Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Not?” incredulously. “You’ve not known that I — —”

  “No!” she protested. “And I don’t think that it has always been so with us.” Then, collecting herself and in a firmer voice, “No, Arthur, not lately, I am sure. I don’t think that it has been so on your side — I don’t, indeed. And I’m sure that I have not thought of this myself.”

  “Jos!”

  “No, Arthur, I have not, indeed.”

  “You haven’t seen that I loved you?”

  “No. And,” looking him steadily in the face, “I am not sure that you do.”

  “Then let me tell you that I do. I do!” And he tried to possess himself of her other hand, and there was a little struggle between them. “Dear, dear girl, I do love you,” he swore. “And I want you, I want you for my wife. And your father permits it. Do you understand — I don’t think you do? He sanctions it.”

  He would have put his arm round her, thinking to overcome her bashfulness, thinking that this was but maidenly pride, waiting to be conquered. But she freed herself with unexpected vigor and slipped from him. “No, I don’t wish it!” she said. And her attitude and her tone were so resolute, that he could no longer deceive himself. “No! Listen, Arthur.” She was pale, but there was a surprising firmness in her face. “Listen! I do not believe that you love me. You have given me no cause to think so these many months. Such a boy and girl affection as was once between us might have grown into love in time, had you wished it. But you did not seem to wish it, and it has not. What you feel is not love.”

  “You know so much about love!” he scoffed. He was taken aback, but he tried to laugh — tried to pass it off.

  But she did not give way. “I know what love is,” she answered firmly. And then, without apparent cause, a burning blush rose to her very hair. Yet, in defiance of this, she repeated her words. “I know what love is, and I do not believe that you feel it for me. And I am sure, quite sure, Arthur,” in a lower tone, “that I do not feel it for you. I could not be your wife.”

  “Jos!” he pleaded earnestly. “You are joking! Surely you are joking.”

  “No, I am not joking. I do not wish to hurt you. I am grieved if I do hurt you. But that is the truth. I do not want to marry you.”

  He stared at her. At last she had compelled him to believe her, and he reddened with anger; only to turn pale, a moment later, as a picture of himself humiliated and rejected, his plans spoiled by the fancy of this foolish girl, rose before him. He could not understand it; it seemed incredible. And there must be some reason? Desperately he clutched at the thought that she was afraid of her father. She had not grasped the fact that the Squire had sanctioned his suit, and, controlling his voice as well as he could, “Are you really in earnest, Jos?” he said. “Do you understand that your father is willing? That it is indeed his wish that we should marry?”

  “I cannot help it.”

  “But — love?” Though he tried to keep his temper his voice was growing sharp. “What, after all, do you know of — love?” And rapidly his mind ran over the possibilities. No, there could be no one else. She knew few, and among them no one who could have courted her without his knowledge. For, strange to say, no inkling of the meetings between Clement and his cousin had reached him. They had all taken place within a few weeks, they had ceased some months back, and though there were probably some in the house who had seen things and drawn their conclusions, the favorers of young love are many, and no one save Thomas had tried to make mischief. No, there could be no one, he decided; it was just a silly girl’s romantic notion. “And how can you say,” he continued, “that mine is not real love? What do you know of it? Believe me, Jos, you are playing with your happiness. And with mine.”

  “I do not think so,” she answered gravely. “As to my own, I am sure, Arthur. I do not love you and I cannot marry you.”

  “And that is your answer?”

  “Yes, it must be.”

  He forced a laugh. “Well, it will be news for your father,” he said. “A clever game you have played, Miss Jos! Never tell me that it is not in women’s nature to play the coquette after this. Why, if I had treated you as you have treated me — and made a fool of me! Made a fool of me!” he reiterated passionately, unable to control his chagrin— “I should deserve to be whipped!”

  And afraid that he would break down before her and disgrace his manhood, he turned about, sprang down the steps and savagely spurning, savagely trampling under foot the shrivelled leaves, he strode across the garden to the house. “The little fool!” he muttered, and he clenched his hands as if he could have crushed her within them. “The little fool!”

  He was angry, he was very angry, for hitherto fortune had spoiled him. He had been successful, as men with a single aim usually are successful. He had attained to most of the things which he had desired. Now to fail where he had deemed himself most sure, to be repulsed where he had fancied that he had only to stoop, to be scorned where he had thought that he had but to throw the handkerchief, to be rejected and rejected by Jos — it was enough to make any man angry, to make any man grind his teeth and swear! And how — how in the world was he to explain the matter to his uncle? How account to him for his confidence in the issue? His cheeks burned as he thought of it.

  He was angry. But his wrath was no match for the disappointment that warred with it and presently, as passion waned, overcame it. He had to face and to weigh the consequences. The loss of Jos meant much more than the loss of a mild and biddable wife with a certain charm of her own. It meant the loss of Garth, of the influence that belonged to it, the importance that flowed from it, the position it conferred. It meant the loss of a thing which he had come to consider as his own. The caprice of this obstinate girl robbed him of that which he had bought by a long servitude, by much patience, by many a tiresome ride between town and country!

  There, in that loss, was the true pinch! But he must think of it. He must take time to review the position and consider how he might deal with it. It might be that all was not yet lost — even at Garth.

  In the meantime he avoided seeing his uncle, and muttering a word to Miss Peacock, he had his horse saddled. He mounted in the yard and descended the drive at his usual pace. But as soon as he had gained the road, he lashed his nag into a canter, and set his face for town. At worst the bank remained, and he must see that it did remain. He must not let himself be scared by Ovington’s alarms. If a crisis came he must tackle the business as he alone could tackle business, and all would be well. He was sure of it.

  Withal he was spared one pang, the pang of disappointed love.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Arthur was at the bank by noon, and up to that time nothing had occurred to justify the banker’s apprehensions or to alarm the most timid. Business seemed to be a little slack, the bank door had a rest, and there was less coming and going. But in the main things appeared to be moving as usual, and Arthur, standing at his desk in an atmosphere as far removed as possible from that of Garth, had time to review the check that he had received at Josina’s hands, and to consider whether, with the Squire’s help, it might not still be repaired.

  But an hour or two later a thing occurred which might have passed unnoticed at another time, but on that day had a meaning for three out of the five in the bank. The door opened a little more abruptly than usual, a man pushed his way in. He was a publican in a fair way of business in the town, a smug ruddy-gilled man who, in his younger days, had been a pugilist at Birmingham and still ran a cock-pit behind the Spotted Dog, between the Foregate and the river. He stepped to the counter, his small shrewd eyes roving slyly from one to another.

  Arthur went forward to attend to him. “What is it, Mr. Brownjohn?” he asked. But already his suspicions were aroused.

  “Well, sir,” the man answered bluntly, “what we most of us want, sir. The rhino!”

  “Then you’ve come to the right shop for that,” Arthur rejoined, falling into his humor. “How much?”

  “How’s
my account, sir?”

  Arthur consulted the book which he took from a ledge below the counter. In our time he would have scribbled the sum on a scrap of paper and passed the paper over in silence. But in those days many customers would have been none the wiser for that, for they could not read. So, “One, four, two, and three and six-pence,” he said.

  “Well, I’ll take it,” the publican announced, gazing straight before him.

  Arthur understood, but not a muscle of his face betrayed his knowledge. “Brewers’ day?” he said lightly. “Mr. Rodd, draw a cheque for Mr. Brownjohn. One four two, three and six. Better leave five pounds to keep the account open?”

  “Oh, well!” Mr. Brownjohn was a little taken aback. “Yes, sir, very well.”

  “One three seven, Rodd, three and six.” And while the customer, laboriously and with a crimsoning face, scrawled his signature on the cheque, Arthur opened a drawer and counted out the amount in Ovington’s notes. “Twenty-seven fives, and two, three, six,” he muttered, pushing it over. “You’ll find that right, I think.”

  Brownjohn had had his lesson from Wolley, who put up at his house, but he had not learnt it perfectly. He took the notes, and thumbed them over, wetting his thumb as he turned each, and he found the tale correct. “Much obliged, gentlemen,” he muttered, and with a perspiring brow he effected his retreat. Already he doubted — so willingly had his money been paid — if he had been wise. He was glad that he had left the five pounds.

  But the door had hardly closed on him before Arthur asked the cashier how much gold he had in the cash drawer.

  “The usual, sir. One hundred and fifty and thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four — one hundred and eighty-four.”

  “Fetch up two hundred more before Mr. Brownjohn comes back,” Arthur said. “Don’t lose time.”

  Rodd did not like Arthur, but he did silent homage to his sharpness. He hastened to the safe and was back in two minutes with twenty rouleaux of sovereigns. “Shall I break them, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, I think so. Ah!” as the door swung open and one of the Welsh brothers entered. It was Mr. Frederick. Arthur nodded. “Good day, Welsh, I was thinking of you. I fancy Clement wants to see you.”

  “Right — in one moment,” the lawyer replied. “Just put that — —”

  But Arthur saw that he had a cheque to pay in — he banked at Dean’s but had clients’ accounts with them — and he broke in on his business. “Clement,” he said, “here’s Welsh. Just give him your father’s message.”

  Clement came forward with his father’s invitation — oysters and whist at five on Friday — and his opinion on a glass of ‘20 he was laying down? He kept the lawyer in talk for a minute or two, and then, as Arthur had shrewdly calculated, the door opened and Brownjohn slid in. The man’s face was red, and he looked heartily ashamed of himself, but he put down his notes on the counter. He was going to speak when, “In a moment, Brownjohn,” Arthur said. “What is it, Mr. Welsh?”

  “Just put this to the Hobdays’ account,” the lawyer answered recalled to his business. “Fifty-four pounds two shillings and five-pence. And, by the way, are you going to Garth on Saturday?”

  “On Saturday, or Sunday, yes. Can I do anything for you!”

  “Will you tell the Squire that that lease will be ready for signature on Saturday week. If you don’t mind I’ll send it over by you. It will save me a journey.”

  “Good. I’ll tell him. He has been fretting about it. Good-day! Now, Mr. Brownjohn?”

  “I’d like cash for these,” the innkeeper mumbled, thrusting forward the notes, but looking thoroughly ill at ease.

  “Man alive, why didn’t you say so?” Arthur answered, good-humoredly, “and save yourself the trouble of two journeys? Mr. Rodd, cash for these, please. I’ve forgotten something I must tell Welsh!” And flinging the cash drawer wide open, he raised the counter-flap and hurried after the lawyer.

  Rodd knew what was expected of him, and he took out several fistsful of gold and rattled it down before him. Rapidly, as if he handled so many peas, he counted out and thrust aside Mr. Brownjohn’s portion, swiftly reckoned it a second time, then swept the balance back into the open drawer. “I think you’ll find that right,” he said. “Better count it. How’s your little girl that was ailing, Mr. Brownjohn?”

  Brownjohn muttered something, his face lighting up. Then he counted his gold and sneaked out, impressed, as Arthur had intended he should be, with his own unimportance, and more inclined than before to think that he had made a mistake in following Wolley’s advice.

  But before the bank closed that day two other customers came in and drew out the greater part of their balances. They were both men connected in one way or another with the clothier, and the thing stopped there. The following day was uneventful, but the drawings had been unusual, and the two young clerks might have exchanged notes upon the subject if their elders had not appeared so entirely unconscious. As it was, it was impossible for them to think that anything out of the common had happened.

  Worse, and far more important, than this matter was the fact that stocks and shares continued to fall all that week. Night after night the arrival of the famous “Wonder,” the fast coach which did the journey from London in fifteen hours, was awaited by men who thought nothing of the wintry weather if they might have the latest news. Afternoon after afternoon the journals brought by the mail were fought for and opened in the street by men whose faces grew longer as the week ran on. Some strode up jauntily, and joined themselves to the group of loungers before the coach-office, while others sneaked up privily, went no farther than the fringe of the crowd, and there, gravitating together by twos and threes, conferred in low voices over prices and changes. Some, until the coach arrived, lurked in a neighboring churchyard, raised above the street, and glancing suspiciously at one another affected to be immersed in the study of crumbling gravestones; while a few made a pretence of being surprised, as they passed, by the arrival of the mail, or hiding themselves in doorways appeared only at the last moment, and when they believed that they might do so unobserved.

  One thing was noticeable of nearly all these; that they avoided one another’s eyes, as if, declining to observe others, they became themselves unseen. Once possessed of the paper they behaved in different ways, according as they were of a sanguine or despondent nature. Some tore the sheet open at once, devoured a particular column and stamped or swore, or sometimes flung the paper underfoot. Others sneaked off to the churchyard or to some neighboring nook, and there, unable to wait longer, opened the journal with shaking fingers; while a few — and these perhaps had the most at stake — dared not trust themselves to learn the news where they might by any chance be overlooked, but hurried homewards through “shuts” and by-lanes, and locked themselves in their offices, afraid to let even their wives come near them.

  For the news was very serious to very many; the more so as, inexperienced in speculation, they clung for the most part to the hope of a recovery, and could not bring themselves to sell at a lower figure than that which they might have got a week before. Much less could they bring themselves to sell at an actual loss. They had sat down to play a winning game, and they could not now believe that the seats were reversed, and that they were liable to lose all that they had gained, nay, in many cases much more than their stake. Amazed, they saw stocks falling, crumbling, nay, sinking to a nominal value, while large calls on them remained to be paid, and loans on them to be repaid. No wonder that they stared aghast, or that many after a period of stupefaction, at a state of things so new and so paralyzing, began to feel that it was neck or nothing with them, and bought when they should have sold, seeing that in any case the price to which stock was falling meant their ruin.

  For a time indeed there was no public outcry and no great excitement on the surface. For a time men kept their troubles to themselves, jealous lest they should get abroad, and few suspected how common was their plight or how many shared it. Men talk of their gains but not of thei
r losses, and the last thing desired by a business man on the brink of ruin is that his position should be made public. But those behind the scenes feared only the more for the morrow; for with this ferment of fear and suspense working beneath the surface it was impossible to say at what moment an eruption might not take place or where the ruin would stop. One thing was certain, that it would not be confined to the speculators, for many a sober trader, who had never bought shares in his life, would fail, beggared by the bankruptcy of his debtors.

  Ovington returned on the Friday, and Arthur met him at the Lion, as he had met him eleven months before. They played their parts well — so well that even Arthur did not learn the news until the door of the bank had closed behind them and they were closeted with Clement in the dining-room. Then they learned that the news was bad — as bad as it could be.

  The banker retained his composure and told his story with calmness, but he looked very weary. Williams’ — Williams and Co. were Ovington’s correspondents in London — would do nothing, he told them. “They would not re-discount a single bill nor hear of an acceptance. My own opinion is that they cannot.”

  Arthur looked much disturbed. “As bad as that,” he said, “is it?”

  “Yes, and I believe, nay, I am sure, lad, that they fear for themselves. I saw the younger Williams. He gave me good words, but that was all; and he looked ill and harassed to the last degree. There was a frightened look about them all. I told them that if they would re-discount fifteen thousand pounds of sound short bills, we should need no further help, and might by and by be able to help others. But he would do nothing. I said I should go to the Bank. He let out — though he was very close — that others had done so, and that the Bank would do nothing. He hinted that they were short of gold there, and saw nothing for it but a policy of restriction. However, I went there, of course. They were very civil, but they told me frankly that it was impossible to help all who came to them; that they must protect their reserve. They were inclined to find fault, and said it was credit recklessly granted that had produced the trouble, and the only cure was restriction.”