The money for Arthur’s share in the bank had been paid over in the
early part of June, but the transaction had not gone through with the
smoothness which he had anticipated. He had found himself up against a
thing which he had not taken into his reckoning; the jealousy with
which the old and the rich are apt to guard the secret of their wealth,
a jealousy in the Squire’s case aggravated by his blindness. Arthur had
felt the check and was forced to own, with some alarm, that high as he
stood in favor, a little thing might upset him.
He had written to the brokers, requesting them to sell sufficient India
Stock to bring in a sum of six thousand pounds. They had replied that
they could not carry out the order unless they had the particulars of
the Stock and of the amount standing in the Squire’s name at the India
House. But when Arthur took the letter to the Squire’s room and read it
to him, the outcome surprised him. The old man sat up in bed and
confounded him by the vigor of his answer. “Want to know how much I
hold?” he cried. “D—n their impudence! Then they’ll not know! Want to
look at my books and see what I’m worth! What next? What is it to them
what I hold? You bid ’em sell—” beating the counterpane with his
stick—“you bid ’em sell two thousand two hundred pounds—at two hundred
and seventy-five, that’s near the mark! That’s all they’ve got to do,
the impudent puppies! Do you write, d’you hear, and tell ’em to do it!”
Arthur cursed the old man’s unreasonableness, and wondered what he was
to do. If there was going to be all this difficulty about the
particulars, what about the certificates? How was he to get them? For
the Squire as he sat erect, thrusting forward his bandaged head, and
clutching the stick that lay beside him, grew almost threatening. He
was in arms in defence of his moneybags and his secrets, and his nephew
saw that it would take a bolder man than himself to cross him.
He hesitated. “I am afraid, sir,” he ventured at last, “there’s a
difficulty here that I had not foreseen. The certificates——”
“They don’t want the certificates—yet! Don’t they say so? Plain as a
pikestaff!”
“Perhaps, sir,” doubtfully. “If Welshes have got them——”
“Welshes have not got them!”
Arthur did not know what to say to that. At last, in a tone as
reasonable as he could compass, “I am afraid the difficulty is, sir,”
he said, “that they cannot make out a transfer until they have the
particulars; which I fancy we can only get from the certificates.”
“Then they may go to blazes!” the Squire replied, and he lay down with
his face to the wall. Not he! There might be officials at the India
House who knew this or that and Welshes, who had acted for him in
making one purchase or another, might know a part. But to no living man
had he ever entrusted the secret of his fortune, or the result of those
long years of stinting and sparing and saving that had cleared the
mortgaged estate, and had been continued because habit was strong and
age is penurious. No, to no man living! That was his secret while the
breath was in him. Afterwards—but he was not going to give it up yet.
Presently he bade Arthur go, and Arthur went, troubled in his mind, and
much less assured of his position than he had been an hour before. He
thanked his stars that he had not given way to the temptation to cut
loose from the bank. It would never have done, he saw that now. And how
was he going to extract his money, his six thousand, from this
unreasonable old dotard—for so he styled him in his wrath?
However, the riddle solved itself before many hours had passed.
That afternoon he was absent, and Jos, about whom Miss Peacock was
growing anxious, had gone out to take the air. The butler, left on
guard, occupied himself with laying the table in the dining-room,
where, if the Squire tapped the floor, he could hear him. He heard no
summons, but presently as he went about his work he heard someone
moving upstairs and he pricked up his ears. Surely the Squire was not
getting out of bed? Weak and blind as he was—but again he heard heavy
footsteps, and, thoroughly alarmed, the man lost no time. He hurried up
the stairs, and entered his master’s room. The Squire was out of bed.
He was on his feet, clinging to the post at the foot of the bed, and
feeling helplessly about him with the other hand.
“Lord, ha’ mercy!” Calamy cried, eying the gaunt figure with dismay. He
hastened forward to support it.
The Squire collapsed on the bed as soon as he was touched. “I canna do
it,” he groaned, “I canna do it. It’s going round wi’ me. Who is it?”
“Calamy, sir,” the butler answered, and added bluntly, “If you want to
get into your coffin, master, you’re going the right way to do it!”
“Anyway, I canna do it,” the Squire repeated, and remained motionless
for a moment. “I couldn’t manage the stairs if ’twere ever so.”
“You’d manage ’em one way. You’d fall down ’em. You get to bed, sir.
You get to bed. There, I’ll heave you up.”
“I’m weaker than I thought,” the Squire muttered. He suffered himself
to be put into bed.
“You’ve lost blood, sir, that’s what it is,” the butler said. “And at
your age it’s not to be replaced in a week, nor a fortnight. You lie
still, sir. Maybe in a month you’ll be tramping the stairs. But
blindfold—it’s the Lord’s mercy as you didn’t fall and only stop in
Kingdom Come! For if fall you did, I don’t know where else you’d stop.”
“I’m afraid so. Anyway I canna do it!”
“Only feet foremost.”
The Squire sighed and turned himself to the wall, perhaps to hide the
tear that helplessness forced from old eyes. He couldn’t do it, and he
must put up with the consequences. He could not any longer be
sufficient to himself. It was a sad thought, but apparently he made up
his mind to it, for twenty-four hours later, when Jos and Arthur were
with him, he sent the girl away. When she had gone he sought under the
pillow for his keys, and after handling them for a time, “Is the door
shut? And no one here but you?”
“We are quite alone, sir.”
“No one within hearing, lad?”
“Not a soul, sir.”
“It’s not that I mistrust the wench,” the Squire muttered. “She’s a
Griffin and a good girl, a good girl. But she’s a tongue like other
women.” By this time he had found what he wanted, and holding the bunch
by one of the keys he offered it to Arthur. “That’s the key. Now you
listen to me. Go down to the dining-room, and don’t you do anything
till you’ve locked the door and seen there’s no one at the windows. The
panel, right side of the fireplace—are you minding me? Ay? Well, pass
your hand down the moulding next the hearth and you’ll feel a crack
across it, and, an inch below, another. They’re so small you as good as
can’t see them, when you know they’re there. Twist that bit, top part
to the right, and you’ll see a key-hole. Turn the key and pull, and the
panel comes open, and you’ll see a cupboard door behind it. Same key
unlocks it. Are you minding me?”
“I am, sir, I quite understand.”
“Well, on the middle shelf—you’ll see a box. The key to that box is the
next on the bunch. Open it and you will have the India Stock
Certificates.” The Squire sighed and for a moment was silent. “There’s
one for two thousand two hundred, which will do it. Bring it here. You
needn’t,” drily, “go routing among the others, once you’ve found it.
Then lock up, and slip the moulding into place. But be sure, lad,
before you do aught, that the door is locked.”
“I will be careful,” Arthur assured him. “I quite understand, sir.”
“It’s not that I distrust Jos,” the Squire repeated—as if he defended
himself against an accusation. “But tell a secret to a woman, and you
tell it to the parish.”
“Shall I do it now, sir?”
“Ay. And bring back the keys. Don’t let ’em out of your hands.”
Arthur went downstairs, and as he descended the shallow steps he
smiled. Men, even the sharpest of men, were easy to manage if you had
patience.
The afternoon was drawing in. The corners in the hall were growing dim.
The sky seen through the open door was pale green. The air came in from
the garden, sweet but chilly, laden with the scent of lilac and gilly
flowers. A single rook cawed. The peace of the country was upon all. He
could hear his mother and Josina talking somewhere within the house.
He slipped into the dining-room and, locking himself in, looked round
him. The paint on the panelled walls was faded, blistered in places by
the sun, or soiled where elbows had rubbed it or the butler’s tray
standing against it through long years, had marked it. The panels were
large, dating from Dutch William or Anne, of chestnut and set in heavy
mouldings.
Arthur glanced at the windows to make sure that he was unseen, then he
stepped to the hearth and felt for and found the bit of moulding, in
front of which, though he had forgotten to mention it, the Squire had
hung an old almanac. Arthur twisted the upper end to the right,
uncovered the key-hole, and within a minute had the inner door open.
It masked a cupboard, contrived in the thickness of the chimney-breast,
perhaps at the time when the open shaft had been closed and a smaller
fireplace had been inserted. Inside, two shelves formed three
receptacles. In the uppermost were parcels of old letters secured with
dusty and faded ribands, and piled at random one on another—the relics
of the love-letters or law-letters of past generations. In the lowest
compartment were bigger bundles secured with straps, which Arthur
judged to contain leases and farm agreements, and the like. Some were
of late date—he took up one or two bundles and looked at the
endorsements—none of them appeared to be very old.
The middle space displayed a row of old ledgers and farm books, and
standing alone before them a small iron box. It was with this no doubt
that his business lay and he tried his key in it. The key fitted. He
opened the box.
It contained three certificates and, though he had been bidden not to
rout among them, he felt it his duty to ascertain—for he would probably
have to inform the brokers—what was the total of the Squire’s holding.
They all three represented India Stock, and Arthur’s eyes glistened as
he noted the amount and figured up the value in his mind. One, as the
Squire had said, was for two thousand two hundred, the other two were
for two thousand five hundred each. Arthur calculated that at the price
of the day they were worth little short of twenty thousand pounds. He
withdrew the smallest certificate and locked the box. He had done his
errand, but as he went about to close the cupboard-door he paused. He
had seen old letters, and modern agreements and the like. But no old
deeds. Where did the Squire keep the title deeds of Garth? They were
not here.
At Welshes? Perhaps.
Arthur glanced at the other side of the fireplace. There, precisely
corresponding with the almanac which he had removed, hung an
old-fashioned silver sconce with a flat back serving for a reflector. A
pair of snuffers flanked the candle-holder on one side, an extinguisher
on the other. It was a piece which Arthur had admired for its age but
had never seen in use. He stared at it, and as he closed the cupboard
and panel by which he stood, and replaced the bit of moulding, he
hesitated. With the keys in his hand he cast a glance at the windows,
then he crossed the hearth, took down the sconce, and ran his fingers
down the moulding.
Yes, here were the cracks, barely to be discovered by the fingers and
not at all by the eye. The bit of moulding, when he twisted it, moved
stiffly, but it moved. With another glance over his shoulder he
inserted the key, then he listened. All was quiet in the house.
Outside, a wood-pigeon coo’d in a neighboring tree while a solitary
rook uttered a shrill “Bah-doo! Bah-doo!” not the common caw, but a cry
that he had often heard.
Something in the stealthiness of his movements and the stillness of the
house, whispered a warning to him, and he paused, his arm raised.
Yet—why not? What could come of it? Knowledge was always useful, and if
his business had lain with this second cupboard his uncle would have
sent him to it as freely as to the other. With an effort he shook off
his scruples, and to satisfy himself that he was doing no wrong he
laughed. He turned the key and swung back the panel. He unlocked and
opened the inner door.
Here there were but two divisions. The lower one was piled high with
plate; with a part, of a dinner-service, cups, bowls, candlesticks,
wine-jugs, salt-cellers—a collection that, tarnished and dull as the
pieces were, made Arthur’s mouth water. Among them lay half a dozen
leather cases which he fancied held jewellery, and more than a dozen
bulky parcels—spoons and forks and the like. They had not been
disturbed, it was plain, for years, and he dared not touch them.
On the shelf were two iron boxes, and arrayed before them four parcels
of deeds, old and discolored, with ends of green riband hanging from
them, and here and there a great seal—one seal was of lead. They gave
out a damp, sour smell, the odor of slowly decaying sheepskin. Three of
the parcels related to farms which the Squire had bought within
Arthur’s memory. The fourth and largest bundle, in a coarse wrapper,
neatly bound about with straps, had a label attached to it, “The Title
Deeds of the Garth Estate,” and thrust under one of the straps was a
folded slip of parchment. Arthur opened this and saw that it was a
memorandum, dated fifty years before, of the deposit of the deeds to
secure the repayment of thirty-eight thousand pounds and interest.
Below were receipts for instalments repaid at intervals of years, and
opposite the last receipt appeared, in the Squire’s hand “Cancelled and
deeds returned—Thank God for His mercies!”
Arthur felt a thrill of sympathy as he read the words. He returned the
slip to its place and softly closed the door. He swung back the panel
and secured it. He replaced the silver sconce.
But though two inches of wood now intervened, he retained a vision of
the bundle of deeds. It was not large, he could have carried it under
his arm. But it meant, that little parcel, power, wealth, position, the
Garth Estate! It spoke to Arthur the banker—for whom wealth lay in
broad acres themselves, the farms and water-mills, the pieces of paper,
not in gold and silver—as eloquently as the coverts and dingles, the
wide-flung hill-side that he loved, spoke to the Squire. For the first
time Arthur coveted Garth, valuing it not as the Squire did for what it
was, hill and dale spread under heaven, but for what it was worth, for
what might be made of it, for the uses to which it might be put.
“He has added to it. One could raise fifty thousand on it,” he thought.
And with fifty thousand what could one not do? With fifty thousand
pounds, free money, added to the bank’s resources, what might not be
done? It was a golden vision that he saw, as he stood in the evening
stillness with the scent of roses stealing into the room, and the
wood-pigeon cooing softly in the tree outside. Ay, what might he not
do!
But the Squire might be growing suspicious. He roused himself, saw that
all was as he had found it, and unlocking the door, he went upstairs.
“You’ve been a long time about it, young man,” the Squire grumbled.
“What’s amiss?”
But Arthur was ready with his answer. “You told me to go about it
quietly, sir. So I waited until the coast was clear. It’s a capital
hiding-place. It’s not to be found in a minute even when you know where
it is.”
“Ay, ay. It would take a clever rogue to find it,” complacently.
“I suppose it’s old, sir?”
“My grandfather put it in when the Scots were at Derby. And, mark ye,
no one knows of it but Frederick Welsh—and now you. D’you be careful
and keep your mouth shut, lad. You ha’ got the certificate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, go about the business and get it done. And now do you send Jos
to me.”
Arthur made a mental note that the old man was changing at last—was
losing that hard grip on all about him which he had maintained for half
a century; and he was confirmed in this idea by the ease with which the
India Stock transaction presently went through. The brokers showed
themselves unusually complaisant. They wrote that, as the matter was
personal to him, they were anxious that nothing should go wrong; and,
as his customer was blind, they were forwarding with the transfer on
which the particulars had been inserted a duplicate in blank, in order
that if the former were spoiled in the execution delay might be
avoided. This was irregular, but if the duplicate were not needed, it
could be returned and no harm done.
Arthur thought this polite of them, and was flattered; he felt that he
was a client of value. But as it turned out the duplicate was not
needed; the Squire made nothing of the formality. His hand once
directed to the proper place, he signed his name boldly and plainly—as
he did most things; and Arthur and Jos added their signatures as
witnesses. Ten days later the money was received, and five-sixths of it
was paid over to the bank. The duplicate transfer, overlooked at the
moment, lay on the Squire’s bureau until it did not seem worth while to
return it. Then Arthur, tired of coming upon it every day, thrust it
out of sight in a pigeonhole.
He had other things to think of, indeed, for he was in high feather in
these days, while the summer sun climbed slowly to the zenith and began
again to sink. He had two-fold interests. After a long day spent in the
bank he would ride out of town in the cool of the evening, and passing
down the winding streets under the gables of the old black and white
houses, he would cross the West Bridge. Bucketing his horse up the rise
that led from the river, he would leave the town behind and see before
him the road running straight and dusty towards the sunset-glow, which
still shone above the Welsh hills. From the fields on either side came
the sharp sound of the scythe-stone, the laughter of hay-makers, the
call of the wagoner to his team, the creaking of the laden wheels over
the turf. Partridges dusting themselves in the road scuttled out of his
way and presently took wing; rabbits watched him from the covert-edge.
The corncrake’s persistent note spoke rather of the hot hours that were
past than of the evening air that cooled his cheek. An aged simpleton
in a smocked frock, the clown of the country-side, danced a jig before
an ale-house; a stray bullock gazed patiently at him from a pound. The
country-side lay quiet about him, and despite himself he owned the
charm of peace, the fall of night, the end of labor.
But his thoughts still dwelt on the day’s work. There had been a
discussion over Wolley’s account. Wolley had been behaving ill.
Ignoring the claim of the bank he had assigned a number of his railway
shares to meet a bill discounted elsewhere. The natural course would
have been to insist on the lien and to retain the shares. But the
consequences, as Ovington saw, might be serious. The step might not
only involve the bank in a loss, which he still hoped to avoid, but it
might imply taking over the mill—and it is not the business of bankers
to run mills. Arthur, on the other hand, who did not like the man,
would have cut the knot and sent him to the devil.
In the end Ovington had decided against Arthur. “We must be careful,”
the banker had said. “Credit is like a house of cards. You take one
card away, you do not know how many may fall.”
“But if we don’t teach him a lesson now?”
“Quite true, lad. But—well, I will see him. If, as Rodd thinks, he is
drawing bills on men of straw, whose acceptances are worthless——”
“That would be the devil!”
“There will be an end of him—but not of him only. We must go warily,
lad. To throw him down now——” the banker shook his head. “No, we will
give him one more chance. I will talk to him.”
“I should not have the patience.”
“That is one of the things you have to learn.”
Arthur reviewed the conversation as he rode, and retained his own
opinion. He thought Ovington too apprehensive. He would himself have
played a bolder game and cut Wolley and his losses, if losses there
must be. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he dismissed the matter and
allowed his thoughts to go before him to Garth, to the old man, to his
favor, and the path it opened to Josina. Yes, Josina. He was not doing
much there, but there was no hurry, and despite the charms of Garth he
had not quite made up his mind. When he did, he anticipated no
difficulty.
Still something was due to her, were it only as a matter of form; and
she was pale and sweet and appealing. A little love-making would not be
unpleasant these summer evenings, though he had so far held off,
haunted by a foolish hankering after Betty: Betty with her sparkle and
color, her wit and high spirit, ay, and her very temper, mutinous
little rebel as she was—her temper which, manlike, he longed to tame.
Ten minutes later saw him in the Squire’s room, entertaining him with
scraps of county gossip and the latest news from town. Into the dull
room, with its drab hanging and shadowy portraits, where the old man
sat by his fireless grate, he came like a gleam of sunshine, his laugh
lighting up the dim places, his voice expelling the tedium of the long
day. He brought with him the new Quarterly, or the last _Morning Post_.
He had news of what Sir Harry had lost at Goodwood, of Mytton’s last
scrape, of the poaching affray at my lord’s. He had a joke for Josina
and a teasing word for Miss Peacock—who idolized him.
And he had tact. He could listen as well as talk. He heard with
interest who had called to ask after the Squire, whose landau and
outriders had turned on the narrow sweep, and whose curricle; what
humbler visitors had left their respects at the stables or the
backdoor, and what was Calamy’s last scrap of dolefulness.
He was the universal favorite. He had taken the length of the Squire’s
foot; it had been an easier matter than he had anticipated. But even in
his cup there was a sour drop. He had his occasional misgivings and now
and then he suffered a shock. One day it was, “What about your coat,
lad?”
“My coat?” Arthur stared at the old man. He did not understand.
“Ay. You thought that I’d forgotten it. But I’m not that shaken. What
about it?”
Now, between the darkness of the night and the confusion, Arthur had
not noticed the damage done to Clement’s overcoat. Consequently he
could make nothing of the Squire’s words and he tried to pass the
matter off. “Oh, it’s all right, sir,” he said. He waited for something
to enlighten him.
“Can you wear it?”
“Oh yes.”
“The deuce you can!” The Squire was surprised. “Then all I can say is,
you’ve found a d—d good cleaner, lad. If you got that blood off—but as
you did, all’s well. I was afeared I’d owe you a new coat, my boy. I’d
not forgotten it, but I knew that you’d not be wearing it this weather,
and I thought in another week or two I’d be getting this bandage off.
Then I’d see how it was, and what we could do with it.”
Arthur understood then, and a thrill of alarm ran through him. What if
the Squire began—but no, the danger was over, and as quickly as
possible he rid himself of fear. He was not a fool to start at shadows.
Things were going so well with him that he had no mind to spare for
trifles, and no time to look aside.