The week in early June which witnessed Arthur’s return to his seat at
the bank—that and the following week which saw his mother’s five
thousand pounds paid over for his share in the concern—saw the tide of
prosperity which during two years had been constantly swelling, reach
its extreme point. The commerce and wealth of the country, as they rose
higher and higher in this flood-time of fortune, astonished even the
casual observer. Their increase seemed to be without limit; they
answered to every call. They not only filled the old channels, but
over-ran them, irrigating, in appearance at least, a thousand fields
hitherto untilled. Abroad, the flag of commerce was said to fly where
it had never flown before; its clippers brought merchandise not only
from the Indies, East and West, and tea from China, and wool from
Sydney, and rich stuffs from the Levant, but Argosies laden with
freight still more precious were—or were reported to be—on their way
from that new Southern continent on the opening of which to British
trade so many hopes depended. The gold and silver of Peru, the diamonds
of Brazil, the untapped wealth of the Plate were believed to be afloat
and ready to be exchanged for the produce of our looms and spindles,
our ovens and forges.
Nor was that produce likely to fail, for at home the glow of foundries,
working night-shifts, lit up the northern sky, and in many a Lancashire
or Yorkshire dale, old factories, brought again into service, shook,
almost to falling, under the thunder of the power-loom. Mills and
mines, potteries and iron-works changed hands from day to day, at
ever-rising prices. Men who had never invested before, save in the
field at their gate, or the house under their eyes, rushed eagerly to
take shares in these ventures, and in thousands of offices and parlors
conned their securities, summed up the swelling total of their gains,
and rushed to buy and buy again, with a command of credit which seemed
to have no bottom.
To provide that credit, the banks widened their operations, increased,
on the security of stocks ever rising in value, their over-drafts,
issued batch after batch of fresh notes. The most cautious admitted
that accommodation must keep step with trade; and the huge strides
which this was making, the changed conditions, the wider outlook, the
calling in of the new world to augment the wealth of the old—all seemed
to demand an advance which promised to be as profitable as it was
warranted. To the ordinary eye the sun of prosperity shone in an
unclouded sky. Even the experienced, though they scanned the heavens
with care, saw nothing to dismay them. Only here and there an old fogey
whose memory went back to the crisis of ’93, or to the famous Black
Monday of twenty years earlier, uttered a note of warning; or some
mechanical clerk, of the stamp of Rodd, sunk in a rut of routine,
muttered of Accommodation Bills where his employer saw only legitimate
trade. But their croakings, feeble at best, were lost in the joyous
babble of an Exchange, enriched by commissions, and drunk with success.
It was a new era. It was the age of gold. It was the fruit of
conditions long maturing. Men’s labor, aided by machinery, was
henceforth to be so productive that no man need be poor, all might be
rich. Experts, reviewing the progress which had been made and the
changes which had been wrought during the last fifty years, said these
things; and the vulgar took them up and repeated them. The Bank of
England acted as if they were true. The rate of discount was low.
And while all men thus stretched out their hands to catch the golden
manna Aldersbury was not idle. The appetite for gain grows by what it
feeds upon and Aldersbury appetites had been whetted by early successes
in their own field. The woollen mills, sharing in the general
prosperity of the last two years, had done well, and more than one mill
had changed hands at unheard-of prices. The Valleys were said to be
full of money which, or part of it, trickled into the town, improving a
trade already brisk. Many had made large gains by outside speculations
and had boasted of them. Report had multiplied their profits, others
had joined in and they too had gained, and their gains had fired the
greed of their neighbors. Some had followed up their first successes.
Others prepared to extend their businesses, built new premises, put in
new-fangled glass windows, and by their action gave an impetus to
subordinate trades, and spread still farther the sense of well-being.
On the top of all this had come the Valleys Railroad Scheme, backed by
Ovington’s Bank, and offering to everyone a chance of speculating on
his door-step: a scheme which while it appealed to local pride, had a
specious look of safety, since the railway was to be built under the
shareholders’ own eyes, across the fields they knew, and by men whom
they saw going in and out every day.
There was a great run on it. Some of the gentry, following the old
Squire’s example, held aloof, but others put their hundreds into it,
not much believing in it but finding it an amusing gamble. The
townsfolk took it more seriously, with the result that a week after
allotment the shares were changing hands at a premium of thirty
shillings and there was still a busy market in them. Some who, tempted
by the premium, sold at a profit suspected as soon as they had sold
that they had thrown away their one chance of wealth, and went into the
market and bought again, and so the rise was maintained and even
extended. More than once Ovington put in a word of caution, reminding
his customers that the first sod was not yet cut, that all the work was
to do, that even the Bill was not yet passed. But his warnings were
disregarded.
To the majority it seemed a short and easy way to fortune, and they
wondered that they had been so simple in the past as to know nothing of
it. It was by this way, they now saw, that Ovington had risen to
wealth, while they, poor fools, not yet admitted to the secret, had
gaped and wondered. And what a secret it was! To rise in the morning
richer by fifty pounds than they had gone to bed! To retire at night
with another fifty as good as in the bank, or in the old and now
despised stocking! The slow increment of trade seemed mean and
despicable beside their hourly growing profits, made while men slept or
dined, made, as a leading tradesman pithily said, while they wore out
their breeches on their chairs! Few troubled themselves about the Bill,
or the cutting of the first sod, or considered how long it would be
before the railroad was at work! Fewer still asked themselves whether
this untried scheme would ever pay. It was enough for them that the
shares were ever rising, that men were always to be found to buy them
at the current price, and that they themselves were growing richer week
by week.
For the directors these were great days! They walked Bride Hill and the
Market Place with their heads high and their toes turned out. They
talked in loud voices in the streets. They got together in corners and
whispered, their brows heavy with the weight of affairs. They were
great men. The banker, it is true, did not like the pitch to which the
thing was being carried, but it was his business to wear a cheerful
face, and he had no misgivings to speak of, though he knew that success
was a long way off. And even on him the prosperity of the venture had
some effect. Sir Charles and Acherley, too, were not of those who
openly exulted; it is possible that the latter sold a few shares, or
even a good many shares.
But Purslow and Grounds and Wolley? Who shall describe the importance
which sat upon their brows, the dignity of their strut, the gravity of
their nod, the mock humility of their reticence? Never did they go in
or go out without the consciousness that the eyes of passers-by were
upon them! Theirs to make men’s fortunes by a hint—and their bearing
betrayed that they knew it. Purslow’s apron was discarded, no longer
did he come out to customers in the street; if he still rubbed one hand
over the other it was in self-content. Grounds was dazzled, and wore
his Sunday clothes on week-days. Wolley, always a braggart, swaggered
and talked, closed his eyes to his commitments and remembered only his
gains. He talked of buying another mill, he even entered into a
negotiation with that in view. He was convinced that safety lay in
daring, and that this was the golden moment, if he would free himself
from the net of debt that for years had been weaving itself about him.
He assumed the airs of a rich man, but he was not the worst. The
draper, if more honest, had less brains, and success threw him off his
balance. “A little country ’ouse,” he said, speaking among his
familiars. “I’m thinking of buying a little country ’ouse. Two miles
from town. A nice distance.” He recalled the fact that the founder of
Sir Charles’s family had been Mayor of Aldersbury in the days of Queen
Bess, and had bought the estate with money made in the town. “Who
knows,” with humility—“my lad’s a good lad—what may come of it? After
all there is nothing like land.”
Grounds shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t double——”
“Double itself in a month, Grounds? No. But all in good time. All in
good time. ’Istory repeats itself. My lad may be a parliament-man, yet.
I saw Ovington this morning.” Two months before it would have been “Mr.
Ovington.” “He’s sold those Anglo-Mexicans for me and it beats all! A
gold-mine! Bought at forty, sold at seventy-two! He wanted me to pay
off the bank, but not I, Grounds. When you can borrow at seven and
double the money in a month! No, no! Truth is, he’s jealous. He gets
only seven per cent. and sees me coining! Of course he wants his money.
No, no, I said.”
Grounds looked doubtful. He was too cautious to operate on borrowed
money. “I don’t know. After all, enough is as good as a feast,
Purslow.”
Purslow prodded him playfully. “Ay, but what is enough?” he chuckled.
“No. We’ve been let in and I mean to stay in. There’s plenty of fools
grubbing along in the old way, but you and me, we are inside now,
Grounds, and I mean to stay in. The days of five per cent are gone for
you and me. Gone! ’Twarn’t by five per cent. that Ovington got where he
is.”
“My wife wants a silk dress.”
“Let ’er ’ave it! And come to me for it! You can afford it!” He
strutted off. “Grounds all over!” he muttered. “Close; d—d close!
Hasn’t the pluck of a mouse—and a year ago he could buy me twice over!”
In fancy he saw his Jack a college-man and counsellor, and by and by he
passed various parks and halls before his mental vision and saw Jack
seated in them, saw him Sir John Purslow, saw him Member for
Aldersbury. He held his head high as he marched across the street to
his shop, jingling the silver in his fob. Queen Bess, indeed, what were
Queen Bess’s days to these?
But a man cannot talk big without paying for the luxury. The draper’s
foreman asked for higher wages; his second hand also. Purslow gave the
rise, but, reminded that their pay was in arrear, “No, Jenkins, no,” he
said. “You must wait. Hang it, man, do you think I’ve nothing better to
do with my money in these days than pay you fellows to the day? ’Ere!
’ere’s a pound on account. Let it run! Let it run! All in good time,
man. Fancy my credit’s good enough?”
And instead of meeting the last acceptance that he’d given to his
cloth-merchant, he took it up with another bill at two months—a thing
he had never done before. “Credit! Credit’s the thing in these days,”
he said, winking. “Cash? Excuse me! Out of date, man, with them that
knows. Credit’s the ’orse!”
Arthur Bourdillon wore his honors more modestly, and courted the mean
with success. But even he felt the intoxication of this noontide
prosperity. At Garth he had doubted, and suffered scruples to weigh
with him. But no sooner had he returned to the bank than the atmosphere
of money enveloped him, and discerning that it was now in his power to
make the best of two worlds, hitherto inconsistent, he plunged with
gusto into the business. As secretary of the company he was a person to
be courted; as a partner, now recognized, in the bank, he was more. He
felt himself capable of all, for had not all succeeded with him? And
awake to the fact that the times were abnormal—though he did not deduce
from this the lesson he should have drawn—he thanked his stars that he
was there to profit by them, and to make the most of them.
He was beyond doubt an asset to the bank. His birth, his manners, his
good looks, the infection of his laugh made him a favorite with gentle
and simple. And then he worked. He had energy, he was tireless, no task
was too hard or too long for him. But he labored under one
disadvantage, though he did not know it. He had had experience of the
rise, not of the fall. As far back as he had been connected with
Ovington’s, trade had continued to expand, things had gone well; and by
nature he was sanguine and leant towards the bold policy. He threw his
weight on that side, and, able and self-confident, he made himself
felt. Even Ovington yielded to the thrust of his opinion, was swayed by
him, and at times, perhaps, put a little out of his course.
Not that Arthur was without his troubles. Naturally and inevitably a
cloud had fallen on the relation, friendly hitherto, between him and
Clement. Clement had grown cool to him, and the change was unwelcome,
for it was in Arthur’s nature to love popularity and to thrive and to
bask in the sunshine of it. But it could not be helped. Without
breaking eggs one could not make omelettes. Clement blamed him, he
knew, feeling, and with reason, that what he had done deserved
acknowledgment, and that it lay with Arthur to see that justice was
done. And Arthur, for his part, would have gladly acquitted himself of
the debt had it consisted with his own interests. But it did not.
Had he suspected the tie between Clement and Josina he might have acted
otherwise. He might have foreseen the possibility of Clement’s gaining
the old man’s ear, might have scented danger, and played a more
cautious game. But he knew nothing of this. Garth and Clement stood
apart in his mind. Clement and Josina were as far as he knew barely
acquainted. He was aware, therefore, of no special reason why Clement
should desire to stand well at Garth, while he felt sure that his
friend was the last person to push a claim, or to thrust himself
uninvited on the Squire’s gratitude.
Accordingly, and the more as the banker had not himself taken up the
quarrel, he put it aside as of no great importance. He shrugged his
shoulders and told himself that Clement would come round. The cloud
would pass, and its cause be forgotten.
In the meantime he ignored it. He met Clement’s hostility with bland
unconsciousness, smiled and was pleasant. He was too busy a man to be
troubled by trifles. He was not going to be turned from his course by
the passing frown of a silly fellow, who could not hold an advantage
when he had won it.
Betty was another matter. Betty was behaving ill and showing temper, in
league apparently with her brother and sympathizing with him. She was
changed from the Betty of old days. He had lost his hold upon her, and
though this fell in well enough with the change in his views—or the
possible change, for he had not quite made up his mind—it pricked his
conceit as much as it surprised him. Moreover, the girl had a sharp
tongue and was not above using it, so that more than once he smarted
under its lash.
“Fine feathers make fine birds!” she said, as Arthur came bounding into
the house one day and all but collided with her. “Only they should be
your own, Mr. Daw!”
“Oh, I give your father all the credit,” he replied, “only I do some of
the work. But you used not to be so critical, Betty.”
“No? Well, I’ll tell you why if you like.”
“Oh, I don’t want to know.”
“No, I don’t think you do!” the girl retorted. “But I’ll tell you. I
thought your feathers were your own then. Now—I should be uneasy if I
were you.”
“Why?”
“You might fall among crows and be plucked. I can tell you, you’d be a
sorry sight in your own feathers!”
He turned a dusky red. The shaft had gone home, but he tried to hide
the wound. “A dull bird, eh?” he said, affecting to misunderstand her.
“Well, I thought you liked dull birds. I couldn’t be duller than Rodd,
and you don’t find fault with him.”
It was a return shot, aimed only to cover his retreat. But the shot
told in a way that surprised him. Betty reddened to her hair, and her
eyes snapped.
“At any rate, Mr. Rodd is what he seems!” she cried.
“Oh! oh!”
“He’s not hollow!”
“No! Of course not. A most witty, bright, amusing gentleman, the pink
of fashion, and—what is it?—the mould of form! Hollow? Oh, no, Betty,
very solid, I should say—and stolid!” with a grin. “Not a roaring
blade, perhaps—I could hardly call him that, but a sound, substantial,
wooden—gentleman! I am sure that your father values him highly as a
clerk, and would value him still more highly as——”
“What?”
“I need not put it into words—but it lies with you to qualify him for
the post. Rodd? Well, well, times are changed, Betty! But we live and
learn.”
“You have a good deal to learn,” she cried, bristling with anger,
“about women!”
He got away then, retiring in good order and pleased that he had not
had the worst of it; hoping, too, that he had closed the little
spitfire’s mouth. But there he found himself mistaken. The young lady
was of a high courage, and perhaps had been a little spoiled. Where she
once felt contempt she made no bones about showing it, and whenever
they met, her frankness, sharpened by a woman’s intuition, kept him on
tenter-hooks.
“You seem to think very ill of me,” he said once. “And yet you trouble
yourself a good deal about me.”
“You make a mistake!” she replied. “I am not troubling myself about
you. I’m thinking of my father.”
“Ah! Now you are out of my reach. That’s beyond me.”
“I wish he were!”
“He knows his own business.”
“I hope he does!” she riposted. And though it was the memory of Rodd’s
warning that supplied the dart, the animosity that sped it had another
source. The truth was that her brother had at last taken her into his
confidence.
It was not without great unhappiness that he had seen all the hopes
which he had built upon the Squire’s gratitude come to nothing. He had
hoped, and for a time had been even confident; but nothing had
happened, no message, no summons had reached him. The events of that
night might have been a dream, as far as he was concerned. Yet he could
not see his way to blow his own trumpet, or proclaim what he had done.
He stood no better than before, and indeed his position was worse.
For as long as the Squire lay bedridden and ill he could not go to him.
Even when the report came that he was mending, Clement hesitated. To go
to him, basing his claim on what had happened, to go to him and tell
the story, as he must, with his own lips—this presented difficulties
from which a man with delicate feelings might well shrink!
Meanwhile a veil had fallen between him and Josina. He had sworn that
he would not see her again until he could claim her, and he supposed
her to be engrossed by her father’s illness and tied to his bedside. He
even, with a lover’s insight, inferred the remorse which she felt and
her recoil from a continuance of their relations. Meanwhile he did not
know what to do. He did not see any outlet. He was in an impasse with
no prospect of delivery. And while he felt that Arthur had behaved
ungenerously, while he even suspected that his friend had taken the
credit which was his own due, he had no clue to his motives, or his
schemes.
It was Betty who first saw into the dark place. For one day, longing as
lovers long for a confidante, he had told her all, from the first
meeting with Josina to his final parting from the girl by the brook,
and his brief and unfortunate interview with her father on the road.
The romance charmed Betty, the audacity of it dazzled her; for, a
woman, she perceived more clearly than Clement the gulf between the
town and the country, the new and the old. She listened to his tale
with sighs and tears and little endearments, and led him on from one
thing to another. She could not hear too much of a story that hardly a
woman alive could have heard with indifference. She praised Josina to
the top of his bent, and if she could not give him much hope, she gave
sympathy.
And, shrewdly, in her own mind she put things together. “Arthur is off
with the old love,” she thought, “and on with the new.” He had changed
sides, and that explained many things. So, with hardly any premises,
she jumped to a conclusion so nearly correct that, could Arthur have
read her mind, he would have winced even more than he did under the
thrusts of her satire.
But she did not tell Clement. Her suspicions were not founded on
reason, and they would only alarm him, and he was gloomy enough as it
was. Instead, she cheered him and bade him be patient. Something might
turn up, and in no case could much be done until the Squire was well
enough to leave his room.
At bottom she was not hopeful. She saw arrayed between Clement and his
love a host of difficulties, apart from Arthur’s machinations. The
pride of class, the old man’s obstinacy, the young girl’s timidity,
Josina’s wealth—these were obstacles hard to surmount. And Arthur was
on the spot ready to raise new barriers, should these be overcome.