July had passed into August. Who was it who whispered the first word of
doubt? Of misgiving? Where was felt the first shiver of distrust? What
lips first let drop the fatal syllables, a fall? Who in the secrecy of
some bank-parlor or some discounter’s office, sitting at the centre of
the spider’s web of credit, felt a single filament, stretched it may be
across half a world, shiver, and relax? And, refusing to draw the
unwelcome inference, sceptical of danger, felt perhaps a second shock,
ever so slight and ever so distant; and then, reading the message
aright, began to narrow his commitments, to draw in his resources, to
call in his money, to turn into gold his paper wealth? And so from that
dark office or parlor in Fenchurch Street or Change Alley, set in
motion, obscurely, imperceptibly at first, the mighty impetus that was
to reach to such tremendous ends?
Who? Probably no one knew then, and certainly no one can say now. But
it is certain that in the late summer of that year, while the Squire
sat blinded in his drab-hued room at Garth, and Ovington’s hummed with
business, and Arthur rode gaily to and fro between the two, the thing
happened. Some one, some bank, perhaps some great speculator with irons
in many fires and many lands, took fright and acted on his fears—but
silently, stealthily, as is the manner of such. Or it may have been a
manufacturer on a great scale who looked abroad and fancied that he
saw, though still a long way off, that bugbear of manufacturers, a
glut.
At any rate there came a check, unmarked by the vast majority, but of
which a whisper began to pass round the inner recesses of Lombard
Street—a fall, such as there had been a few months earlier, but which
then had been speedily made good. Aldersbury lay far beyond the
warning, or if a hint of it reached Ovington, it did not go beyond him.
He did not pass it on, even to Arthur, much less did it reach others.
Sir Charles, secluded within his park walls, was not in the way of
hearing such things, and Acherley and his like were busy with
preparations for autumn sport, getting out their guns and seeing that
their pink coats were aired and their mahogany tops were brought to the
right color. Wolley had his own troubles, and dealt with them after his
own reckless fashion, which was to retire one bill by another; he found
it all he could do to provide for to-day, without thinking what
to-morrow might bring forth, should his woollen goods become
unsaleable, or his bills fail to find discounters. And the multitude,
Grounds and Purslow and their followers, were happy, secure in their
ignorance, foreseeing no evil.
This was the state of things at Aldersbury, as summer passed into
autumn. Men still added up their investments, and reckoned the amount
of their fortunes and chuckled over what they had made, and added to
the sum what they were sure of making, when the shares of this mine or
that canal company rose another five or ten points. Their wealth on
paper was still, to them, solid, abiding wealth, to be garnered and
laid by and enjoyed when it pleased them. And trade seemed still to
flourish, though not quite so briskly. There was still a demand for
goods though not quite so urgent a demand—and the price stuck a little.
The railway shares still stood at the high premium to which they had
risen, though for the moment they did not seem to be inclined to go
higher.
But about the end of September—perhaps some one in London or Birmingham
or Liverpool had twitched the filament which connected it with
Aldersbury—Ovington called Arthur back as he was leaving the parlor at
the close of the day’s business. “Wait a moment,” he said, “I want you.
I have been thinking things over, lad, and I am not quite comfortable
about them.”
“Is it Wolley?” Wolley’s case had been before them that morning and
sharp things had been said about his trading methods.
“No, it’s not Wolley.” Having got so far Ovington paused, and Arthur
noticed that his face was grave. “No, though Wolley is a part of it. I
am always uneasy about him. But——”
“What is it, sir?”
“It is the general situation, lad. I don’t like it. I’ve an impression
that things have gone farther than they should. There is an amount of
inflation that, if things go smoothly, will be gradually reduced and no
harm done. But we have a large sum of money out”—he touched the pile of
papers before him—“and I should like to see it lessened. I hardly know
why, but I do not feel that the position is healthy.”
“But our money is well covered.”
“As things are.”
“And we are as solvent, sir, as——”
“As need be, with the ordinary time to meet the calls that may be made
upon us. But in the event of a sudden fall, of one big failure leading
to another—in the event of a sudden rush to present our notes?”
“Even then, sir, we are well secured. We should have no difficulty in
finding accommodation.”
“In ordinary circumstances, no—and if we alone needed it. We could go
to A. or B. or C, and there would be no difficulty. We have the money’s
worth and a good margin. But if A. and B. and C. were also short, what
then, lad?”
Arthur felt something approaching contempt. The banker was inventing
bogies, imagining dangers, dreaming of difficulties where none existed.
He saw him in a new light, and discovered him to be timorous. “But that
state of things is not likely to occur,” he objected.
“Perhaps not, but if it did?”
“Have you had any hint?”
“No. But I see that iron is down—since Saturday. And the Manchester
market was flat yesterday.”
“Things that have happened before,” Arthur said. “I think, sir, it is
really Wolley’s affair that is troubling you.”
“If it ended with Wolley it would be a small matter. No, I am not
thinking of that.” He looked before him and drummed upon the table with
his fingers. “But the positions calls for—caution. We must go no
farther. We must be careful how we grant accommodation no matter who
applies for it. We must raise our reserve. See, if you please, that we
do not discount a single bill without recourse to me—though, of course,
you will let nothing be noticed on the other side of the counter.”
“Very good,” Arthur said. But he thought that the other’s caution was
running away with him. The sky seemed clear to him—he could discern no
sign of a storm, and he did not reflect that, as he had never been
present at a storm, the signs might escape him. “Very good,” he said,
“I’ll tell Rodd. I am sure it will please him,” and with that tiny
sting, he went out.
The conversation had been held behind closed doors, yet it had its
effect. A chill seemed to fall upon the bank. The air became less
genial. Ovington’s face grew both keen and watchful. Arthur, perplexed
and puzzled, was more brusque, his speech shorter. Rodd’s face
reflected his superiors’ gravity. Only Clement, going about his branch
of the work with his usual stolid indifference, perceived no change in
the temperature, and, depressed before, was only a degree nearer to the
mean level.
Poor Clement! There are situations in which it is hard to play the
hero, and he found himself in one of them. He had vowed that there
should be no more meetings and no more love-making until he had faced
and conquered his dragon. But meanwhile the dragon lay sick and blind
at the bottom of its den, guarded by its very weakness from attack,
while every hour and every day that saw nothing done seemed to remove
Clement farther from his mistress, seemed to set a greater distance
between them, seemed to blacken his face in her eyes.
Yet what could he do? How could he wrest himself from the inaction—it
must seem to her the ignoble inaction—which pressed upon him? She
watched—he pictured her watching from her tower, or more precisely from
the terraced garden at Garth, for the deliverance which did not come,
for the knight whose trumpet never sounded! She watched, while he, weak
and shiftless, hung back in uncertainty, the inefficient he had ever
been!
Ay, that he had ever been! It was that which hurt him. It was the sense
of that which wasted his spirits as sorely as the impatience, the
fever, of thwarted love. The spell of vigor which had for a few days
lifted him out of himself, and given him the force to meet and to
impress his fellows, had not only failed to win any real advantage, but
failing, it had left him less self-reliant than before. For he saw now
where he had failed. He saw that with the winning-card in his hand he
had allowed himself to be defeated by Arthur, and to be jockeyed out of
all the fruits of his labor, simply because he had lacked the moral
courage, the hardness of fibre, the stiffness to stand by his own!
And he feared that it would ever be so. Arthur had got the better of
him, and the knowledge depressed him to the ground. He was not a man.
He was a weakling, a dreamer, good for neither one thing nor another!
As useless outside the bank as at his desk, below and not above the
daily tasks that he secretly despised.
Yet what could he do? What was it in his power to do? He asked himself
that question a hundred times. He could not force himself on the
Squire, ill and confined to his bed as he was—and be sure, Arthur did
not make the best of his uncle’s condition. He could only wait, though
to wait was intolerable. He could only wait, while poor Josina first
doubted, then despaired! Wait while first hope, and then faith, and in
the end love died in her breast! Wait, till she thought herself
abandoned!
Of course in his impatience and his humility Clement exaggerated both
the delay and its results. The days seemed weeks to him, the weeks
months. He fancied it a year since he had seen Josina. He did not
consider that she was no stranger to his difficulties, nor reflect that
though his silence might try her, and his absence cause her
unhappiness, she might still approve both the one and the other. As a
fact, the lesson which he had taught her at their last meeting had been
driven home by the remorse that had tortured her on that dreadful
night; and lonely hours in the sick room, much watching, and many a
thought of what might have been, had strengthened the impression.
But Clement did not know this. He pictured the girl as losing all faith
in him, and as the weeks ran on, the time came when he could bear the
delay no longer, when he felt that he must either do something, or
write himself down a coward. So one day, after hearing in the town that
the Squire was able to leave his room, he wrote to Josina. He told her
that he should call on the morrow and see her father.
And on the morrow he rode over, blind for once to the changes of
nature, of landscape and cloudscape that surrounded him. But he never
reached the house, for at the little bridge at the foot of the drive
Josina met him, and eager as he had been to see his sweetheart and to
hear her voice, he was checked by the change in her. It was a change
which went deeper than mere physical alteration, though that, too, was
there. The girl was paler, finer, more spiritual. Trouble and anxiety
had laid their mark on her. He had left her girl, he found her woman. A
new look, a look of purpose, of decision, gave another cast to her
features.
She was the first to speak, and her words bore out the change in her.
“You must come no farther, Clement,” she said. And then as their hands
met and their eyes, the color flamed in her cheeks, her head drooped
flowerlike, she was for an instant the old Josina, the girl he had
wooed by the brook, who had many a time fallen on his breast. But for a
moment only. Then, “You cannot see him yet,” she announced. “Not yet,
for a long time, Clem. I met you here that I might stop you, and that
there might be no misunderstanding—and no more secrets.”
And this she had certainly secured, for the place which she had chosen
for their meeting was overlooked, though at a distance, by the doorway
of the house, and by all the walks about it.
But he was not to be so put off. “I must see him,” he said, and he told
himself that he must not be moved by her pleadings. It was natural that
she should fear, but he must not fear—and indeed he had passed beyond
fear. “No, dear,” as she began to protest, “you must let me judge of
this.” He held her hands firmly as he looked down at her. “I have
suffered enough, I have suffered as much as I can bear. I have had no
sight of you and no word of you for months, and I cannot endure this
longer. Every hour of every day I have felt myself a coward, a
deserter, a do-nothing! I have had to bear this, and I have borne it.
But now—now that your father is downstairs——”
“You can still do nothing,” she said. “Believe, believe me,” earnestly,
“you can do nothing. Dear Clement,” and the tenderness which she strove
to suppress betrayed itself in her tone, “you must be guided by me, you
must indeed. I am with my father, and I know, I know that he cannot
bear it now. I know that it would be cruel to tell him now. He is
blind. Blind, Clement! And he trusts me, he has to trust me. To tell
him now would be to destroy his faith in me, to shock him and to
frighten him—irreparably. You must go back now—now at once.”
“What?” he cried. “And do nothing? And lose you?” The pathos of her
appeal had passed him by, and only his love and his jealousy spoke.
“No,” she answered soberly, “you will not lose me, if you have
patience.”
“But have you patience?”
“I must have.”
“And I am to do nothing?” He spoke with energy, almost with anger. “To
go on doing nothing? I am to stand by and—and play the coward still—go
on playing it?”
Her face quivered, for he hurt her. He was selfish, he was cruel; yet
she understood, and loved him for his cruelty. But she answered him
firmly. “Nothing until I send for you,” she said. “You do not think,
Clem. He is blind! He is dependent on me for everything. If I tell him
in his weakness that I have deceived him, he will lose faith in me, he
will distrust me, he will distrust everyone. He will be alone in his
darkness.”
It began to come home to him. “Blind?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“But for good? Do you mean—quite blind?”
“Ah, I don’t know!” she cried, unable to control her voice. “I don’t
know. Dr. Farmer does not know, the physician who came from Birmingham
to see him does not know. They say that they have hopes—and I don’t
know! But I fear.”
He was silent then, touched with pity, feeling at length the pathos of
it, feeling it almost as she felt it. But after a pause, during which
she stood watching his face, “And if he does not recover his sight?”
“God forbid!”
“I say God forbid too, with all my heart. Still, if he does not—what
then? When may I——”
“When the time comes,” she answered, “and of that I must be the judge.
Yes, Clement,” with resolution. “I must be the judge, for I alone know
how he is, and I alone can choose the occasion.”
The delay was very bitter to him. He had ridden out determined to put
his fate to the test, to let nothing stand between him and his love, to
over-ride excuses; and he could not in a moment make up his mind to be
thwarted.
“And I must wait? I must go on waiting? Eating my heart out—doing
nothing?”
“There is no other way. Indeed, indeed there is not.”
“But it is too much. It is too much, Jos, that you ask!”
“Then, Clement——”
“Well?”
“You must give me up.” She spoke firmly but her lips quivered, and
there were tears in her eyes.
He was silent. At last, “Do you wish me to do that?” he said.
She looked at him for answer, and his doubts, if he had doubted her,
his distrust, if it had been possible for him to distrust her,
vanished. His heart melted. They were a very simple pair of lovers,
moved by simple impulses.
“Forgive me, oh, forgive me, dear!” he cried. “But mine is a hard task,
a hard task. You do not know what it is to wait, to wait and to do
nothing!”
“Do I not?” Her eyes were swimming. “Is it not that which I am doing
every day, Clem? But I have faith in you, and I believe in you. I
believe that all will come right in the end. If you trust me, as I
trust you, and have to trust you——”
“I will, I will,” he cried, repentant, remorseful, recognizing in her a
new decision, a new sweetheart, and doing homage to the strength that
trial and suffering had given her. “I will trust you, trust you—and
wait!”
Her eyes thanked him, and her hands; and after this there was little
more to be said. She was anxious that he should go, and they parted. He
rode back to Aldersbury, thinking less of himself and more of her, and
something too of the old man, who, blind and shorn of his strength, had
now to lean on women, and suspicious by habit must now trust others,
whether he would or no. Clement had imagination, and by its light he
saw the pathos of the Squire’s position; of his helplessness in the
midst of the great possessions he had gathered, and the acres that he
had added, acre to acre. He who had loved to look on hill and covert
and know them his own, to whom every copse and hedgerow was a friend,
who had watched his marches so jealously and known the rotation of
every field, must now fume and fret, thinking them neglected,
suspecting waste, doubting everyone, lacking but a little of doubting
even his daughter.
“Poor chap!” he muttered, “poor old chap!” He was sorry for the Squire,
but he was even more sorry for himself. Any other, he felt, would have
surmounted the obstacles that stopped him, or by one road or another
would have gone round them. But he was no good, he was useless. Even
his sweetheart—this in a little spirit of bitterness—took the upper
hand and guided him and imposed her will on him. He was nothing.
In the bank he grew more taciturn, doing his business with less spirit
than before, suspecting Arthur and avoiding speech with him, meeting
his careless smile with a stolid face. His father, Rodd too, deemed him
jealous of the new partner, and his father, growing in these days a
little sharp in temper, spoke to him about it.
“You took no interest in the business,” he said, “and I had to find
some one who would take an interest and be of use to me. Now you are
making difficulties and causing unpleasantness. You are behaving ill,
Clement.”
But Clement only shrugged his shoulders. He had become indifferent. He
had his own burden to bear.