cheeks she went out through the back regions,Molly accompanying her as far as the yard. "I'll be about the place,miss," the girl said--if no one else was enjoying herself, she was."I'll rattle the milk-pail if--if you're wanted."

  Josina drew the shawl about her head, and went down the yard, passingon her right the old stable, which bore over its door the same date asthe table in the hall--1691. A moment, and she saw Clement waiting forher under the eaves of the Dutch summer-house, of which the sustainingwall overhung the lane, and, with the last of the opposing outhouses,formed a sort of entrance to the yard.

  She had been red enough under Molly's gaze, resenting the confederacywhich she could not avoid. But the color left her face as her eyes mether lover's, and she saw how sad and downcast he looked, and howchanged from the Clement of her meetings. He was shabby, too--he whohad always been so neat--so that even before he spoke she divined thatthere was something amiss, and knew at last, too, that there wasnothing that she would not do, no risk that she would not run, noanger or storm that she would not face for this man before her. Themother in her awoke, and longed to comfort him and shield him, to giveall for him. "Clement!" she cried, and, trembling, she held out herhands to him. "Dear Clement! What is it?"

  He took her hands and held them; and if he had taken her in his armsshe would have forgiven him and clung to him. But he did not. Heseemed even to hold her from him. "Forgive me, dear, for sending foryou," he said. "I thought to catch you going into church, but you werenot there, and there was nothing for it but this. Jos, I have badnews."

  "Bad news?" she exclaimed. "What? Don't keep me waiting, Clement! Whatbad news?"

  "The worst for me," he said. "For we must part. I have come to saygood-bye."

  "Good-bye?" Oh, it was impossible! It was not, it could not be that!"What do you mean?" she cried, and her eyes pleaded with him to takeit back. "Tell me! You cannot mean that we must part."

  "I do," he said soberly. "Something has happened, dear--something thatmust divide us. Be brave, and I will tell you."

  "You must," she said.

  He told his story--rapid
ly, in clear short phrases which he hadrehearsed many times as he covered the seven miles from Aldersbury onthis dreary errand. He told her all, that which no one else must know,that which she must not reveal. They expected a run on the bank. Theywere sure, indeed, that a run must come, and though the issue was notyet quite certain, though his father still had hope, he had, himself,no hope. Within a week he would be a poor man, little better than abeggar, dependent on his own exertions; with no single claim, nopossible pretensions to her hand, no ground on which he could appealto her father. It must be at an end between them, and he preferred tolet her know now rather than to wait until the blow had fallen. Hethought himself bound in honor to release her while he still had somefooting, some show of equality with her.

  She smiled when she had heard him out. She smiled in his face. "But ifI will not be released?" she said. And then, before he could answerher, she bade him tell her more. What was this run? What did it mean?She did not understand.

  He told her in detail, and, while he told her, they stood, twopathetic figures in the mist and rain that dripped slowly and sadlyfrom the eaves of the Dutch summerhouse. She stood, pressing her handstogether, trying to comprehend. And he hid nothing: telling her evenof the ten or twelve thousand that, did they possess it, would savethem; telling her that which had decided him to bid her farewell--anitem of news which had reached the bank on the previous evening, afterArthur had left for Garth. The great house of Poles, with a wideconnection among country banks, had closed its doors; and not onlythat, but Williams's, Ovington's agents, had followed suit within sixhours. The tidings had come by special messenger, but would be knownin the town in the morning, and would certainly cause a panic and arun on both banks. That news had been the last straw, he said. It hadpushed him to a decision. He had felt that he must give her back herword, and without the loss of a day must put it in her power to saythat there was nothing between them.

  Once and again, as he told his tale, she put in a question, or uttereda pitying exclamation. But for the most part she listened in silence,controlling herself, suppressing the agitation which shook her. Whenhe had done, she put a question, but it was one so irrelevant, sounexpected, so far from the mark, that it acted on him like a doucheof cold water. "What have you done to your coat?" she asked. "Mycoat?"

  "Yes." She pointed to his shoulder.

  He glanced down at his coat, but he felt the check. Surely the ways ofwomen were strange, their manner of taking things past finding out. Heexplained, but he could not hide his chagrin. "I wasn't thinking, andtook the first that came to hand," he said--"an old one. Does itmatter?"

  But she continued to stare at it. He was wearing a riding coat, highin the collar, long in the skirts, shaped to the figure. On the lightbuff of the cloth a stain spread downwards from shoulder to breast.The right arm and cuff, too, were discolored, and it said much for thedisorder of his thoughts that he had ridden from town without noticingit. She eyed the stain with distaste, with something like a shudder."It is blood," she said, "isn't it?"

  He shrugged his shoulders, yet himself viewed it askance. "Yes," hesaid. "I don't know how you knew. I wore it that night, you know. Idid not mean to wear it again, but in my hurry----"

  "Do you mean the night that my father was hurt?"

  "Yes."

  "You held him up in the carriage?"

  "Yes, but--" squinting at it--"I don't think that it was done then.I believe it was done when I was picking him up in the road, Jos,before Bourdillon came. Indeed, I remember that your father noticedit--before he fainted, you know."

  "My father noticed it?"

  "Well, oddly enough, he did."

  "While you were supporting him?" There was a strange light in hereyes, and the blood had come back to her cheeks. "But where wasThomas--the man--then?"

  "Oh, he had gone off, across the fields."

  "Before Arthur came up, do you mean?"

  "To be sure, some time before. However----"

  But, "No, Clement, I want to understand this," she insisted, breakingin on him. Her voice betrayed her excitement, and to hold him to thepoint she laid her hands on his shoulders, standing before him andclose to him. "Tell me again, and clearly. Do you mean that it was youwho drove Thomas off? Before Arthur came up?"

  He stared. "Well, of course it was," he said. "Didn't you know that?Didn't Arthur tell you?"

  She avoided the question, and instead, "Then it was your coat that wasspoiled?" she said. "This coat?"

  "Well, of course it was. You can see that."

  She looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her pride in him showing in hereyes. He had indeed justified her choice of him, her belief in him,her confidence in him. He had done this and had said nothing. The daywas cold, and she was not warmly clad, but she felt no cold--now. Itwas raining, but she was no longer aware of it. There had sprung up inher heart, not only courage, but a faint, a very faint hope.

  He had come to dash her down, to fill her cup of sorrow to the brim,to leave her lonely in the world and comfortless--for never, nevercould she love another! And instead he had given her hope--a hopeforlorn and far off, gleaming faint as the small stars in distantCassiopeia, and often doubt, like an evening mist, would veil it. Butit sparkled, she saw it, she drew courage from it.

  Meanwhile, surprised by the turn her thoughts had taken, he was stillmore surprised by the change in her looks, the color in her cheeks,the light in her eyes. He did not understand, and for a moment, seeinghimself no hope but only sorrow and parting, he was tempted to thinkthat she trifled. What mattered it what coat he wore, or what hadstained it, or the details of a story old now, and which he supposedto be as well known to her as to him? Perhaps she did not comprehend,and, "Jos," he said, inviting her to be serious, "do you understandthat this is our parting?"

  But "No! no!" she said resolutely. "We are not going to part."

  "But don't you see," sadly, "that I cannot go to your father now? Thatnext week we may be beggars, and my father a ruined man? I could askno man, even a poor man, for his daughter now. I must work to live,work as a clerk--as, I don't know what, Jos, but in some position farremoved from your life, and far removed from your class. I could notspeak to your father now, and it is that which has brought me to youto--to say good-bye, dearest--to part, Jos! The gates are closed, wemust go out of the garden, dear. And you"--he looked at her withyearning eyes--"must forgive me, before we part."

  "Perhaps we are not going to part," she said.

  He shook his head. He would not deceive her. "Nothing else ispossible," he said.

  "Perhaps, and perhaps not. At any rate," putting her hands in his, andlooking at him with brave, loving eyes, "I would not undo one of thosedays--in the garden! No, nor an hour of them. They are precious to me.And for forgiving, I have nothing to forgive and nothing to regret, ifwe never meet again, Clement. But we shall meet. What if you have tobegin the world again? We are both young. You will work for me. And doyou think that I will not wait for you, wait until you have climbed upagain, or until something happens to bring us together? Do you notknow that I love you more now, far more, in your unhappiness--that youare more to me, a thousand times more to-day--than in yourprosperity?"

  "Oh, Jos!" He could say no more, but his swimming eyes spoke for him.

  "But you must leave it to me now," she continued. "After all, thingsmay turn out better than you think. You may not be ruined. People maynot be so foolish as to want all their money at once. Have hope,and--and remember that I am always here, though you do not see me orhear from me; that I am always here, thinking of you, waiting for you,loving you, always yours, Clement, till you come--though it be tenyears hence."

  "Oh, Jos!" His eyes were overflowing now.

  "You believe me, you do believe me, don't you?" she said. "And now youmust go. But kiss me first. No, I do not mind who sees us, or whoknows that I am yours now. I am past that."

  He took her in his arms and kissed her, not as he would have kissedher an hour before, with passion, but in reverence and hum
ility, inlove too sacred for words. Never till now had he known what a woman'slove was, how much it gave, how little it asked, how pure in itshighest form it could be--and how strong! Nor ever till now had heknown her, this girl to whom he had once presumed to teach firmness,whose weakness he had taken on himself to guide, whom he had thoughtto encourage, to strengthen, to arm--he, who had not been worthy tokiss the hem of her robe!

  Oh, the wonderful power of love, which had transformed her! Which hadmade her what she was, and now laid him in the dust before her!

  Work for her, wait for her, live for her? Ah, would he not, and deemhimself happy though the years brought him no nearer, though thememory of her, transfiguring his whole life, proved his only and fullreward!