But as the Squire turned to the left by the Stalls he saw his lawyer,
Frederick Welsh—rather above most lawyers were the Welsh brothers,
by-blows it was said of a great house—and Welsh stopped him. “You’re
wanted at the Bench, Squire, if you please,” he said. “His lordship is
there, and they are waiting for you.”
“But it’s not time—by an hour, man!”
“No, but it’s a special case, and will take all day, I’m afraid. His
lordship says that he won’t begin until you come. It’s that case of——”
the lawyer whispered a few words. “And the Chief Constable does not
quite trust—you understand? He’s anxious that you should be there.”
The Squire resigned himself, “Very well, I’ll come,” he said.
He could go to the bank afterwards, but he might not have complied so
readily if his vanity had not been tickled. The Justices of that day
bore a heavier burden than their successors—_hodie nominis umbrae_.
With no police force they had to take the initiative in the detection
as well as in the punishment of crime. Marked men, belonging to a
privileged class, they had to do invidious things and to enforce
obnoxious laws. They represented the executive, and they shared alike
its odium and its fearlessness. For hardly anything is more remarkable
in the history of that time than the courage of the men who held the
reins. Unpopular, assailed by sedition, undermined by conspiracy, and
pressed upon by an ever-growing public feeling, the few held on
unblenching, firm in the belief that repression was the only policy,
and doubting nothing less than their right to rule. They dined and
drank, and presented a smiling face to the world, but great and small
they ran their risks, and that they did not go unscathed, the fate of
Perceval and of Castlereagh, the collapse of Liverpool, and the
shortened lives of many a lesser man gave proof.
But even among the firm there are degrees, and in all bodies it is on
the shoulders of one or two that the onus falls. Of the one or two in
Aldshire, the Squire was one. My lord might fill the chair, Sir Charles
might assent, but it was to Griffin that their eyes wandered when an
unpleasant decision had to be taken or the public showed its teeth. And
the old man knew that this was so, and was proud of it.
To-day, however, as he watched the long hand move round the clock, he
had less patience than usual. Because he must be at the bank before it
closed, everything seemed to work against him. The witnesses were
sullen, the evidence dragged, Acherley went off on a false scent, and
being whipped back, turned crusty. The Squire fidgeted and scowled, and
then, twenty minutes before the bank closed, and when with his eyes on
the clock he was growing desperate, the chairman suggested that they
should break off for a quarter of an hour. “Confound me, if I can sit
any longer,” he said. “I must have a mouthful of something, Griffin.”
The Squire seldom took more than a hunch of bread at mid-day and could
do without that, but he was glad to agree, and a minute later he was
crossing the Market Place towards the bank. It happened that business
was brisk at the moment. Rodd, at a side desk, was showing a customer
how to draw a cheque. At the main counter a knot of farmers were
producing, with protruding tongues and hunched shoulders, something
which might pass for a signature. Two clerks were aiding them, and for
a moment the Squire stood unseen and unregarded. Impatiently he tapped
the counter with his stick, on which Rodd saw him, and, deserting his
task, came hurriedly to him.
The Squire thrust his cheque across the counter. “In gold,” he said.
The cashier scanned the cheque, his hand in the till. “Four, seven,
six-ten,” he murmured. Then his face grew serious, and without glancing
at the Squire he consulted a book which lay beside him. “Four, seven,
six-ten,” he repeated. “I am afraid—one moment, if you please, sir!”
Breaking off he made two steps to a door behind him and disappeared
through it.
He returned a moment later, followed by Ovington himself. The banker’s
face was grave, but his tone retained its usual blandness. “Good day,
Mr. Griffin,” he said. “You are drawing the whole of your balance, I
see. I trust that that does not mean that you are—making any change?”
“That is what it does mean, sir,” the Squire answered.
“Of course, it is entirely your affair——”
“Entirely.”
“But we are most anxious to accommodate you. If there is anything that
we can put right, any cause of dissatisfaction——”
“No,” said the Squire grimly. “There is nothing that you can put right.
It is only that I do not choose to do business with my family.”
The banker bowed with dignity. The incident was not altogether
unexpected. “With most people, a connection of the kind would be in our
favor,” he said.
“Not with me. And as my time is short——”
The banker bowed. “In gold, I think? May we not send it for you? It
will be no trouble.”
“No, I thank you,” the Squire grunted, hating the other for his
courtesy. “I will take it, if you please.”
“Put it in a strong bag, Mr. Rodd,” Ovington said. “I shall still hope,
Mr. Griffin, that you will think better of it.” And, bowing, he wished
the Squire “Good day,” and retired.
Rodd was a first-class cashier, but he felt the Squire eyes boring into
him, and he was twice as long in counting out the gold as he should
have been. The consequence was that when the Squire left the bank, the
hour had struck, Dean’s was closed, and the Bench was waiting for him.
He paused on the steps considering what he should do. He could not
leave so large a sum unguarded in the Justices’ room, nor could he
conveniently take it with him into the Court.
At that moment his eyes fell on Purslow, the draper, who was standing
at the door of his shop, and he crossed over to him. “Here, man, put
this in your safe and turn the key on it,” he said. “I shall call for
it in an hour or two.”
“Honored, I am sure,” said the gratified tradesman, as he took the bag.
But when he felt its weight and guessed what was in it, “Excuse me,
sir. Hadn’t you better seal it, sir?” he said. “It seems to be a large
sum.”
“No need. I shall call for it in an hour. Lock it up yourself, Purslow.
That’s all.”
Purslow, as pleased as if the Squire had given him a large order,
assured him that he would do so, and the old man stalked across to the
court, where business kept him, fidgeting and impatient, until hard on
seven. Nor did he get away then without unpleasantness.
For unluckily Acherley, who had been charged to approach him about the
Railroad, had been snubbed in the course of the day. Always an
ill-humored man, he saw his way to pay the Squire out, and chose this
moment to broach the delicate subject. He did it with as little tact as
temper.
“’Pon my honor, Griffin, you know—about this Railroad,” he said,
tackling the old man abruptly, as they were putting on their coats.
“You really must open your eyes, man, and move with the times. The
devil’s in it if we can stand still always. You might as well go back
to your old tie-wig, you know. You are blocking the way, and if you
won’t think of your own interests, you ought to think of the town. I
can tell you,” bluntly, “you are making yourself d—d unpopular there.”
Very seldom of late had anyone spoken to the Squire in that tone, and
his temper was up in a minute. “Unpopular? I don’t understand you,” he
snapped.
“Well, you ought to!”
“Unpopular? What’s that? Unpopular, sir! What the devil have we in this
room to do with popularity? I make my horse go my way, I don’t go his,
nor ask if he likes it. Damn your popularity!”
Acherley had his answer on his tongue, but Woosenham interposed. “But,
after all, Griffin,” he said mildly, “we must move with the times—even
if we don’t give way to the crowd. There’s no man whose opinion I value
more than yours, as you know, but I think you do us an injustice.”
“An injustice?” the Squire sneered. “Not I! The fact is, Woosenham, you
are letting others use you for a stalking horse. Some are fools, and
some—I leave you to put a name to them! If you’d give two thoughts to
this Railroad yourself, you’d see that you have nothing to gain by it,
except money that you can do without! While you stand to lose more than
money, and that’s your good name!”
Sir Charles changed color. “My good name?” he said, bristling feebly.
“I don’t understand you, Griffin.”
One of the others, seeing a quarrel in prospect, intervened. “There,
there,” he said, hoping to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Griffin
doesn’t mean it, Woosenham. He doesn’t mean——”
“But I do mean it,” the old man insisted. “I mean every word of it.” He
felt that the general sense was against him, but that was nothing to
him. Wasn’t he the oldest present, and wasn’t it his duty to stop this
folly if he could? “I tell you plainly, Woosenham,” he continued, “it
isn’t only your affair, if you lend your name to this business. You
take it up, and a lot of fools who know nothing about it, who know
less, by G—d, than you do, will take it up too! And will put their
money in it and go daundering up and down quoting you as if you were
Solomon! And that tickles you! But what will they say of you if the
affair turns out to be a swindle—another South Sea Bubble, by G—d! And
half the town and half the country are ruined by it! What’ll they say
of you then—and of us?”
Acherley could be silent no longer. “Nobody’s going to be ruined by
it!” he retorted—he saw that Sir Charles looked much disturbed.
“Nobody! If you ask me, I think what you’re saying is d—d nonsense.”
“It may be,” the Squire said sternly. “But just another word, please. I
want you to understand, Woosenham, that this is not your affair only.
It touches every one of us. What are we in this room? If we are those
to whom the administration of this county is entrusted, let us act as
such—and keep our hands clean. But if we are a set of money-changers
and bill-mongers,” with contempt, “stalking horses for such men as
Ovington the banker, dirtying our hands with all the tricks of the
money market—that’s another matter. But I warn you—you can’t be both.
And for my part—we don’t any longer wear swords to show we are
gentlemen, but I’m hanged if I’ll wear an apron or have anything to do
with this business. A railroad? Faugh! As if horses’ legs and Telford’s
roads aren’t good enough for us, or as if tea-kettles will ever beat
the Wonder coach—fifteen hours to London.”
Acherley had been restrained with difficulty, and he now broke loose.
“Griffin,” he cried, “you’re damned offensive! If you wore a sword as
you used to——”
“Pooh! Pooh!” said the Squire and shrugged his shoulders, while Sir
Charles, terribly put out both by the violence of the scene and by the
picture which the Squire had drawn, put in a feeble protest. “I must
say,” he said, “I think this uncalled for, Griffin. I think you might
have spared us this. You may not agree with us——”
“But damme if he shall insult us!” Acherley cried, trembling with
passion.
“Pooh, pooh!” said the Squire again. “I’m an old man, and it is useless
to talk to me in that strain. I’ve spoken my mind, and——”
“Ay, and you horse two of the coaches!” Acherley retorted. “And make a
profit by that, dirty or no! But where’d your profit be, if your father
who rode post to London had stood pat where he was? And set himself
against coaches as you set yourself against the railroad?”
That was a shrewd hit and the Squire did not meet it. Instead, “Well,
right or wrong,” he said, “that’s my opinion. And right or wrong, no
railroad crosses my land, and that’s my last word!”
“We’ll see about that,” Acherley answered, bubbling with rage. “There
are more ways than one of cooking a goose.”
“Just so. But——,” with a steady look at him, “which is the cook and
which is the goose, Acherley? Perhaps you’ll find that out some day.”
And the Squire clapped on his hat—he had already put on his shabby old
driving coat. But he had still a word to say. “I’m the oldest man
here,” he said, looking round upon them, “and I may take a liberty and
ask no man’s pleasure. You, Woosenham, and you gentlemen, let this
railroad alone. If you are going to move at twenty-five miles an hour,
then, depend upon it, more things will move than you wot of, and more
than you’ll like. Ay, you’ll have movement—movement enough and changes
enough if you go on! So I say, leave it alone, gentlemen. That’s my
advice.”
He went out with that and stamped down the stairs. He had not sought
the encounter, and, now that he was alone, his knees shook a little
under him. But he had held his own and spoken his mind, and on the
whole he was content with himself.
The same could not be said of those whom he had warned. Acherley,
indeed, abused him freely, but the majority were impressed, and Sir
Charles, who respected his opinion, was sorely shaken. He put no trust
in Acherley, whose debts and difficulties were known, and Ovington was
not there to reassure him. He valued the good opinion of his world, and
what, he reflected, if the Squire were right? What if in going into
this scheme he had made a mistake? The picture that Griffin had drawn
of town and country pointing the finger at him rose like a nightmare
before him, and would, he knew, accompany him home and darken his
dinner-table. And Ovington? Ovington was doubtless a clever man and, as
a banker, well versed in these enterprises. But Fauntleroy—Fauntleroy,
with whose name the world had rung these twelve months past, he, too,
had been clever and enterprising and plausible. Yet what a fate had
been his, and what losses had befallen all who had trusted him, all who
had been involved with him!
Sir Charles went home an unhappy man. He wished that Griffin had not
warned him, or that he had warned him earlier. Of what use was a
warning when his lot was cast and he was the head and front of the
matter, President of the Company, Chairman of the Board?
Meanwhile the Squire stood on the steps of the Court House, cursing his
man. The curricle was not there, Thomas was not there, it was growing
dark, and a huge pile of clouds, looming above the roofs to westward,
threatened tempest. The shopkeepers were putting up their shutters, the
packmen binding up their bundles, stall-keepers hurrying away their
trestles, and the Market Place, strewn with the rubbish and debris of
the day, showed dreary by the failing light. In the High Street there
was still some traffic, and in the lanes and alleys around candles
began to shine out. A one-legged sailor, caterwauling on a crazy
fiddle, had gathered a small crowd before one of the taverns.
“Hang the man! Where is he?” the Squire muttered, looking about him
with a disgusted eye, and wishing himself at home. “Where is the
rogue?”
Then Thomas, driving slowly and orating to a couple of men who walked
beside the carriage, came into view. The Squire roared at him, and
Thomas, taken by surprise, whipped up his horses so sharply that he
knocked over a hawker’s basket. Still storming at him the old man
climbed to his seat and took the reins. He drove round the corner into
Bride Hill, and stopped at Purslow’s door.
The draper was at the carriage wheel before it stopped. He had the bag
in his hand, but he did not at once hand it up. “Excuse me, excuse the
liberty, sir,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing at Thomas, “but
it’s a large sum, sir, and it’s late. Hadn’t I better keep it till
morning?”
The Squire snapped at him. “Morning? Rubbish, man! Put it in.” He made
room for the bag at his feet.
But the draper still hesitated. “It will be dark in ten minutes, sir,
and the road—it’s true, no one has been stopped of late, but——”
“I’ve never been stopped in my life,” the Squire rejoined. “Put it in,
man, and don’t be a fool. Who’s to stop me between here and Garth?”
Purslow muttered something about the safe side, but he complied. He
handed in the bag, which gave out a clinking sound as it settled itself
beside the Squire’s feet. The old man nodded his thanks and started his
horses.
He drove down Bride Hill, and by the Stalls, where the taps were
humming, and the inns were doing a great business. Passing one or two
belated carts, he turned to the right and descended to the bridge, the
old houses with their galleries and gables looming above him as for
three centuries they had loomed above the traveller by the Welsh road.
He rumbled over the bridge, the wide river flowing dark below him. Then
he trotted sharply up Westwell, passing by the inns that in old days
had served those who arrived after the gates were closed.
Now he faced the open country and the wet west wind, and he settled
himself down in his seat and shook up his horses. As he did so his foot
touched the bag, and again the gold gave out a clinking sound.