Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Owen, it was known, had drawn his money. But Jenkins had thought better of it. He had gone out of the bank with his cheque in his hand, and had torn it up coram public in the roadway; and from that moment the run, its force already exhausted, had ceased. Half an hour later he would have been held a fool who looked twice at an Ovington note, or distrusted a bank into which, rumor had it, gold had been carried by the sackful. Had not the Bank of England sent down a special messenger bearing unstinted credit? And had not the old Squire of Garth, the closest, stingiest, shrewdest man in the county, paid in thirty, forty, fifty thousand pounds and declared that he would sell every acre before the bank should fail? Before night a dozen men were considering ruefully the thing that they had done or pondering how they might, with the least loss of dignity, undo it. Before morning twice as many wives had told their husbands what they thought of them, and reminded them that they had always said how it would be — only they were never listened to!

  At the Gullet in the Shut off the Market Place, where the tap never ceased running that evening, and half of the trade of the town pressed in to eat liver and bacon, there was no longer any talk of Boulogne. All the talk ran the other way. The drawers of the day were the butts of the evening, and were bantered and teased unmercifully. Their friends would not be in their shoes for a trifle — not they! They had cooked their goose with a vengeance — no more golden eggs for them! And very noticeable was it that whenever the banker’s name came up, voices dropped and heads came together. His luck, his power, his resources were discussed with awe and in whispers. There were not a few thoughtful faces at the board, and here and there were appetites that failed, though the suppers served in the dingy low-ceiled room at the Gullet, dark even at noon-day, were famous for their savoriness.

  * * * * *

  Very different was the scene inside the bank. At the counter, indeed, discipline failed the moment the door fell to behind the last customer. The clerks sprang to their feet, cheered, danced a dance of triumph, struck a hundred attitudes of scorn and defiance. They cracked silly jokes, and flung paper darts at the public side; they repaid by every kind of monkey trick the alarms and exertions from which they had suffered during three days. They roared, “Oh, dear, what can the matter be!” in tones of derision that reached the street. They challenged the public to come on — to come on and be hanged! They ceased to make a noise only when breath failed them.

  But in the parlor, whither Clement, followed after a moment’s hesitation by Rodd, had hastened to join and to congratulate his father, there was nothing of this. The danger had been too pressing, the margin of safety too narrow to admit of loud rejoicing. The three met like ship-wrecked mariners drawn more closely together by the ordeal through which they had passed, like men still shaken by the buffeting of the waves. They were quiet, as men amazed to find themselves alive. The banker, in particular, sat sunk in his chair, overcome as much by the scene through which he had passed as by a relief too deep for words. For he knew that it was by no art of his own, and through no resources of his own that he survived, and his usual self-confidence, and with it his aplomb, had deserted him. In a room vibrating with emotion they gazed at one another in thankful silence, and it was only after a long interval that the older man let his thoughts appear. Then “Thank God!” he said unsteadily, “and you, Clement! God bless you! If we owe this to any one we owe it to you, my boy! If you had not been beside me, God knows what I might not have done!”

  “Pooh, pooh, sir,” Clement said; yet he did but disguise deep feeling under a mask of lightness. “You don’t do yourself justice. And for the matter of that, if we have to thank any one it is Rodd, here.” He clapped the cashier on the shoulder with an intimacy that brought a spark to Rodd’s eyes. “He’s not only stuck to it like a man, but if he had not paid in his four hundred and fifty — —”

  “No, no, sir, we weren’t drawn down to that — quite.”

  “We were mighty near it, my lad. And easily might have been.”

  “Yes,” said the banker; “we shall not forget it, Rodd. But, after all,” with a faint smile, “it’s Bourdillon we have to thank.” And he explained the motives which, on the surface at least, had moved the Squire to intervene. “If I had not taken Bourdillon in when I did — —”

  “Just so,” Clement assented drily. “And if Bourdillon had not — —”

  “Umph! Yes. But — where is he? Do you know?”

  “I don’t. He may be at his rooms, or he may have ridden out to his mother’s. I’ll look round presently, and if he is not in town I’ll go out and tell him the news.”

  “You didn’t quarrel?”

  Clement shrugged his shoulders. “Not more than we can make up,” he said lightly, “if it is to his interest.”

  The banker moved uneasily in his chair. “What is to be done about him?” he asked.

  “I think, sir, that that’s for the Squire. Let us leave it to him. It’s his business. And now — come! Has any one told Betty!”

  The banker rose, conscience-stricken. “No, poor girl, and she must be anxious. I quite forgot,” he said.

  “Unless Rodd has,” Clement replied, with a queer look at his father. For Rodd had vanished while they were talking of Arthur, whom it was noteworthy that neither of them now called by his Christian name.

  “Well go and tell her,” said Ovington, reverting to his everyday tone. And he turned briskly to the door which led into the house. He opened it, and was crossing the hall, followed by Clement, who was anxious to relieve his sister’s mind, when both came to a sudden stand. The banker uttered an exclamation of astonishment — and so did Betty. For Rodd, he melted with extraordinary rapidity through a convenient door, while Clement, the only one of the four who was not taken completely by surprise, laughed softly.

  “Betty!” her father cried sternly. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Well, I thought — you would know,” said Betty, blushing furiously. “I think it’s pretty plain.” Then, throwing her arms round her father’s neck, “Oh, father, I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m so glad!”

  “But that’s an odd way of showing it, my dear.”

  “Oh, he quite understands. In fact” — still hiding her face— “we’ve come to an understanding, father. And we want you” — half laughing and half crying— “to witness it.”

  “I’m afraid I did witness it,” gravely.

  “But you’re not going to be angry? Not to-day? Not to-day, father.” And in a small voice, “He stood by you. You know how he stood by you. And you said you’d never forget it.”

  “But I didn’t say that I should give him my daughter.”

  “No, father; she gave herself.”

  “Well, there!” He freed himself from her. “That’s enough now, girl. We’ll talk about it another time. But I’m not pleased, Betty.”

  “No?” said Betty, gaily, but dabbing her eyes at the same time. “He said that. He said that you would not be pleased. He was dreadfully afraid of you. And I said you wouldn’t be pleased, too. But — —”

  “Eh?”

  “I said you’d come to it, father, by and by. In good time.”

  “Well, I’m — —” But what the banker was, was lost in the peal of laughter that Clement could no longer restrain.

  CHAPTER XLI

  Arthur, after he had dropped from the post-chaise that morning, did not at once move away. He stood on the crown of the East Bridge, looking down the river, and the turmoil of his feelings was such as for a time to render thought of the future impossible, and even to hold despair at bay. The certainty that his plan would have succeeded if it had not been thwarted by the very persons who would have profited by it, and the knowledge that but for their scruples all that he had at stake in the bank would have been saved — this certainty and this knowledge, with the fact that while they left him to bear the obloquy they had denied him the prize, so maddened him that for a full minute he stood, grasping the stone balustrade of the bridge, and whispering cur
ses at the current that flowed smoothly below.

  The sunshine and the fair scene did but mock him. The green meadows, and the winding river, and the crescent of stately buildings, spire-crowned, that, curving with the stream, looked down upon it from the site of the ancient walls, did but deride his misery. For, how many a time had he stood on that spot and looked on that scene in days when he had been happy and carefree, his future as sunny as the landscape before him! And now — oh, the cowards! The cowards, who had not had the courage even to pick up the fruit which his daring had shaken from the bough.

  Ay, his daring and his enterprise! For what else was it? What had he done, after all, at which they need made mouths? It had been but a loan he had taken, the use for a few weeks of money which was useless where it lay, and of which not a penny would be lost! And again he cursed the weakness of those who had rendered futile all that he, the bolder spirit, had done, who had consigned themselves and him to failure and to beggary. He had bought their safety at his own cost, and they had declined to be saved. He shook with rage, with impotent rage, as he thought of it.

  Presently a man, passing over the bridge, looked curiously at him, paused and went on again, and the incident recalled him to himself. He remembered that he was in a place where all knew him, where his movements and his looks would be observed, where every second person who saw him would wonder why he was not at the bank. He must be going. He composed his face and walked on.

  But whither? The question smote him with a strange and chilly sense of loneliness. Whither? To the bank certainly, if he had courage, where the battle was even now joined. He might fling himself into the fray, play his part as if nothing had happened, smile with the best, ignore what he had done and, if challenged, face it down. And there had been a time when he could have done this. There had been a time, when Clement had first alighted on him in town, when he had decided with himself to play that rôle, and had believed that he could carry it off with a smiling face. And now, now, as then, he maintained that he had done nothing that the end did not justify, since the means could harm no one.

  But at that time he had believed that he could count on the complicity of others, he had believed that they would at least accept the thing that he had done and throw in their lot with his, and the failure of that belief, brag as he might, affected him. It had sapped his faith in his own standards. The view Clement had taken had slowly but surely eclipsed his view, until now, when he must face the bank with a smile, he could not muster up the smile. He began to see that he had committed not a crime, but a blunder. He had been found out!

  He walked more and more slowly, and when he came, some eighty yards from the bridge and at the foot of the Cop, to a lane on his left which led by an obscure shortcut to his rooms, he turned into it. He did not tell himself that he was not going to the bank. He told himself that he must change his clothes, and wash, and eat something before he could face people. That was all.

  He reached his lodgings, beneath the shadow of an old tower that looked over the meadows to the river, without encountering any one. He even stole upstairs, unseen by his landlady, and found the fire alight in his sitting-room, and some part of a meal laid ready on the table. He washed his hands and ate and drank, but instinctively, as he did so, he hushed his movements and trod softly. When he had finished his meal he stood for a moment, his eyes on the door, hesitating. Should he or should he not go to the bank? He knew that he ought to go. But the wear and tear of three days of labor and excitement, during which he had hardly slept as many hours, had lowered his vitality and sapped his will, and the effort required was now too much for him. With a sigh of relief he threw up the sponge, he owned himself beaten. He sank into a chair and, moody and inert, he sat gazing at the fire. He was very weary, and presently his eyes closed, and he slept.

  Two hours later his landlady discovered him, and the cry which she uttered in her astonishment awoke him. “Mercy on us!” she exclaimed. “You here, sir! And I never heard a sound, and no notion you were come! But I was expecting you, Mr. Bourdillon. ‘He won’t be long,’ I says to myself, ‘now that that plaguy bank’s gone and closed — worse luck to it!”

  “Closed, has it?” he said, dully.

  “Ay, to be sure, this hour past.” Which of course was not true, but many things that were not true were being said in Aldersbury that day. “And nothing else to be expected, I am told, though there’s nobody blames you, sir. You can’t put old heads on young shoulders, asking your pardon, sir, as I said to Mrs. Brown no more than an hour ago. It was her Johnny told me — he came that way from school and stopped to look. Such a sight of people on Bride Hill, he said, as he never saw in his life, ‘cept on Show Day, and the shutters going up just as he came away.”

  He did not doubt the story — he knew that there was no other end to be expected. “I am only just from London,” he said, feeling that some explanation of his ignorance was necessary. “I had no sleep last night, Mrs. Bowles, and I sat down for a moment, and I suppose I fell asleep in my chair.”

  “Indeed, and no wonder. From London, to be sure! Can I bring you anything up, sir?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Bowles. I shall have to go out presently, and until I go out, don’t let me be disturbed. I’m not at home if any one calls. You understand?”

  “I understand, sir.” And on the stairs, as she descended, a pile of plates and dishes in her arms, “Poor young gentleman,” she murmured, “it’s done him no good. And some in my place would be thinking of their bill. But his people will see me paid. That’s where the gentry come in — they’re never the losers, whoever fails.”

  For a few minutes after she had retired he dawdled about the room, staring through the window without seeing anything, revolving the news, and telling himself, but no longer with passion, that the game was played out. And gradually the idea of flight grew upon him, and the longing to be in some place where he could hide his head, where he might let himself go and pity himself unwatched. Had his pockets been full he would have returned to London and lost himself in its crowds, and presently, he thought — for he still believed in himself — he would have shown the world what he could do.

  But he had spent his loose cash on the journey, he was almost without money, and instinct as well as necessity turned his thoughts towards his mother. The notion once accepted grew upon him, and he longed to be at the Cottage. He felt that there he might be quiet, that there no one would watch him, and stealthily — on fire to be gone now that he had made up his mind — he sought for his hat and coat and let himself out of the house.

  There was no one in sight, and descending from the Town Wall by some steps, he crossed the meadows to the river. He passed the water by a ferry, and skirting the foot of the rising ground on the other side, he presently struck into the Garthmyle road a little beyond the West Bridge.

  He trudged along the road, his hat drawn down to his eyes, his shoulders humped, his gaze fixed doggedly on the road before him. He marched as men march who have had the worst of the battle, yet whom it would be unwise to pursue too closely. At first he walked rapidly, taking where he could a by-path, or a short-cut, and though the hills, rising from the plain before him, were fair to see on this fine winter day, as the sun began to decline and redden their slopes, he had no eye for them or for the few whom he met, the road-man, or the carter, who, plodding beside his load of turnips or manure, looked up and saluted him.

  But when he had left the town two or three miles behind he breathed more freely. He lessened his pace. Presently he heard on the road behind him the clip-clop of a trotting horse, and not wishing to be recognized, he slipped into the mouth of a lane, and by and by he saw Clement Ovington ride by. He flung a vicious curse after him and, returning to the road, he went on more slowly, chewing the sour cud of reflection, until he came to the low sedgy tract where the Squire had met with his misadventure, and where in earlier days the old man had many a time heard the bittern’s note.

  He was in no hurry now, for he did not m
ean to reach the Cottage until Clement had left it, and he stood leaning against the old thorn tree, viewing the place and thinking bitterly of the then and the now. And presently a spark of hope was kindled in him. Surely all was not lost — even now! The Squire was angry — angry for the moment, and with reason. But could he maintain his anger against one who had saved his life at the risk of his own? Could he refuse to pardon one, but for whom he would be already lying in his grave? With a quick uplifting of the spirit Arthur conceived that the Squire could not. No man could be so thankless, so unmindful of a benefit, so ungrateful.

  Strange, that he had not thought of that before! Strange — that under the pressure of difficulties he had let that claim slip from his mind. It had restored him to his uncle’s favor once. Why should it not restore him a second time? Properly handled — and he thought that he could trust himself to handle it properly — it should avail him. Let him once get speech of his uncle, and surely he could depend on his own dexterity for the rest.