Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  Travelling in the old coaching days was not all hardship. It had itsown, its peculiar pleasures. A writer of that time dwells witheloquence on the rapture with which he viewed a fine sunrise from theoutside of a fast coach on the Great North Road; on the appetite withwhich he fell to upon a five o'clock breakfast at Doncaster, on thedelight with which he heard the nightingales sing on a fine night ashe swept through Henley, on the satisfaction of seeing old ShoreditchChurch, which betokened the end of the journey. Men did not then hurryat headlong speed along iron rails, with their heads buried in anewspaper or in the latest novel. They learned to know and had time toview the objects of interest that fringed the highway--to recognizethe farm at which the Great Durham Ox was bred, and the house in whichthe equally great Sir Isaac Newton was born. If these things werestrange to the travellers and their appearance promised a good fee,the coachman condescended from his greatness and affably pointed themout.

  But to sit through the long winter night, changing each hour from onedamp and musty post-chaise to another, to stamp and fume and fretwhile horses were put to at every stage, to scold an endlesssuccession of incoming and fee an endless series of out-goingpostboys, each more sleepy and sullen than the last--this was anothermatter. To be delayed here and checked there and overchargedeverywhere, to be fobbed off with the worst teams--always reserved fornight travellers--and to find, once started on the long fourteen-milestage, that the off-wheeler was dead lame, to fall asleep and to bearoused with every hour--these were the miseries, and costly miseriesthey were, of old-world journeying. This was its seamy side. And manya time Clement, stamping his stone-cold feet in wind-swept inn yards,or ringing ostlers' bells in stone-paved passages, repented that hehad started, repented that he had ever undertaken the task.

  Why had he, he asked himself more than once that bitter night. Whatwas Arthur Bourdillon to him that he should spend himself in an effortas toilsome as it promised to be vain, to hold him back from thecompletion of his roguery? Would Arthur ever thank him? Far from it.And Josina? Josina, brave, loving Josina, who had risen to heights ofwhich he thrilled to think, she might indeed thank him--and thatshould be enough for him. But what could she do to requite him, apartfrom her father? And the Squire at Garth had stated his position, noreven if he relented was he one to pour himself out in gratitude--hewho hated the name of Ovington, and laid all this at their door. Itwould be much if he ever noticed him with more than a grunt, or evergave one thought to his exertions or their motive.

  No, he had let a quixotic, a foolish impulse run away with him!He should have waited until Arthur had brought down the money, andthen he should have returned it. That had been the simple, thematter-of-fact course, and all that it had been incumbent on him todo. As it was, for what was he spending himself and undergoing thesehardships? To hasten the ruin of the bank, to meet failure half-way,to render his father penniless a few hours earlier, rather than later.To mask a rascality that need never be disclosed, since no one wouldhear of it unless the Squire talked. Yes, he had been a fool to hurlhimself thus through the night, chilled to the bone, with fevered headand ice-cold feet, when he might have been a hundred times betteremployed in supporting his father in his need, in putting a bravefront on things, and smiling in the face of suspicion.

  To be sure, it was only as the night advanced, or rather in the smallhours of the morning, when his ardor had died down and Josina'spleading face was no longer before him, and the spirit of adventurewas low in him, that he entertained these thoughts. For a time allwent well. He found his relay waiting for him at the Heygate Inn byWellington, where the name of the Lion was all-powerful; and aftercovering at top speed the short stage that followed, he drove, stillfull of warmth and courage, into Wolverhampton at a quarter beforeeleven. Over thirty miles in three hours! He met with a little delaythere; the horses had to be fetched from another stable, in anotherstreet. But he got away in the end, and ten minutes later he wasdriving over a land most desolate by day, but by night lurid with theflares of a hundred furnace-fires. He rattled up to the Castle atBirmingham at half an hour after midnight, found the house stilllighted and lively, and by dint of scolding and bribing was presentlyon the road again with a fresh team, and making for Coventry, withevery inclination to think that the difficulties of posting by nighthad been much exaggerated.

  But here his good luck left him. At the half-way stage he met withdisaster. He had passed the up coach half an hour before, and noorders now anticipated him. When he reached the Stone Bridge therewere no horses; on the contrary, there were three travellers waitingthere, clamorous to get on to Birmingham. Unwarily he jumped out ofhis chaise, and "No horses?" he cried. "Impossible! There must behorses!"

  But the ostler gave him no more than a stolid stare. "Nary a nag!" hereplied coolly. "Nor like to be, master, wi' every Quaker inBirmingham gadding up and down as if his life 'ung on it! Why, ifI've----"

  "Quakers? What the devil do you mean?" Clement cried, thinking thatthe man was reflecting on him.

  "Well, Quakers or drab-coated gentry like yourself!" the man replied,unmoved. "And every one wi' pistols and a money bag! Seems that's whatthey're looking for--money, so I hear. Such a driving and foraging upand down the land these days, it's a wonder the horses' hoofs bean'tworn off."

  "Then," said Clement, turning about, "I'll take these on to Meriden."

  But the waiting travellers had already climbed into the chaise andwere in possession, and the postboy had turned his horses. And, "No,no, you'll not do that," said the ostler. "Custom of the road, master!Custom of the road! You must change and wait your turn."

  "But there must be something on," Clement cried in despair, seeinghimself detained here, perhaps for the whole night.

  "Naught! Nary a 'oof in the yard, nor a lad!" the man replied. "You'dbest take a bed."

  "But when will there be horses?"

  "Maybe something'll come in by daylight--like enough."

  "By daylight? Oh, confound you!" cried Clement, enraged. "Then I'llwalk on to Meriden."

  "Walk? Walk on to----" the ostler couldn't voice his astonishment."Walk?"

  "Ay, walk, and be hanged to you!" Clement cried, and without anotherword plunged into the darkness of the long, straight road, his bag inhis hand. The road ran plain and wide before him, he couldn't miss it;the distance, according to Paterson, which he had in his handbag, wasno more than two miles, and he thought that he could do it in half anhour.

  But, once away, under the trees, under the midnight sky, in thesilence and darkness of the country-side, the fever of his spiritsmade the distance seem intolerable. As he tramped along the lonelyroad, doubtful of the wisdom of his action, the feeling of strangenessand homelessness, the sense of the uselessness of what he was doing,grew upon him. At this rate he might as well walk to London! What ifthere were no horses at Meriden? Or if he were stayed farther up theroad? He counted the stages between him and London, and he had timeand enough to despair of reaching it, before he at last, at a goodfour miles an hour, strode out of the night into the semicircle oflight which fell upon the road before the Bull's Head at Meriden.Thank heaven, there were lights in the house and people awake, andsome hope still! And more than hope, for almost before he had crossedthe threshold a sleepy boots came out of the bar and met him, and"Horses? Which way, sir? Up? I'll ring the ostler's bell, sir!"

  Clement could have blessed him. "Double money to Coventry if I leavethe door in ten minutes!" he cried, taking out his watch. And tenminutes later--or in so little over that time as didn't count--he wasclimbing into a chaise and driving away: so well organized afterall--and all defects granted--was the posting system that at that timecovered England. To be sure, he was on one of the great roads, and theBull's Head at Meriden was a house of fame.

  He had availed himself of the interval to swallow a snack and a glassof brandy and water, and he was the warmer for the exercise and inbetter spirits; pluming himself a little, too, on the resolution whichhad p
lucked him from his difficulty at the Stone Bridge. But he hadlost the greater part of an hour, and the clocks at Coventry wereclose on three when he rattled through the narrow, twisting streets ofthat city. Here, early as was the hour, he caught rumors of the panic,and hints were dropped by the night-men in the inn yard--in sly reply,perhaps, to his adjurations to hasten--of desperate men hurrying toand fro, and buying with gold the speed which meant fortune and lifeto them. Something was said of a banker who had shot himself atNorthampton--or was it Nottingham?--of London runners who had passedthrough in pursuit of a defaulter; of a bank that had stopped, "up theroad." "And there'll be more before all's over," said his informantdarkly. "But it's well to be them while it lasts! They've money toburn, it seems."

  Clement wondered if this was an allusion to the crown piece that hehad offered. At any rate the ill-omened tale haunted him as he leftthe city behind him, and, after passing under the Cross on KnightlowHill, and over the Black Heath about Dunsmoor, committed himself tothe long, monotonous stretch of road that, unbroken by any strikingfeatures, and regularly dotted with small towns that hardly rose abovevillages, extended dull mile after dull mile to London. The rumble ofthe chaise and the exertions he had made began to incline him tosleep, but the cold bit into his bones, his feet were growing numb,and as often as he nodded off in his corner he slid down and awokehimself. Sleet, too, was beginning to fall, and the ill-fittingwindows leaked, and it was a very morose person who turned out in therain at Dunchurch.

  However, luck was with him, and he got on without delay to Daventry,and had to be roused from sleep when his postboy pulled up before thefamous old Wheat-sheaf that, wakeful and alight, was ready with itswelcome. Here cheerful fires were burning and everything was done forhim. A chaise had just come in from Towcester. The horses' mouths werewashed out while he swallowed a crust and another glass of brandy andwater, the horses were turned round, and he was away again. Hecomposed himself, shivering, in the warmer corner, and, thanking hisstars that he had got off, was beginning to nod, when the chaisesuddenly tilted to one side and he slid across the seat. He sat up inalarm and felt the near wheels clawing at the ditch, and thought thathe was over. A moment of suspense, and through the fog that dimmed thewindow-panes flaming lights blazed above him and over him, and thedown mails thundered by, coach behind coach--three coaches, the roadquivering beneath them, the horses cantering, the guards replying witha volley of abuse to the postboy's shout of alarm. Huge, lightedmonsters, by night the bullies of the road, they were come and gone inan instant, leaving him staring with dazzled eyes into the darkness.But the shave had not bettered his temper. The stage seemed a longone, the horses slow, and he was fretting and fuming mightily, and byno means as grateful as he should have been for the luck that hadhitherto attended him, when at last he jogged into Towcester.

  Alas, the inn here was awake, indeed, in a somnolent, grumpy, sullenfashion, but there were no horses. "Not a chance of them," said thesleepy boots, nicking a dirty napkin towards the coffee room. "Thereare two business gents waiting there to get on--life and death,'cording to them. They're going up same way as you are, andthey've first call. And there's a gentleman and his servant forBirmingham--down, they are, and been waiting since eleven o'clock andswearing tremendous!"

  "Then I'll take mine on!" Clement said, and whipped out into the nightand ran to his chaise. But he was too late. The gentleman's servanthad been on the watch, he had made his bargain and stepped in, and hismaster was hurrying out to join him. "The devil!" cried Clement, nowwide awake and very angry. "That's pretty sharp!"

  "Yes, sir, sharp's the word," said the boots. It was evident thatnight work had made him a misanthrope, or something else had souredhim. "They'd be no good for Brickhill anyway. It's a long stage.You'll take a bed?"

  "Bed be hanged!" said Clement, wondering what he should do. Thisseemed to be a dead stop, and very black he looked. At last, "I'll goto the yard," he said.

  "There's nobody up. You'd best----" and again the boots advised a bed.

  "Nobody up? Oh, hang it!" said Clement, and stood and thought, verymuch at a standstill. What could he do? There was a clock in thepassage. He looked at it. It was close on six, and he had nearly sixtymiles to travel. Save for the delay at the Stone Bridge, he had donewell. He had kept his postboy up to the mark: he had spared neithermoney nor prayers, nor, it must be added, curses. He had done a veryconsiderable feat, the difficulties of night porting considered. Buthe had still fifty-eight miles before him, and if he could not get onnow he had done nothing. He had only wasted his money. "Any up coachdue?"

  "Not before eight o'clock," said the boots cynically. "Beaches theSaracen's Head, Snowhill, at three-thirty. You are one of thesemoneyed gents, I suppose? Things is queer in town, I hear--crashes andwhat not, something terrible, I am told. Blue ruin and worse. Themaster here"--becoming suddenly confidential--"he's in it. It's U-pwith him! They seized his horses yesterday. That's why--" he winkedmysteriously towards the silent stables. "Wouldn't trust him, andcouldn't send a bailiff with every team. That's why!"

  "Who seized them?" Clement asked listlessly. But he awoke a secondlater to the meaning of his words.

  "Hollins, Church Farm yonder. Bill for hay and straw. D'you know him?"

  "No, but--here! D'you see this?" Clement plucked out a crown piece,his eyes alight. "Is there a postboy here? That's the point! Asleep orawake! Quick, man!"

  "A postboy? Well, there's old Sam--he can ride. But what's the use ofa postboy when there's no horses?"

  "Wake him! Bring him here!" Clement retorted, on fire with an idea,and waving the crown piece. "D'you hear? Bring him here and this isyours. But sharp's the word. Go, go and get him, man, it will be worthhis while. Haul him out! Tell him he must come! It's money, tell him!"

  The boots caught the infection and went, and for three or four minutesClement stamped up and down in a fever of anxiety. By and by thepostboy came, half dressed, sulky, and rubbing his eyes. Clementseized him by the shoulders, shook him, pounded him, pounded his ideainto him, bribed him. Five minutes later they were hurrying towardsthe church, passing here and there a yawning laborer plodding throughthe darkness to his work. The farmer at Hollins's was dressing, andopened his window to swear at them and at the noise the dogs weremaking. But, "Three pounds! Three pounds for horses to Brickhill!"Clement cried. The proper charge was twenty-six shillings at theeighteen-penny night scale, and the man listened. "You can come withme and keep possession!" Clement urged, seeing that he hesitated. "Yourun no risk! I'll be answerable."

  Three pounds was money, much money in those days. It was good intereston his unpaid bill, and Mr. Hollins gave way. He flung down the key ofthe stables, and hurrying down after it, helped to harness the horsesby the light of a lanthorn. That done, however, the good man tookfright at the novelty, almost the impudence of the thing, and demandedhis money. "Half now, and half at Brickhill," Clement replied, and thesight of the cash settled the matter. Mr. Hollins opened the yardgate, and two minutes later they were off, the farmer's wife staringafter them from the doorway and, with a leaning to the safe side,shrilly stating her opinion that her husband was a fool and would losehis nags.

  "Never fear," Clement said to the man. "Only don't spare them! Time ismoney to me this morning!"

  Fortunately, the horses had done no work the previous day and had beenwell fed. They were fresh, and the old postboy, feeling himself inluck, and exhilarated by what he called "as queer a start as everwas," was determined to merit the largest fee. The farmer, as theywhirled down Windmill Hill at a pace that carried them over the ascentand past Plum Park, fidgeted uneasily in his seat, fearing brokenknees and what not. But seeing then that the postboy steadied his pairand knew his business, he let it pass. As far as Stony Stratford theroad was with them, and thence to Fenny Stratford they pushed on at agood pace.

  It was broad daylight by now, the road was full of life and movement,they met and passed other travellers, other chaises, one or two of theearly morning coaches. Men, topping and
tailing turnips, stood andwatched them from the fields, a gleam of December sunrise warmed thelandscape. To the tedious nightmare of the long, dark hours, withtheir endless stages and sleepy turn-outs and shadowy postillions,their yawning inns and midnight meals, had succeeded sober daylight,plodding realities, waking life; and Clement should have owned therelief. But he did not, for a simple reason. During the night the endhad been far off and uncertain, a thing not yet to be dwelt upon orconsidered. Now the end was within sight, a few hours must determineit one way or the other, and his anxiety as the time passed, and nowthe horses slackened their pace to climb a rise, now were detained bya flock of sheep, centred itself upon it. He had endured so much thathe might intercept Arthur before the deed was done and the falsetransfer used, that to fail Josina now, to be too late now, was athing not to be considered.