Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  But before they crossed the threshold they were intercepted. MissPeacock, her plumage ruffled, and that which the Squire was wont tocall her "clack" working at high pressure, met them at the door."Bless me, sir, here's a visitor," she proclaimed, "at this hour! Andwon't take any denial, but will see you, whether or no. Though I toldJane to tell him----"

  "Who is it?"

  "Goodness knows, but it's not my fault, sir! I told Jane--but Jane'sthat feather-headed, like all of them, she never listens, and let himin, and he's in the dining-parlor. All she could say, the silly wench,was, it was something about the bank--great goggle-eyes as she is! Andof course there's no one in the way when they're wanted. Calamy withyou, and Josina traipsing out, feeding her turkeys. And Jane says theman's got a portmanteau with him as if he's come to stay. Goodnessknows, there's no bed aired, and I'm sure I should have been toldif----"

  "Peace, woman!" said the Squire. "Did he ask to see me, or----" withan effort, "my nephew?"

  "Oh, you, sir! Leastwise that's what Jane said, but she's no more headthan a goose! To let him in when she knows that you're hardly out ofyour bed, and can't see every Jack Harry that comes!"

  "I'll see him," the Squire said heavily. He bade Calamy take him in.

  "But you'll take your egg-flip, Mr. Griffin? Before you----"

  "Don't clack, woman, don't clack!" cried the Squire, and made a blowat her with his stick, but with no intention of reaching her. "Begone!Begone!"

  "But, dear sir, the doctor! You know he said"

  "D--n you, I'll not take it! D'you hear? I'll not take it! Get out!"And he went on through the house, the tap of his stick on the stoneflags going before him and announcing his coming. Half-way along thepassage he paused. "Did she say," he asked, lowering his voice, "thathe came from the bank?"

  "Ay, ay," Calamy said. "And like enough. Ill news has many feet. Ridesapace and needs no spurs. But if your honor will let me see him, I'llsort him! I'll sort him, I'll warrant! One'd think," grumbling,"they'd more sense than to come here about their dirty business as ifwe were the bank!" The man was surprised that his master took thematter with any patience, for, to him, with all the prejudices of theclass he served, it seemed the height of impertinence to come to Garthabout such business. "Let me see him, your honor, and ask what hewants," he urged.

  But the Squire ruled otherwise. "No," he said wearily, "I'll see him."And he went in.

  The front door stood open. "There's a po-chay, right enough," Calamyinformed him. "And luggage. Seems to ha' come some way, too."

  "Umph! Take me in. And tell me who it is. Then go."

  The butler opened the door, and guided the old man into the room. Aglance informed him who the visitor was, but he continued to give allhis attention to his master, in this way subtly conveying to thestranger that he was of so little importance as to be invisible. Noruntil the Squire had reached the table and set his hand on it didCalamy open his mouth. Then, "It's Mr. Ovington," he announced.

  "Mr. Ovington?"

  "Ay, the young gentleman."

  "Ah!" The old man stood a moment, his hand on the table. Then, "Put mein my chair," he said. "And go. Shut the door."

  And when the man had done so, "Well!" heavily, "what have you come tosay? But you'd best sit. Sit down! So you didn't go to London? Thoughtbetter of it, eh, young man? Ay, I know! Talked to your father and sawthings differently? And now you've come to give me another dose offine words to keep me quiet till the shutters go up? And if the worstcomes to the worst, your father's told you, I suppose, that I can'tprosecute--family name, eh? That's what you've come for, I suppose?"

  "No, sir," Clement answered soberly. "I've not come for that. And myfather----"

  The Squire struck his stick on the floor. "I don't want to hearfrom him!" he cried with violence. "I want no message from him, d'youhear? I'm not come down to that! And as for your excuses, younggentleman----"

  "I am not come with any excuses," Clement answered, restraininghimself with difficulty--but after all the old man had had provocationenough to justify many hard words, and he was blind besides. As he satthere, glaring sightlessly before him, his hands on his stick, he wasa pathetic figure in his anger and helplessness. "I've been to town,as I said I would."

  The Squire was silent for some seconds. "And come back?" he exclaimed.

  "Well, yes, sir," with a smile. "I'm here."

  "Umph? How did you do it?"

  "I posted up and came down as far as Birmingham by the Bull and Mouthcoach. I posted on this morning."

  "Well, you've been devilish quick!" The Squire admitted itreluctantly. He hardly knew whether to believe the tale or not. "Youdidn't wait long there, that's certain. And did as little, I suppose.Bank's going, I hear?"

  "I hope not."

  "Pooh!" the Squire said impatiently. "You may speak out! Speak out,man! There is no one here."

  "There's some danger, I'm afraid."

  "Danger! I should think there was! More than danger, as I hear!" TheSquire drummed for a moment with his fingers on the table. He wasthinking not of the bank, or even of his loss, but of his nephew andthe scandal that would not pass by him. But he would not refer toArthur, and after a pause, "Well," with an angry snort, "if that's allyou've come to tell me, you might have spared yourself--and me. Icannot say that your company's very welcome, so if you please, we'lldispense with compliments. If that's all----"

  "But that's not all, sir," Clement interposed. "I wish I could havebrought back the securities, or even the whole of the money."

  The Squire laughed. "No doubt," he said.

  "But I was too late to ensure that. The stock had already beentransferred."

  "So he was quick, too!"

  "And selling for cash in the middle of such a crisis he had to accepta loss of seven per cent. on the current price. But he suggests thatif you reinvest immediately, a half, at least, of this may berecovered, and the eventual loss need not be more than three or fourhundred. I ought perhaps to have stayed in town to effect this, but Ihad to think of my father, who was alone at the bank. However, I didwhat I could, sir, and----"

  Clement paused; the Squire had uttered an exclamation which he did notcatch. The old man turned a little in his chair so as to face thespeaker. "Eh?" he said. "Do you mean that you've got any of themoney--here?"

  "I've eleven thousand and a bit over," Clement explained. "Fivethousand in gold and the rest----"

  "What?"

  "Sir?"

  "Do you mean"--the Squire spoke haltingly, after a pause--he did notseem to be able to find the right words. "Do you mean that you'vebrought back the money?"

  "Not all. What I've told you, sir. There's six thousand and odd innotes. The gold is in two bags in the chaise."

  "Here?"

  "At the door, sir. I'll bring it in."

  "Ay," said the Squire passively. "Bring it in."

  Clement went out and returned, carrying in two small leather bags. Heset them down at the Squire's feet "There's the gold, sir," he said."I've not counted it, but I've no doubt that it is right. It weighs alittle short of a hundred pounds."

  The old man felt the bags, then, standing up, he lifted them in turn afew inches from the floor. "What does a thousand pounds weigh?" heasked.

  "Between eighteen and nineteen pounds, sir."

  "And the notes?"

  "I have them here." Clement drew a thick packet from the pocket of hisinner vest and put it into the Squire's hands. "They're Bank ofEngland paper. They were short even at the bank, and wanted Bourdillonto take it in one-pound notes, but he stood out and got these in theend."

  The Squire handled the packet, felt its thickness, weighed it lovinglyin his hand. So much money, so much money in so small a space! Sixthousand and odd pounds! It seemed as if he could not let it go, butin the end he placed it in the breast pocket of his high-collared oldcoat, the shabby blue coat with the large gilt buttons that was hiscommon wear at home. The money secured, he sat, looki
ng before him,while Clement, a little mortified, waited for the word ofacknowledgment that did not come. At last, "Did you call at yourfather's?" the old man asked--irrelevantly, it seemed.

  Clement colored. He had not expected the question. "Well, I did, sir,"he admitted. "Bourdillon----"

  "He was with you?"

  "As far as the town. He was anxious that the money should be seen toarrive. He thought that it might check the run, and I agreed that itmight do some good, and that we might make that advantage of it. So Itook it through the bank."

  "Pretty full, I expect, eh? Pretty full?"

  "Well," ruefully, "it was, sir."

  "A strong run, eh?"

  "I'm afraid so. It looked like it. It was full to the doors. That'swhy," glancing at his watch as he stood by the window, the tablebetween him and the Squire, "I must get back to my father. We took itthrough the bank and out by the garden, and put it in the chaise againin Roushill."

  "Umph! He came back to town with you?"

  "Bourdillon, sir? Yes--as far as the East Bridge. He left me there."

  "Where is he?"

  Clement hesitated. "I hope that he's gone to the bank, sir," he said.

  He did not add, as he might have, that, after Arthur and he had leftthe coach at Birmingham and posted on, there had been a passionatescene between them. No doubt Arthur had never given up hope, but fromthe first had determined to make another fight for it; and there wasno police officer at their elbows now. He had appealed to Clement byall that he loved to take the money to the bank, and there to dealwith it as his father should decide. Finding Clement firm and hisappeals useless, he had given way to passion, he had stormed andthreatened and even shed tears; and at last, seizing the pistol casethat lay at their feet, he had sworn that he would shoot himselfbefore the other's eyes if he did not give way. In his rage he hadseemed to be capable of anything, and there had been a struggle forthe pistol, blows had been exchanged, and worse might have come of itif the noise of the fracas had not reached the postboy's ears. He hadpulled up, turned in his saddle, and asked what the devil they wouldbe at; he would have no murder in his master's carriage.

  That had shamed them. Arthur had given way, had flung himself back,white and sullen, in his corner, and they had continued the journey onsuch terms as may be imagined. But even so, Arthur had proved hissingular power of adaptation. The environs of the town in sight, hehad suggested that at least they should take the money through thebank. Clement, anxious to make peace, had consented to that, and onthe East Bridge Arthur had called on the postboy to stop, had jumpedout, and, turning his back on his companion, had made off without aword.

  Clement said nothing of this to the Squire, though the scene had beenpainful, and though he felt that something was due to him, were it buta word of thanks, or an expression of acknowledgment. It had not beenhis fault or his father's, that the money had been taken; it wasthrough him that the greater part of it had been recovered, and nowreposed safe in the Squire's pocket or in the bags at his feet.

  At the least, it seemed to him, the old man might remember that hisfather was alone and needing him--was facing trouble, and, it mightbe, ruin. He took up his hat. "Well, sir, that's all," he said curtly."I must go now."

  "Wait!" said the Squire. "And ring the bell, if you please."

  Clement stepped to the hearth, and pulled the faded drab cord, whichonce had been blue, that hung near it. The bell in the passage hadhardly tinkled before Calamy entered. "Bid your mistress come here,"said the old man. "Where is she? Fetch her?"

  The blood mounted to Clement's face, and his pulses began to throb,his ideas to tumble over one another. The old man, who sat before him,his hands on his stick, stubbornly confronting the darkness, the oldman, whom he had thought insensible, took on another hue, becameinstead inscrutable, puzzling, perplexing. Why had he sent for hisdaughter? What was in his mind? What was he going to say? What hadhe--but even while Clement wondered, his thoughts in a whirl, strangehopes jostling one another in his brain, the door opened, and Josinacame in.

  She came in with a timid step, but as soon as her eyes met Clement's,the color rose vividly to her cheeks, then left her pale. Her liptrembled. But her look--fleeting as it was and immediately diverted toher father--how he blessed her for that look! For it bade him takeconfidence, it bade him have no fear, it bade him trust her. Silentlyand incredibly, it took him under her protection, it pledged her faithto him.

  And how it changed all for him! How it quelled, in a moment, thedisappointment and anger he was feeling, ay, and even the vague hopeswhich the Squire's action in summoning her had roused in him! How itgave calmness and assurance where his aspirations had been at best tothe extravagant and the impossible.

  But, whatever his feelings, to whatever lover's heaven that lookraised him, he was speedily brought to earth again. The old man hadproved himself thankless; now, as if he were determined to showhimself in the worst light, he proceeded to prove himself suspicious."Come here, girl," he said, "and count these notes." Fumbling, he tookthe parcel from his pocket and handed it to her. "Ha' you got them?Then count them! D'you hear, wench? Count them! And have a care tomake no mistake! Lay 'em in piles o' ten. They are hundreds, are they?Hundreds, eh?"

  She untied the parcel, and brought all her faculties to bear on thetask, though her fingers trembled, and the color, rising and ebbing inher cheeks, betrayed her consciousness that her lover's eyes were uponher. "Yes, sir, they are hundred-pound notes," she said.

  "All?"

  "Yes, all, I think, sir."

  "Bank of England?" He poked at her skirts with his stick. "Bank ofEngland, eh? Are you sure?"

  "Yes, sir, so far as I can see."

  "Ay, ay. Well, count 'em! And mind what you are doing, girl!"

  Clement did not know whether to smile or to be angry, but a momentlater he felt no bent towards either. For with a certain dignity, "Iha' been deceived once," the Squire continued. "I ha' signed once andpaid for it. I'm in the dark. But I don't act i' the dark again. If Ican't trust my own flesh and blood, I'll not trust strangers. No, no!I don't know as there's any one I can trust."

  "I quite understand, sir," Clement said--though it was the last thinghe had had it in his mind to say a moment earlier.

  "I don't mind whether you understand or not," the Squire retorted."Ha' you done, girl?" after an interval of silence.

  "Not quite, sir. I have five heaps of ten."

  "Well, well, get on. We are keeping the young man."

  He spoke as he would have spoken of any young man in a shop, andClement winced, and Josina knew that he winced and she reddened. Butshe went on with her work. "There are sixty-one, sir," she said. "Thatmakes----"

  "Six thousand one hundred pounds. Ay, it's right so far. Right so far.And the gold"--he paused and seemed to be at a nonplus--"I'm afraid'twould take too long to count it. Well, let it be. Get some paper andwrite a receipt as I tell you."

  "There is no need, sir," Clement ventured.

  "There's every need, young man. I'm doing business. Ha' you got thepen, girl? Then write as I tell you. 'I, George Griffin of Garth, inthe County of Aldshire, acknowledge that I have this 16th day ofDecember 1825 received from Messrs. Ovington of Aldersbury, sixthousand one hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, and'--ha' yougot that? Ha' you got that?--'two bags stated by them to contain fivethousand pounds in gold.' Ha' you got that down? Then show me theplace, and----"

  But as she put the pen in his hand he let it drop. He sat back in hischair. "Ay, he showed me the place before," he muttered, his chin onhis breast. "It was he gave me the pen, then, girl. And how be I toknow? How be I to know?"

  It came home to them--to them both. In his voice, his act, hisattitude was the pathos of blindness, its helplessness, itsdependence, its reliance on others--on the eyes, the hand, the honestyof others. The girl leant over him. "Father," she said, tears in hervoice, "I wouldn't deceive you! You know I wouldn't. I would neverdeceive you!"

  "Ha' you never deceived me? Wi' that yo
ung man?" sternly.

  "But----"

  "Ay, you have! You have deceived me--with him."

  She could not defend herself, and, suppressing her sobs, "I will callCalamy," she said. "He can read. He shall count the notes."

  But he put out his hand and grasped her skirts. "No," he said."What'll I be the better? Give me the pen. If you deceive me in this,wench--what matter if the notes be short or not, or what comes of it?"

  "I would cut off my hand first!" she cried. "And Clement----"

  "Eh?" He sat up sharply.

  She was frightened, and she did not continue. "This is the place,sir," she said meekly.

  "Here?"

  "Yes, sir, where you are now."

  He wrote his name. "Dry it," he said. "And ring the bell. And there,give it to him. He wants to be off. Odds are the shutters'll be upafore he gets there. Calamy!" to the man who had appeared at the door,"see this gentleman off, and be quick about it. He's no time to lose.And, hark you, come back to me when he's gone. No, girl," sternly,"you stay here. I want you."