Arthur was taken aback by his uncle’s harshness, and he made haste to
be at the bank early enough on the Monday to anticipate the banker’s
departure for Garth. He was certain that to approach the Squire at this
moment in the matter of the railroad was to invite disaster, and he
gave Ovington such an account of the quarrel as he thought would deter
him from going over at present.
But the banker had a belief in himself which success and experience in
the management of men had increased. He was convinced that
self-interest was the spring which moved nine men out of ten, and
though he admitted that the family quarrel was untimely, he did not
agree that as between the Squire and a good bargain it would have
weight.
“But I assure you, sir, he’s like a bear with a sore head,” Arthur
urged.
“A bear will come to the honey if its head be sore,” the banker
answered, smiling.
“And perhaps upset the hive?”
Ovington laughed. “Not in this case, I think. And we must risk
something. Time presses and he blocks the way. However, I’ll let it
stand over for a week and then I’ll go alone. We must have your uncle.”
Accordingly a week later, discarding the tilbury and smart man-servant
that he had lately set up, he rode over to Garth, considering as he
journeyed the man whom he was going to meet and of whom, in spite of
his self-assurance, he stood in some awe.
Round Aldersbury were larger landowners and richer men than the Squire.
But his family and his name were old, and by virtue of long possession
he stood high among the gentry of the county. He had succeeded at
twenty-two to a property neglected and loaded with debt, and his
father’s friends—this was far back in the old King’s reign—had advised
him to sell; let him keep the house and the home-farm and pay his debts
with the rest. But pride of race was strong in him, he had seen that to
sell was to lose the position which his forbears had held, and he had
refused. Instead he had set himself to free the estate, and he had
pared, he had pinched, he had almost starved himself and others. He had
become a byword for parsimony. In the end, having benefited much by
enclosures in the ’nineties, he had succeeded. But no sooner had he
deposited in the bank the money to pay off the last charge than the
loss of his only son had darkened his success. He had married again—he
was by this time past middle age—but only a daughter had come of the
marriage, and by that time to put shilling to shilling and acre to acre
had become a habit of which he could not break himself, though he knew
that only a woman would follow him at Garth.
Withal he was a great aristocrat, a Tory of the Tories, stern and
unbending. Fear of France and of French doctrines and pride in his
caste were in his blood. The _Quarterly Review_ ranked with him after
his Bible, and very little after it. Reform under the most moderate
aspect was to him a shorter name for Revolution. He believed implicitly
in his class, and did not believe in any other class. Manufacturers and
traders he hated and distrusted, and of late jealousy had been added to
hatred and distrust. The inclusion of such men in the magistracy, the
elevation of Peel to the Ministry had made him fancy that there was
something in the Queen’s case after all; when Canning and Huskisson had
also risen to power he had said that Lord Liverpool was aging and the
Duke was no longer the man he had been.
He was narrow, choleric, proud, miserly; he had been known to carry an
old log a hundred yards to add it to his wood-pile, and to travel a
league to look for a lost sixpence. He dressed shabbily, which was not
so much remarked now that dandies aped coachmen, as it had been in his
younger days; and he rode about his fields on an old white mare which
he was believed to hold in affection next after his estate and much
before his daughter. He ruled his parish with a high hand. He had no
mercy for poachers. But he was honest and he was just. The farmers must
pay the wage he laid down—it was a shilling above the allowed rate. But
the men must work it out, and woe betide the idle; they had best seek
work abroad, and heaven help them if a foreign parish sent them home.
In one thing he was before his time; he was resolved that no
able-bodied man should share in the rates. The farmers growled, the
laborers grumbled, there were hard cases. But he was obdurate—work your
worth, or starve! And presently it began to be noticed that the parish
was better off than its neighbors. He was a tyrant, but a just tyrant.
Such was the man whom Ovington was going to meet, and from whose
avarice he hoped much. He had made his market of it once, for it was by
playing on it that he had lured the Squire from Dean’s, and so had
gained one of his dearest triumphs over the old Aldersbury Bank.
His hopes would not have been lessened had he heard a dialogue which
was at that moment proceeding in the stable-yard at Garth to an
accompaniment of clattering pails and swishing besoms. “He’ve no
bowels!” Thomas the groom declared with bitterness. “He be that hard
and grasping he’ve no bowels for nobody!”
Old Fewtrell, the Squire’s ancient bailiff, sniggered. “He’d none for
you, Thomas,” he said, “when you come back gallus drunk from Baschurch
Fair. None of your Manchester tricks with me, says Squire, and, lord,
how he did leather ’ee.”
Thomas did not like the reminiscence. “What other be I saying!” he
snarled. “He’ve no bowels even for his own flesh and blood! Did’ee ever
watch him in church? Well, where be he a-looking? At his son’s moniment
as is at his elbow? Never see him, never see him, not once!”
“Well, I dunno as I ’ave, either,” Fewtrell admitted.
“No, his eyes is allus on t’other side, a-counting up the Griffins
before him, and filling himself up wi’ pride.”
“Dunno as I couldn’t see it another way,” said the bailiff
thoughtfully.
“What other way? Never to look at his own son’s moniment?”
“Well, mebbe——”
“Mebbe?” Thomas cried with scorn. “Look at his darter! He ain’t but
one, and he be swilling o’ money! Do he make much of her, James
Fewtrell? And titivate her, and pull her ears bytimes same as you with
your grand-darters? And get her a horse as you might call a horse? You
know he don’t. If she’s not quick, it’s a nod and be damned, same as to
you and me!”
Old Fewtrell considered. “Not right out the same,” he decided.
“Right out, I say. You’ve been with him all your life. You’ve never
knowed no other and you’re getting old, and Calamity, he be old too,
and may put up with it. But I don’t starve for no Squire, and I’m for
more wage. I was in Aldersbury Saturday and wages is up and more work
than men! While here I’m a-toiling for what you got twenty year ago.
But not me! I bin to Manchester. And so I’m going to tell Squire.”
The bailiff grinned. “Mebbe he’ll take a stick same as before.”
“He’d best not!” Thomas said, with an ugly look. “He’d best take care,
or——”
“Whist! Whist! lad. You be playing for trouble. Here be Squire.”
The Squire glared at them, but he did not stop. He stalked into the
house and, passing through it, went out by the front door. He intended
to turn right-handed, and enter the high-terraced garden facing south,
in which he was wont to take, even in winter, a few turns of a morning.
But something caught his eye, and he paused. “Who’s this?” he muttered,
and shading his eyes made out a moment later that the stranger was
Ovington. A visit from him was rare enough to be a portent, and the
figure of his bank balance passed through the Squire’s mind. Had he
been rash? Ovington’s was a new concern; was anything wrong? Then
another idea, hardly more welcome, occurred to him: had the banker come
on his nephew’s account?
If so—however, he would soon know, for the visitor was by this time
half-way up the winding drive, sunk between high banks, which, leaving
the road a third of a mile from the house, presently forked, the left
branch swerving through a grove of beech trees to the front entrance,
the right making straight for the stables.
The Squire met his visitor at the gate and, raising his voice, shouted
for Thomas. “I am sorry to trespass on you so early,” Ovington said as
he dismounted. “A little matter of business, Mr. Griffin, if I may
trouble you.”
The old man did not say that it was no trespass, but he stood aside
punctiliously for the other to precede him through the gate. Then,
“You’ll stay to eat something after your ride?” he said.
“No, I thank you. I must be in town by noon.”
“A glass of Madeira?”
“Nothing, Squire, I thank you. My business will not take long.”
By this time they stood in the room in which the Squire lived and did
his business. He pointed courteously to a chair. He was shabby, in
well-worn homespun and gaiters, and the room was shabby, walled with
bound Quarterlies and old farm books, and littered with spurs and dog
leashes—its main window looked into the stable yard. But there was
about the man a dignity implied rather than expressed, which the spruce
banker in his shining Hessians owned and envied. The Squire could look
at men so that they grew uneasy under his eye, and for a moment, owning
his domination, the visitor doubted of success. But then again the room
was so shabby. He took heart of grace.
“I shouldn’t trouble you, Mr. Griffin,” he said, sitting back with an
assumption of ease, while the Squire from his old leather chair
observed him warily, “except on a matter of importance. You will have
heard that there is a scheme on foot to increase the value of the
woollen industry by introducing a steam railroad. This is a new
invention which, I admit, has not yet been proved, but I have examined
it as a business man, and I think that much is to be expected from it.
A limited company is being formed to carry out the plan, if it prove to
be feasible. Sir Charles Woosenham has agreed to be Chairman, Mr.
Acherley and other gentlemen of the county are taking part, and I am
commissioned by them to approach you. I have the plans here——”
“What do you want?” The Squire’s tone was uncompromising. He made no
movement towards taking the plans.
“If you will allow me to explain?”
The old man sat back in his chair.
“The railroad will be a continuation of the Birmingham and Aldersbury
railroad, which is in strong hands at Birmingham. Such a scheme would
be too large for us. That, again, is a continuation of the London and
Birmingham railroad.”
“Built?”
“Oh no. Not yet, of course.”
“Begun, then?”
“No, but——”
“Projected?”
“Precisely, projected, the plans approved, the Bill in preparation.”
“But nothing done?”
“Nothing actually done as yet,” the banker admitted, somewhat dashed.
“But if we wait until these works are finished we shall find ourselves
anticipated.
“Ah!”
“We wish, therefore, to be early in the field. Much has appeared in the
papers about this mode of transport, and you are doubtless familiar
with it. I have myself inquired into it, and the opinion of financial
men in London is that these railroads will be very lucrative, paying
dividends of from ten to twenty-five per cent.”
The Squire raised his eyebrows.
“I have the plans here,” the banker continued, once more producing
them. “Our road runs over the land of six small owners, who have all
agreed to the terms offered. It then enters on the Woosenham outlying
property, and thence, before reaching Mr. Acherley’s, proceeds over the
Garth estate, serving your mills, the tenant of one of which joins our
board. If you will look at the plans?” Again Ovington held them out.
But the old man put them aside. “I don’t want to see them,” he said.
“But, Squire, if you would kindly glance——”
“I don’t want to see them. What do you want?”
Ovington paused to consider the most favorable light in which he could
place the matter. “First, Mr. Griffin, your presence on the Board. We
attach the highest importance to that. Secondly, a way-leave over your
land for which the Company will pay—pay most handsomely, although the
value added to your mills will far exceed the immediate profit.”
“You want to carry your railroad over Garth?”
“Yes.”
“Not a yard!” The old man tapped the table before him. “Not a foot!”
“But our terms—if you would allow me to explain them?”
“I don’t want to hear them. I am not going to sell my birthright,
whatever they are. You don’t understand me? Well, you can understand
this.” And abruptly the Squire sat up. “I’ll have none of your d—d
smoking, stinking steam-wagons on my land in my time! Oh, I’ve read
about them in more places than the papers, sir, and I’ll not sell my
birthright and my people’s birthright—of clean air and clean water and
clean soil for any mess of pottage you can offer! That’s my answer, Mr.
Ovington.”
“But the railroad will not come within a mile of Garth.”
“It will not come on to my land! I am not blind, sir. Suppose you
succeed. Suppose you drive the mails and coaches and the stage-wagons
off the road. Where shall I sell my coach-horses and hackneys and my
tenants their heavy nags? And their corn and their beans? No, by G—d,”
stopping Ovington, who wished to interrupt him. “You may delude some of
my neighbors, sir, and you may know more about money-making, where it
is no question how the money is made, than I do! But I’ll see that you
don’t delude me! A pack of navigators upsetting the country, killing
game and robbing hen-roosts, raising wages and teaching honest folks
tricks? Not here! If Woosenham knew his own business, and Acherley were
not up to his neck in debt, they’d not let themselves be led by the
nose by——”
“By whom, sir?” Ovington was on his feet by this time, his eyes
smoldering, his face paler than usual. They confronted each other. It
was the meeting, the collision of two powers, of two worlds, the old
and the new.
“By whom, sir?” the Squire replied sternly—he too had risen. “By one
whose interests and breeding are wholly different from theirs and who
looks at things from another standpoint! That’s by whom, sir. And one
word more, Mr. Ovington. You have the name of being a clever man and I
never doubted it until to-day; but have a care that you are not over
clever, sir. Have a care that you do not lead your friends and yourself
into more trouble than you think for! I read the papers and I see that
everybody is to grow rich between Saturday and Monday. Well, I don’t
know as much about money business as you do, but I am an old man, and I
have never seen a time when everybody grew rich and nobody was the
loser.”
Ovington had controlled himself well; and he still controlled himself,
but there was a dangerous light in his eyes. “I am sorry,” he said,
“that you can give me no better answer, Mr. Griffin. We hoped to have,
and we set some value on your support. But there are, of course—other
ways.”
“You may take your railroad any way you like, so long as you don’t
bring it over Garth.”
“I don’t mean that. If the railroad is made at all it must pass over
Garth—the property stretches across the valley. But the Bill, when
presented, will contain the same powers which are given in the later
Canal Acts—a single proprietor cannot be allowed to stand in the way of
the public interests, Mr. Griffin.”
“You mean—by G—d, sir,” the Squire broke out, “you mean that you will
take my land whether I will or no?”
“I am not using any threat.”
“But you do use a threat!” roared the Squire, towering tall and gaunt
above his opponent. “You do use a threat! You come here——”
“I came here—” the other answered—he was quietly drawing on his
gloves—“to put an excellent business investment before you, Mr.
Griffin. As you do not think it worth while to entertain it, I can only
regret that I have wasted your time and my own.”
“Pish!” said the Squire.
“Very good. Then with your permission I will seek my horse.”
The old man turned to the window and opened it. “Thomas,” he shouted
violently. “Mr. Ovington’s horse.”
When he turned again. “Perhaps you may still think better of it,”
Ovington said. He had regained command of himself. “I ought to have
mentioned that your nephew has consented to act as Secretary to the
Company.”
“The more fool he!” the Squire snarled. “My nephew! What the devil is
he doing in your Company? Or for the matter of that in your bank
either?”
“I think he sees more clearly than you that times are changed.”
“Ay,” the old man retorted, full of wrath, and well aware that the
other had found a joint in his armor. “And he had best have a care that
these fine times don’t lead him into trouble!”
“I hope not, I hope not. Good-day, Mr. Griffin. I can find my way out.
Don’t let me trouble you.”
“I will see you out, if you please. After you, sir.” Then, with an
effort which cost him much, but which he thought was due to his
position, “You are sure that you will take nothing?”
“Nothing, I thank you.”
The Squire saw his visitor to the door; but he did not stay to see him
ride away. He went back to his room and to a side window at which it
was his custom to spend much time. It looked over the narrow vale,
little more than a glen, which the eminence, on which the house stood,
cut off from the main valley. It looked on its green slopes, on the
fern-fringed brook that babbled and tossed in its bottom, on the black
and white mill that spanned the stream, and on the Thirty Acre covert
that clothed the farther side and climbed to the foot of the great
limestone wall that towered alike above house and glen and rose itself
to the knees of the boundary hills. And looking on all this, the Squire
in fancy saw the railroad scoring and smirching and spoiling his
beloved acres. It was nothing to him, that in fact the railroad would
pass up the middle of the broad vale behind him—he ignored that. He saw
the hated thing sweep by below him, a long black ugly snake, spewing
smoke and steam over the green meadows, fouling the waters, darkening
the air.
“Not in my time, by G—d!” he muttered, his knees quivering a little
under him—for he was an aging man and the scene had tried him. “Not in
my time!” And at the thought that he, the owner of all, hill and vale,
within his sight, and the descendant of generations of owners—that he
had been threatened by this upstart, this loan-monger, this town-bred
creature of a day, he swore with fresh vigor.
He had at any rate the fires of indignation to warm him, and the
satisfaction of knowing that he had spoken his mind and had not had the
worst of the bout. But the banker’s feelings as he jogged homewards on
his hackney were not so happy. In spite of Bourdillon’s warning he had
been confident that he would gain his end. He had fancied that he knew
his man and could manage him. He had believed that the golden lure
would not fail. But it had failed, and the old man’s gibes accompanied
him, and like barbed arrows clung to his memory and poisoned his
content.
It was not the worst that he must return and own that Arthur had been
wiser than he; that he must inform his colleagues that his embassy had
failed. Worse than either was the hurt to his pride. Certain things
that the Squire had said about money-making, his sneer about the
difference in breeding, his warning that the banker might yet find that
he had been too clever—these had pricked him to the quick, and the last
had even caused him a pang of uneasiness. And then the Squire had shown
so clearly the gulf that in his eyes lay between them!
Ay, it was that which rankled: the knowledge, sharply brought home to
him, that no matter what his success, no matter what his wealth, nor
how the common herd bowed down to him, this man and his like would ever
hold themselves above him, would always look down on him. The fence
about them he could not cross. Add thousands to thousands as he might,
and though he conquered Lombard Street, these men would not admit him
of their number. They would ever hold him at arm’s length, would deal
out to him a cold politeness. He could never be of them.
As a rule Ovington was too big a man to harbor spite, but as he rode
and fumed, a plan which he had already considered put on a new aspect,
and by and by his brow relaxed and he smote his thigh. Something
tickled him and he laughed. He thought that he saw a way to avenge
himself and to annoy his enemy, and by the time he reached the bank he
was himself again. Indeed, he had not been human if he had not by that
time owned that whatever Garth thought of him he was something in
Aldersbury.
Three times men stopped him, one crossing the street to intercept him,
one running bare-headed from a shop, a third seizing his rein. And all
three sought favors, or craved advice, all, as they retreated, did so,
eyed askance by those who lacked their courage or their impudence.
For the tide of speculation was still rising in the country, and even
in Aldersbury had reached many a back-parlor where the old stocking or
the money-box was scarcely out of date. Thousands sold their Three per
cents., and the proceeds had to go somewhere, and other proceeds, for
behind all there was real prosperity. Men’s money poured first into a
higher and then into a lower grade of security and raised each in turn,
so that fortunes were made with astonishing speed. The banks gave
extended credit; everything rose. Many who had bought in fear found
that they had cleared a profit before they had had time to tremble.
They sold, and still there were others to take their place. It seemed
as if all had only to buy and to sell and to grow rich. Only the very
cautious stood aside, and one by one even these slid tempted into the
stream.
The more venturesome hazarded their money afar, buying shares in
steamship companies in the West Indies, in diamond mines in Brazil, or
in cattle companies in Mexico. The more prudent preferred undertakings
which they could see and which their limited horizon could compass, and
to these such a local scheme as the Valleys Railroad held out a
tempting bait. They knew nothing about a railroad, but they knew that
steam had been applied to ocean travel, and they knew Aldersbury and
the woollen district. Here was something the growth and progress of
which they could watch, and which once begun could not vanish in a
night.
Then the silence of those within and the rumors spread without added to
its attractions. Each man felt that his neighbor was stealing a march
upon him, and that if he were not quick he would not get in on equal
terms.
One of Ovington’s waylayers wished to know if the limit at which he had
been advised to sell his stock was likely to be reached. “I sold on
Saturday,” the banker answered, “two pounds above your limit, Davies.
The money will be in the bank in a week.” He spoke with Napoleonic
curtness, and rode on, leaving the man, amazed and jubilant, to
calculate his gains.
The next wanted advice. He had a hundred in hand if Mr. Ovington would
not think it too small. “Call to-morrow—no, Thursday,” Ovington said,
hardly looking at him. “I’ll see you then.”
The third ran bare-headed out of a shop. He was a man of more weight,
Purslow the big draper on Bride Hill, who had been twice Mayor of
Aldersbury; a tradesman, bald and sleek, whom fortune had raised so
rapidly that old subservience was continually at odds with new
importance. “Just a word, Mr. Ovington,” he stuttered, “a word, sir, by
your leave? I’m a good customer.” He had not laid aside his black apron
but merely twisted it round his waist, a sure sign, in these days of
his greatness, that he was flustered.
The banker nodded. “None better, Purslow,” he answered. “What is it?”
“What I says, then—excuse me—is, if Grounds, why not me? Why not me,
sir?”
“I don’t quite——”
“If he’s to be on the Board, he and his mash-tubs——”
“Oh!” The banker looked grave. “You are thinking of the Railroad,
Purslow?”
“To be sure! What else?—excuse me, sir! And what I say is, if Grounds,
why not me? I’ve been mayor twice and him not even on the Council? And
I’m not a pauper, as none knows better than you, Mr. Ovington. If it’s
only that I’m a tradesman, why, there ought to be a tradesman on it,
and I’ll be bound as many will follow my lead as Grounds’.”
The banker seemed to consider. “Look here, Purslow,” he said, “you are
doing very well, not a man in Aldersbury better. Take my advice and
stick to the shop.”
“And slave for every penny I make!”
“Slow and sure is a good rule.”
“Oh, damn slow and sure!” cried the draper, forgetting his manners. “No
offence, sir, I’m sure. Excuse me. But slow and sure, while Grounds is
paid for every time he crosses the street, and doubles his money while
he wears out his breeches!”
“Well,” said Ovington, with apparent reluctance, “I’ll think it over.
But to sit on the Board means putting in money, Purslow. You know that,
of course.”
“And haven’t I the money?” the man cried, inflamed by opposition.
“Can’t I put down penny for penny with Grounds? Ay, though I’ve served
the town twice, and him not even on the Council!”
“Well, I’ll bear it in mind. I can say no more than that,” Ovington
rejoined. “I must consult Sir Charles. It’s a responsible position,
Purslow. And, of course, where there are large profits, as we hope
there may be, there must be risk. There must be some risk. Don’t forget
that. Still,” touching up his horse with his heel, “I’ll see what I can
do.”
He gained the bank without further stay, and there the stir and bustle
which his practised eye was quick to mark sustained the note already
struck. There were customers coming and going: some paying in, others
seeking to have bills renewed, or a loan on securities that they might
pay calls, or accommodation of one kind or another. But with easy money
these demands could be granted, and many a parcel of Ovington’s notes
passed out amid smiling and general content. The January sun was
shining as if March winds would never blow, and credit seemed to be a
thing to be had for the asking.
It was only within the last seven years that Ovington’s had ventured on
an issue of notes. Then, a little before the resumption of cash
payments, they had put them forth with a tentative, “If you had rather
have bank paper it’s here.” Some had had the bad taste to prefer the
Abraham Newlands, a few had even asked for Dean’s notes. But borrowers
cannot be choosers, the notes had gradually got abroad, and though at
first they had returned with the rapidity of a homing pigeon, the
readiness with which they were cashed wrought its effect, and by this
time the public were accustomed to them.
Dean’s notes bore a big D, and Ovington’s, for the benefit of those who
could not read, were stamped with a large CO., for Charles Ovington.
Alone with his daughter that evening the banker referred to this.
“Betty,” he said, after a long silence, “I am going to make a change. I
am going to turn CO. into Company.”
She understood him at once, and “Oh, father!” she cried, laying down
her work. “Who is it? Is it Arthur?”
“Would you like that?”
She replied by another question. “Is he really so clever?”
“He’s a gentleman—that’s much. And a Griffin, and that’s more, in a
place like this. And he’s—yes, he’s certainly clever.”
“Cleverer than Mr. Rodd?”
“Rodd! Pooh! Arthur’s worth two of him.”
“Quite the industrious apprentice!” she murmured, her hands in her lap.
“Well, you know,” lightly, “what happened to the industrious
apprentice, Betty?”
She colored. “He married his master’s daughter, didn’t he? But there
are two words to that, father. Quite two words.”
“Well, I am going to offer him a small share. Anything more will depend
upon himself—and Clement.”
She sighed. “Poor Clement!”
“Poor Clement!” The banker repeated her words pettishly. “Not poor
Clement, but idle Clement! Can you do nothing with that boy? Put no
sense into him? He’s good for nothing in the world except to moon about
with a gun. Last night he began to talk to me about Cobbett and some
new wheat. New wheat, indeed! Rubbish!”
“But I think,” timidly, “that he does understand about those things,
father.”
“And what good will they do him? I wish he understood a little more
about banking! Why, even Rodd is worth two of him. He’s not in the bank
four days in the week. Where is he to-day?”
“I am afraid that he took his gun—but it was the last day of the
season. He said that he would not be out again. He has been really
better lately.”
“Though I was away!” the banker exclaimed. And he said some strong
things upon the subject, to which Betty had to listen.
However, he had recovered his temper when he sent for Arthur next day.
He bade him close the door. “I want to speak to you,” he said; then he
paused a moment while Arthur waited, his color rising. “It’s about
yourself. When you came to me I did not expect much from the
experiment. I thought that you would soon tire of it, being what you
are. But you have stood to it, and you have shown a considerable
aptitude for the business. And I have made up my mind to take you in—on
conditions, of course.”
Arthur’s eyes sparkled. He had not hoped that the offer would be made
so soon, and, much moved, he tried to express his thanks. “You may be
sure that I shall do my best, sir,” he said.
“I believe you will, lad. I believe you will. Indeed, I am thinking of
myself as well as of you. I had not intended to make the offer so
soon—you are young and could wait. But you will have to bring in a
certain sum, and capital can be used at present to great advantage.”
Arthur looked grave. “I am afraid, sir——”
“Oh, I’ll make it easy,” Ovington said. “This is my offer. You will put
in five thousand pounds, and will receive for three years twelve per
cent upon this in lieu of your present salary of one hundred and
fifty—the hundred you are to be paid as Secretary to the Company is
beside the matter. At the end of three years, if we are both satisfied,
you will take an eighth share—otherwise you will draw out your money.
On my death, if you remain in the bank, your share will be increased to
a third on your bringing in another five thousand. You know enough
about the accounts to know——”
“That it’s a most generous offer,” Arthur exclaimed, his face aglow.
And with the frankness and enthusiasm, the sparkling eye and ready word
that won him so many friends, he expressed his thanks.
“Well, lad,” the other answered pleasantly, “I like you. Still, you had
better take a short time to consider the matter.”
“I want no time,” Arthur declared. “My only difficulty is about the
money. My mother’s six thousand is charged on Garth, you see.”
This was a fact well known to Ovington, and one which he had taken into
his reckoning. Perhaps, but for it, he had not been making the offer at
this moment. But he concealed his satisfaction and a smile, and “Isn’t
there a provision for calling it up?” he said.
“Yes, there is—at three months. But I am afraid that my mother——”
“Surely she would not object under the circumstances. The increased
income might be divided between you so that it would be to her profit
as well as to your advantage to make the change. Three months, eh?
Well, suppose we say the money to be paid and the articles of
partnership to be signed four months from now?”
Difficulties never loomed very large in this young man’s eyes. “Very
good, sir,” he said. “Upon my honor, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It won’t be all on your side,” the banker answered good-humoredly.
“Your name’s worth something, and you are keen. I wish to heaven you
could infect Clement with a tithe of your keenness.”
“I’ll try, sir,” Arthur replied. At that moment he felt that he could
move mountains.
“Well, that’s settled, then. Send Rodd to me, will you, and do you see
if I have left my pocket-book in the house. Betty may know where it
is.”
Arthur went through the bank, stepping on air. He gave Rodd his
message, and in a twinkling he was in the house. As he crossed the hall
his heart beat high. Lord, how he would work! What feats of banking he
would perform! How great would he make Ovington’s, so that not only
Aldshire but Lombard Street should ring with its fame! What wealth
would he not pile up, what power would he not build upon it, and how he
would crow, in the days to come, over the dull-witted clod-hopping
Squires from whom he sprang, and who had not the brains to see that the
world was changing about them and their reign approaching its end!
For at this moment he felt that he had it in him to work miracles. The
greatest things seemed easy. The fortunes of Ovington’s lay in the
future, the cycle half turned—to what a point might they not carry
them! During the last twelve months he had seen money earned with an
ease which made all things appear possible; and alert, eager, sanguine,
with an inborn talent for business, he felt that he had but to rise
with the flowing tide to reach any position which wealth could offer in
the coming age—that age which enterprise and industry, the loan, the
mill, the furnace were to make their own. The age of gold!
He burst into song. He stopped. “Betty!” he cried.
“Who is that rude boy?” the girl retorted, appearing on the stairs
above him.
He bowed with ceremony, his hand on his heart, his eyes dancing. “You
see before you the Industrious Apprentice!” he said. “He has received
the commendation of his master. It remains only that he should lay his
success at the feet of—his master’s daughter!”
She blushed, despite herself. “How silly you are!” she cried. But when
he set his foot on the lowest stair as if to join her, she fled nimbly
up and escaped. On the landing above she stood. “Congratulations, sir,”
she said, looking over the balusters. “But a little less forwardness
and a little more modesty, if you please! It was not in your articles
that you should call me Betty.”
“They are cancelled! They are gone!” he retorted. “Come down, Betty!
Come down and I will tell you such things!”
But she only made a mocking face at him and vanished. A moment later
her voice broke forth somewhere in the upper part of the house. She,
too, was singing.