The Squire raised himself painfully on his elbow and hid the bag
between pillow and tester, where he could assure himself of its
presence by a touch. Then he sank back with a grunt of relief and his
hand went to the keys, which also had their home under his pillow. He
clung to them—they were his badge of authority, of power. While he had
them, sightless as he was, he was still master; about his room, the
oak-panelled chamber, spacious but shabby, with the uneven floor and
the low wide casement, the life of the house still circled.
“Good lad!” he muttered. “Good lad! Jos?”
“Yes, father.” She rose and came towards him.
“Where’s Arthur?”
“He went out with your message.”
“To be sure! To be sure! I’m forgetting.”
But, once started on the road to recovery, he did not forget much. From
his high, four-post bed with the drab hangings in which his father and
grandfather had died, he gripped house and lands in a firm grip.
Morning by morning he would have his report of the lambs, of the wheat,
of the hay-corps, of the ploughing on the eight acres where the Swedish
turnips were to go. He would know what corn went to the mill, what
mutton to the house. The bounds-fence that Farmer Bache had neglected
was not forgotten, nor the young colt that he had decided to take
against Farmer Price’s arrears, nor the lease for lives that involved a
knotty point of which he proved himself to be in complete possession.
Indeed, he showed himself indomitable, the old heart in him still
strong; so that neither the shock that he had borne, nor the pain that
he had suffered, nor the possibility of permanent blindness which they
could not wholly hide from him, sufficed to subdue or unman him.
Only in one or two things was a change apparent. He reverted more often
to an older and ruder form of speech familiar to him when George the
Third was young, but which of late he had only used when talking with
his tenants. He said “Dunno you do this!” and “I wunt ha’ that!” used
“ship” for sheep, and “goold” for gold, called Thomas a “gallus bad
rascal,” and the like.
And in another and more important point he was changed. For eyes he
must now depend on someone, and though he showed that he liked to have
Jos about him and bore with her when the Pea-hen’s fussiness drove him
to bad words, it was soon clear that the person he chose was Arthur.
Arthur was restored, and more than restored to favor. It was “Where’s
Arthur?” a score of times a day. Arthur must come, must go, must be
ever at his elbow. He must check such and such an account, see the
overseers about such an one, speak to the constable about another, go
into Aldersbury about the lease. Even when Arthur was absent the
Squire’s thoughts ran on him, and often he would mutter “Good lad! Good
lad!” when he thought himself alone.
It was a real _bouleversement_, but Josina, supposing that Arthur had
saved her father’s life at the risk of his own, and had then added to
his merit by recovering the lost money, found it natural enough. For
the full details of the robbery had never been told to her. “Better
leave it alone, Jos,” Arthur had said when she had again shown a desire
to know more. “It was a horrid business and you won’t want to dream of
it. Another minute and that d—d villain would have—but there, I’d
advise you to leave it alone.”
Jos, suspecting nothing, had not demurred, but on the contrary had
thought Arthur as modest as he was brave. And the doctor, with an eye
to his patient’s well-being, had taken the same view. “Put no questions
to him,” he said, “and don’t talk to him about it. Time enough to go
into it by and by, when the shock’s worn off. The odds are that he will
remember nothing that happened just before the scoundrel struck
his—that’s the common thing—and so much the better, my dear. Let
sleeping dogs lie, or, as we doctors say, don’t think about your
stomach till your victuals trouble you.”
So Josina knew no particulars except that Arthur had saved his uncle’s
life, and Clement—she shuddered as she thought of it—had come up in
time to be of service. And no one at Garth knew more. But, knowing so
much, it was not surprising to her that Arthur should be restored to
favor, and, lately forbidden the house, should now rule it as a master.
And clearly Arthur, also, found the position natural, so easily did he
fall into it. He was up and down the old shallow stairs—which the
Squire, true to the fashions of his youth, had never carpeted—a dozen
times a day. He was as often in and out of his uncle’s bedroom, or
sitting on the deep window-seat on which generations of mothers had
sunned their babes; and all this with a laugh and a cheery word that
wondrously brightened the sick room. Alert, quick, serviceable, and
willing to take any responsibility, he made himself a favorite with
all. Even Calamy, who shook his head over every improvement in the
Squire, and murmured much of the “old lamp flickering before it went
out,” grew hopeful in his presence. Miss Peacock adored him. He put
Josina’s nose out of joint.
Of the young fellow, whose moodiness had of late perplexed his
companions in the bank, not a trace remained. Had they seen him as he
was now they might have been tempted to think that a weight had been
lifted from him. But he seemed, for the time, to have forgotten the
bank. He rarely mentioned the Ovingtons.
There was one at Garth, however, who had not forgotten either the bank
or the Ovingtons; and proved it presently to Arthur’s surprise. “Jos,”
said the Squire one afternoon. And when she had replied that she was
there, “Where is Arthur?”
“I think he has just come in, sir.”
“Prop me up. And send him to me. Do you leave us.”
She went, wondering a little for she had not been dismissed before. She
sent Arthur, who, after his usual fashion, scaled the stairs at three
bounds. He found the old man sitting up in the shadow of the curtains,
a grotesque figure with his bandaged head. The air of the room was not
so much musty as ancient, savoring of worm-eaten wood and long decayed
lavender, and linen laid by in presses. On each side of the drab tester
hung a dim flat portrait, faded and melancholy, in a carved wooden
frame, unglazed; below each hung a sampler. “You sent for me, sir?”
“Ay. When’s that money due?”
The question was so unexpected that for a moment Arthur did not take it
in. Then the blood rushed to his face. “My mother’s money, sir?”
“What else? What other money is there, that’s due? I forget things but
I dunno forget that.”
“You don’t forget much, sir,” Arthur replied cheerfully. “But there’s
no hurry about that.”
“When?”
“Well, in two months from the twenty-first, sir. But there is not the
least hurry.”
“This is the seventeenth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll pay and ha’ done with it. But I’ll ha’ to sell stock. East
India Stock it is. What are they at, lad?”
“Somewhere about two hundred and seventy odd, I think, sir.”
“And how do you sell ’em?” The Squire knew a good deal about buying
stock but little about selling it, and he winced as he put the
question. But he bore the pang gallantly, for had not the boy earned
his right to the money and to his own way? Ay, and earned it by a
service as great as one man could perform for another? For the Squire
had no more reason than those about him to doubt that he owed his life
to his nephew. He had found him beside his bed when he had recovered
his senses, and putting together this and certain words which had
fallen from others, and adding his own hazy impressions of the
happenings of the night, and of the young man on whose shoulder he had
leant, he had never questioned the fact. “How do you go about to sell
’em?” he repeated. “I suppose you know?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it’s my business,” Arthur replied. “You have to get a
transfer—they are issued at the India House. You’ve only to sign it
before two witnesses. It is quite simple, sir.”
“Well, I can do that. Do you see to it, lad.”
“You wouldn’t wish to do it through Ovington’s?”
“No!” the Squire rapped out. “Do it yourself. And lose no time. Write
at once.”
“Very well, sir. I suppose you have the certificates?”
“’Course I have,” annoyed. “Isn’t the stock mine?”
“Very good, sir. I’ll see to it.”
“Well, see to it. And, mark ye, when you’re in Aldersbury see Welshes,
and tell them I’m waiting for that lease of lives. I signed the
agreement for the new lease six weeks ago and I should ha’ had the
lease by now. Stir ’em up, and say I must have it. The longer I’m
waiting the longer the bill will be! I know ’em, damn ’em, though
Welshes are not the worst.”
When he had settled this he wanted a letter written, and Arthur sat
down at the oaken bureau that stood between the windows, its faded
green lining stained with the ink of a century and its pigeon-holes
crammed with receipts and sample-bags. While he wrote his thoughts were
busy with the matter that they had just discussed, but it was not until
he found himself standing at a window outside the room, staring with
unseeing eyes over the green vale, that he brought his thoughts to a
head, and knew that even at the eleventh hour he hesitated.
Yes, he hesitated. The thing that he had so much desired, that had
presented itself to him in such golden hues, that had dazzled his
ambition and absorbed his mind, was within his grasp now, ready to be
garnered—and yet he hesitated. Ovington was a just man and beyond doubt
would release him and cancel the partnership agreement, if he desired
to have it cancelled. And he was very near to desiring it at this
moment.
For he saw now that there were other things to be garnered—Garth, its
broad acres, its fine rent-roll, the old man’s savings, Josina. Secure
of the Squire’s favor he had but to stretch out his hand, and all these
things might be his; might certainly be his if he gave up the bank and
his prospects there. That step, if he took it, would remove his uncle’s
last objection; it would bind him to him by a triple bond. And it would
do more. It would ease his own mind, by erasing from the past—for he
would no longer need the five thousand—a thing which troubled his
conscience and harassed him when he lay awake at night. It would erase
that blot, it would make all clean behind him, and it would at the same
time remove the impalpable barrier that had risen between him and his
mother.
It was still in his power to do all this. A word would do it. He had
only to go back to the Squire and tell him that he had changed his
mind, that he no longer wanted the money, and was not going into the
bank.
He hesitated, standing at the window, looking on the green vale and the
hillside beyond it. Yes, he might do it. But what if he repented later?
And what security had he for those other things? His uncle might live
for years, long years, might live to quarrel with him and discard him.
Did not the proverb say that it was ill-work waiting for dead men’s
shoes? And Josina? Doubtless he might win Josina, for the wooing; he
had no doubt about that. But he was not sure that he wanted Josina.
He decided at last that the question might wait. Until he had written
the letter to the brokers, until then, at any rate, either course was
open to him. He went downstairs. In the wainscoted hall, small and
square, with a high narrow window on each side of the door, his mother
and Josina were sitting on one of the window seats. The door stood
open, the spring air and the sunshine poured in. “I’m telling her that
she’s not looking well,” his mother said, as he joined them.
“She spends too much time in that room,” he answered. Then, after a
moment’s thought, rattling the money in his fob, “Is Farmer coming
to-day?”
“No.” The girl spoke listlessly. “I don’t think he is.”
“He’s made a wonderful recovery,” his mother observed.
“Yes—if it’s a real recovery.”
“At any rate, the doctor hopes that he may come downstairs in ten days.
And then, I’m afraid, we shall have Josina to nurse.”
The girl protested that she was well, quite well. But her heavy eyes
and the shadows under them belied her words.
“Well, I’m off to town,” he said, “I have to see Welshes for him.”
He left them, and ten minutes later he was on the road to Aldersbury,
still undecided, still uncertain what course he would pursue, and at
one moment accusing himself of a weakness that deserved the contempt of
every strong man, at another praising moderation and a country life.
Had he had eyes and ears for the things about him as he rode, he might
have found much to support the latter view. The cawing of rooks, the
murmur of wood-doves, the scents of late spring filled the balmy air.
The sky was pure blue, and beneath it the pastures shone yellow with
buttercups. Tree and field, bank and hedge-row rioted in freshest
green, save where the oak wood, slow to change and careless of fashion,
clung to its orange garb, or the hawthorn stood out, a globe of snow.
The cuckoo and the early corncrake told of coming summer, and behind
him the Welsh hills simmered in the first heat of the year. Clement,
had he passed that way, would have noted it all, and in the delight of
the eye and the spring-tide of all growing things would have found
ground to rejoice, whatever his trouble.
But Arthur, wrapt in his own thoughts, barely noticed these things. He
rode with his eyes fixed on his horse’s ears, and only roused himself
when he saw the very man whom he wished to see coming to meet him. It
was Dr. Farmer, in the mahogany-topped boots, the frilled shirt, and
the old black coat—shaped as are our dress coats but buttoned tightly
round the waist—which the dust of a dozen summers and every road in the
district had whitened.
“Hallo, doctor!” Arthur cried as they met. “Are you going up to the
house to-day?”
“No, Mr. Bourdillon. But I can if necessary. How is he?”
“That is what I want you to tell me. One can’t talk freely at the house
and I have a reason for wishing to know. How is he, doctor?”
“Do you mean——”
“Has this really shaken him? Will he be the same man again?”
“I see.” Farmer rubbed his chin with the horn-handle of his
riding-crop. “Well—I see no reason at present why he should not be.
He’s one in a hundred, you know. Sound heart, good digestion, a little
gouty—but tough. Tough! You never know, of course. There may be some
harm we haven’t detected, but I should say that he had a good few years
of life in him yet.”
“Ah!”
“Of course, an unusual recovery—from such injuries. And I say nothing
about the sight. I’m not hopeful of that.”
“Well,” said Arthur. “I’ll tell you why I asked. There’s a question
arisen about a lease for lives—his is one. But you won’t talk, of
course.”
Farmer nodded. He found it quite natural. Leases for lives were still
common, and doctors were often consulted as to the value of lives which
survived or which it was proposed to insert. With another word or two
they parted and Arthur rode on.
But he no longer doubted. To wait for eight or ten years, dependent on
the whims of an arbitrary and crotchety old man? No! Only in a moment
of imbecility could he have dreamed of resigning for this, the golden
opportunities that the new world, opening before him, offered to all
who had the courage to seize them. He had been mad to think of it, and
now he was sane. Garth was worth a mass. He might have served a year or
two for it. But seven, or it might be ten? No. Besides, why should he
not take the Squire at his word and make the best of both worlds, and
availing himself of the favor he had gained, employ the one to exploit
the other? He had his foot in at Garth and he was no fool, he could
make himself useful. Already, he was well aware, he had made himself
liked.
It was noon when he rode into Aldersbury, the town basking in the first
warmth of the year, the dogs lying stretched in the sunshine. And he
was in luck, for, having met Farmer, he now met Frederick Welsh coming
down Maerdol. The lawyer, honestly concerned for his old friend, was
urgent in inquiry, and when he had heard the news, “Thank God!” he
said. “I’m as pleased to hear that as if I’d made a ten-pound note!
Aldshire without the Squire—things would be changing, indeed!”
Arthur told him what the Squire had said about the lease. But that was
another matter. The Squire was too impatient. “He’s got his agreement.
We’ll draw the lease as soon as we can,” the lawyer said. “The office
is full, and more haste less speed. We’ll let him know when it’s
ready.” Like all old firms he was dilatory. There was no hurry. All in
good time.
They parted, and Arthur rode up the street, alert and smiling, and many
eyes followed him—followed him with envy. He worked at the bank, he had
his rooms on the Town Walls, he chatted freely with this townsman and
that. He was not proud. But they never forgot who he was. They did not
talk to him as they talked even to Ovington. Ovington had risen and was
rich, but he came as they came, of common clay. But this young man,
riding up the street in the sunshine, smiling and nodding this way and
that, his hand on his thigh, belonged to another order. He was a
Griffin—a Griffin of Garth. He might lose his all, his money might fly
from him, but he would still be a Griffin, one of the caste that ruled
as well as reigned, that held in its grasp power and patronage. They
looked after him with envy.