It was with a firmer tread that Clement went back to his desk in the
bank. He had pleased his father and he was pleased with himself. Here
at last was something to do. Here at last was something to fight. Here
at last was mettle in the banking business that suited him; and not a
mere counting of figures and reckoning of pennies, and taking in at
four per cent. and putting out at eight. His gaze, passing over the
ledger that lay before him, focussed itself on the unconscious
customers beyond the counter. He had the air of challenging them, of
defying them. They were the enemy. It was their folly, their greed,
their selfishness, their insensate desire to save themselves, let who
would perish, that menaced the bank, that threatened the security, the
well-being, the happiness of better men. It was a battle and they were
the enemy. He scowled at them. Supposing them to have sense, patience,
unselfishness, there would be no battle and no danger. But he knew that
they had it not in them. No, they would rush in at the first alarm,
like a flock of silly sheep, and thrusting and pushing and trampling
one another down, would run, each bent on his own safety, blindly on
ruin.
From this moment the bank became to him a place of interest and color,
instead of that which it had been. Where there was danger there was
romance. Even Rodd, adding up a customer’s pass-book, his face more
thoughtful than usual, wore a halo, for he stood in peril. If the
shutters went up Rodd would suffer with his betters. He would lose his
place, he would be thrown on the world. He would lose, too, the trifle
which he had on deposit in the bank. And even Rodd might have his plans
and aims and ambitions, might be hoping for a rise, might be looking to
marry some day—and some one!
Pheugh! Clement’s mouth opened, he stared aghast—stared at the wire
blind that obscured the lower half of the nearer window, as if all his
faculties were absorbed in reading the familiar legend, KNAB
S’NOTGNIVO, that showed darkly upon it. Customers, Rodd, the bank, all
vanished. For he had forgotten! He had forgotten Josina! In
contemplating what was exciting in the struggle before him he had
forgotten that his stake was greater than the stake of others—that it
was immeasurably greater. For it was Josina. He stood far enough below
her as it was, separated from her by a height of pride and prejudice
and convention, which he must scale if he would reach her. But he had
one point in his favor—as things were. His father was wealthy, and
standing a-tiptoe on his father’s money-bags he might possibly aspire
to her hand. So uplifted, so advantaged he might hope to grasp that
hand, and in the end, by boldness and resolution, to make it his own.
That was the position as long as all went well at the bank: and it was
a position difficult enough. But if the money-bags crumbled and sank
beneath his feet? If in the crisis that was coming they toppled over,
and his father failed, as he might fail? If he lost the footing, the
one footing that money now gave him? Then her hand would be altogether
out of his reach, she would be far above him. He could not hope to
reach her, could not hope to gain her, could not in honor even aspire
to her?
He saw that now. His stake was Josina, and the battle lost, he lost
Josina. He had been brave enough until he thought of that, reckless
even, welcoming the trumpet call. But seeing that, and seeing it
suddenly, he groaned.
The sound recalled him to himself, and he winced, remembering his
father’s injunction to show a cheerful front. That he should have
failed so soon! He looked guiltily at Arthur. Had he heard?
But Arthur had not heard. He was standing at a desk attached to the
wall, his back towards Clement, his side-face to the window. He had not
heard, because his thoughts had been elsewhere, and strange to say, the
subject which had engaged them had been also Josina. The banker’s
warning had been a sharp blow to him. He was practical. He prided
himself on the quality, and he foresaw no pleasure in a contest in
which the success that was his be-all and end-all would be hazarded.
True, his mercurial spirit had already begun to rise, and with every
minute he leant more and more to the opinion that the alarm was
groundless. He thought that the banker was scaring himself, and seeing
bogies where no bogies were—as if forsooth a little fall meant a great
catastrophe, or all the customers would leave the bank because Wolley
did! But he none the less for that looked abroad. Prudently he reviewed
the resources that would remain to him in the event of defeat, and like
a cautious general he determined beforehand his line of retreat.
That line was plain. If the bank failed, if a thing so cruel and
incredible could happen, he still had Garth. He still had Garth to fall
back upon, its lands, its wealth, its position. The bank might go, and
Ovington—confound him for the silly mismanagement that had brought
things to this!—might go into limbo with it, and Clement and Rodd and
the rest of them—after all, it was their native level! But for him,
born in the purple, there would still be Garth.
Only he must be quick. He must not lose a day or an hour. If he waited
too long, word of the bank’s embarrassments might reach the old man,
re-awaken his prejudices, warp his mind, and all might be lost. The
influence on which he counted for success might cease to be his, and in
a moment he might find himself out in the cold. Weakened as the Squire
was, it would not be wise to trust too much to the change in him!
No, he must do it at once. He would ride out that very day, and gain,
as he did not doubt that he would gain, the Squire’s permission to
speak to Josina. He would leave no room for accidents, and, setting
these aside, he did not doubt the result.
He carried out his intention in spite of some demur on Clement’s part,
who in his new-born zeal thought that in his father’s absence the other
ought to remain on the spot. But Arthur had the habit of the upper
hand, and with a contemptuous fling at Clement’s own truancies, took it
now. He was at Garth before sunset of the short November day, and he
had not sat in the Squire’s room ten minutes before chance gave him the
opening he desired.
The old man had been listening to the town news, and apparently had
been engrossed in it. But suddenly, he leant forward, and poked Arthur
with the end of his stick. “Here do you tell me!” he said. “What ails
the girl? I’ve no eyes, but I’ve ears, and there’s something. What’s
amiss with her, eh?”
“Do you mean Josina, sir?”
“Who else, man? I asked you what’s the matter with her. D’you think I
don’t know that there is something? I’ve all my senses but one, thank
God, and I can hear if I can’t see! What is it?”
Arthur saw in a moment that here was the opportunity, he needed, and he
made haste to seize it. “The truth is, sir——” he said with a candor
which was attractive. “I was going to speak to you about Josina, I have
been wishing to do so for some time.”
“Eh? Well?”
“I have said nothing to her. But it is possible that she may be aware
of my feelings.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” the Squire said drily. It was impossible to say
whether he was pleased or not.
“If I had your permission to speak to her, sir?” Arthur felt, now that
he had come to the point, just the amount of nervousness which was
becoming. “We have been brought up together, and I don’t think that I
can be taking you by surprise.”
“And you think it will be no surprise to her?”
“Well, sir,” modestly, “I think it will not.”
“More ways of killing a cat than drowning it, eh? That’s it, is it?
Haven’t spoken, but let her know? And you want my leave?”
“Yes, sir, to ask her to be my wife,” Arthur said frankly. “It has been
my wish for some time, but I have hesitated. Of course, I am no great
match for her, but I am of her blood, and——”
He paused. He did not know what to add, and the Squire did not help
him, and for the first time Arthur felt a pang of uneasiness. This was
not lessened when the old man asked, “How long has this been going on,
eh?”
“Oh, for a long time, sir—on my side,” Arthur answered. There was an
ominous silence. The Squire might be taking it well or ill—it was
impossible to judge. He had not changed his attitude and still sat,
leaning forward, his hands on his stick, impenetrable behind his
bandages. It struck Arthur that he might have been premature; that he
might have put his favor to too high a test. It might have been wiser
to work upon Josina, and wait and see how things turned out.
At last. “She’ll not go out of this house,” the Squire said. And he
sighed in a way unusual with him, even when he had been at his worst.
“That’s understood. There’s room for you here, and any brats you may
have. That’s understood, eh?” sharply.
“Willingly, sir,” Arthur answered. A great weight had been lifted from
him.
“And you’ll take her name, do you hear?”
“Of course, sir. I shall be proud to do so.”
The Squire sighed, and again he was silent.
“Then—then I may speak to her, sir?”
“Wait a bit! Wait a bit!” The Squire had more to say, it appeared.
“You’ll leave the bank, of course?”
Arthur’s mind, trained to calculation, reviewed the position. Most
heartily he wished—though he thought that Ovington’s views were
unnecessarily dark—that he could leave the bank. But he could not. The
moment when Ovington might have released him, when the cancellation of
the articles had been possible, was past. The banker could no longer
afford to cancel them, or to lose the five thousand pounds that Arthur
had brought in.
He hesitated, and the old man read his hesitation, and was wroth. “You
heard what I said?” he growled, and he struck his stick upon the floor.
“Do you think I am going to have my daughter’s husband counterskipping
in Aldersbury? Cheek by jowl with every grocer and linen-draper in the
town? Bad enough as it is, bad enough, but when you’re Jos’s
husband—no, by G—d, that’s flat! You’ll leave the bank, and you’ll
leave it at once, or you’re no son-in-law for me. I’ll not have the
name of Griffin dragged in the dirt.”
Arthur had not anticipated this, though he might easily have foreseen
it; and he cursed his folly. He ought to have known that the old
question would be raised, and that it would revive the Squire’s
antagonism. He was like a fox caught in a trap, nay, like a fox that
has put its own foot in the trap; and he had no time to give any but a
candid answer. “I am afraid, sir,” he said. “I mean—I am quite willing
to comply with your wishes. But unfortunately there’s a difficulty. I
am tied to the bank for three years. At the end of three years——”
“Three years be d—d!” In a passion the Squire struck his stick on the
floor. “Three years! I’m to sit here for three years while you go in
and out, partner with Ovington! Then my answer is, No! No! Do you hear?
I’ll not have it.”
The perspiration stood on Arthur’s brow. Here was a _débâcle!_ An end,
crushing and complete, to all his hopes! Desperately he tried to
explain himself and mend matters. “If I could act for myself, sir,” he
said, “I would leave the bank to-morrow. But the agreement——”
“Agreement? Don’t talk to me of agreements! You could ha’ helped it!”
the Squire snarled. “You could ha’ helped it! Only you would go on! You
went in against my advice! And for the agreement, who but a fool would
ha’ signed such an agreement? No, you may go, my lad. As you ha’ brewed
you may bake! You may go! If I’d known this was going on, I’d not ha’
seen so much of you, you may be sure of that! As it is, Good-day!
Good-day to you!”
It was indeed a _débâcle_; and Arthur could hardly believe his ears, or
that he stood in his own shoes. In a moment, in one moment he had
fallen from the height of favor and the pinnacle of influence, and
disowned and defeated, he could hardly take in the mischance that had
befallen him. Slowly he got to his feet, and as soon as he could master
his voice, “I’m grieved, sir,” he answered, “more grieved than I, can
say, that you should take it like this—when I have no choice. I am
sorry for my own sake.”
“Ay, ay!” with grim irony. “I can believe that.”
“And sorry for Josina’s.”
He could think of no further plea at the moment—he must wait and hope
for the best; and he moved towards the door, cursing his folly, his all
but incredible folly, but finding no remedy. His hand was on the latch
of the door when “Wait!” the old man said.
Arthur turned and waited; wondering, even hoping. The Squire sat,
looking straight before him, if that might be said of a blind man, and
presently he sighed. Then, “Here, come back!” he ordered. But again for
awhile he said no more, and Arthur waited, completely in the dark as to
what was working in the other’s mind. At last. “There, maybe I’ve been
hasty,” the old man muttered, “and not thought of all. Will you leave
the bank when you can, young man?”
“Of course, I will, sir!” Arthur cried.
“Then—then you may speak to her,” the Squire said reluctantly, and he
marked the reluctance with another sigh.
And so, as suddenly as he had raised the objection, he withdrew it, to
Arthur’s intense astonishment. Only one conclusion could he draw—that
the Squire was indeed failing. And on that, with a hastily murmured
word of thanks, he escaped from the room, hardly knowing whether he
walked on his head or his feet.
Lord, what a near thing it had been. And yet—no! The Squire—it must be
that—was a failing man. He had no longer the strength or the
stubbornness to hold to the course that his whims or his crabbed humor
suggested. The danger might not have been so real or substantial, after
all.
Yet the relief was great, and coming on Miss Peacock, who was crossing
the hall with a bowl in her hand, he seized her by the waist and
whirled her round, bowl and all. “Hallo, Peacock! Hallo, Peacock!” he
cried in the exuberance of his joy. “Where’s Jos?”
“Let go!” she cried. “You’ll have it over! What’s come to you?”
“Where’s Jos? Where’s Jos?”
“Good gracious, how should I know? There, be quiet,” in pretended
anger, though she liked it well enough. “What’s come to you? If you
must know, she’s moping in her room. It’s where I find her most times
when she’s not catching cold in the gardenhouse, and her father’s
noticed it at last. He’s in a pretty stew about her, and if you ask me,
I don’t think that she’s ever got over that night.”
“I’ll cure her!” Arthur cried in a glow, and he gave Miss Peacock
another twirl.
But he had no opportunity of trying his cure that evening, for Jos,
when she came downstairs, kept close to her father, and it was not
until after breakfast on the morrow that he saw her go into the garden
through the side-door, a relic of the older house that had once stood
there. To frame it a stone arch of Tudor date had been filled in, and
on either side of this, outlined in stone on the brick wall, was a
pointed window of three lights. But Arthur’s thoughts as he followed
Jos into the garden were far from such dry-as-dust matters. The
reaction after fear, the assurance that all was well, intoxicated him,
and in a glow of spirits that defied the November day he strode down
the walk under boughs that half-bare, and over leaves that
half-shrivelled, owned alike the touch of autumn. He caught sight of a
skirt on the raised walk at the farther end of the garden and he made
for it, bounding up the four steps with a light foot and a lover’s
haste. A handsome young fellow, with a conquering air!
Jos was leaning on the wall, a shawl about her shoulders, her eyes bent
on the mill and the Thirty Acres; and her presence in that place on
that not too cheerful morning, and her pensive stillness, might have
set him wondering, had he given himself time to think. But he was full
of his purpose, he viewed her only as she affected it, and he saw
nothing except what he wished to see. When, hearing his footsteps, she
turned, her color did not rise—and that too might have told him
something. But had he spared this a thought, it would only have been to
think that her color would rise soon enough when he spoke.
“Jos!” he cried, while some paces still separated them. “I’ve seen your
father! And I’ve spoken to him!” He waved his hand as one proclaiming a
victory.
But what victory? Jos was as much in the dark as if he had never paid
court to her in those far-off days. “Is anything the matter?” she
asked, and she turned as if she would go back to the house.
But he barred the way. “Nothing,” he said. “Why should there be? On the
contrary, dear. Don’t I tell you that I’ve spoken to the Squire? And he
says that I may speak to you.”
“To me?” She looked at him candidly, with no inkling in her mind of
what he meant.
“Yes! My dear girl, don’t you understand? He has given me leave to
speak to you—to ask you to be my wife?” And as her lips parted and she
gazed at him in astonishment, he took possession of her hand. The
position was all in favor of a lover, for the parapet was behind her,
and she could not escape if she would; while the ordeal through which
he had passed gave this lover an ardor that he might otherwise have
lacked. “Jos, dear,” he continued, looking into her eyes, “I’ve
waited—waited patiently, knowing that it was useless to speak until he
gave me leave. But now”—after all, love-making with that pretty
startled face before him, that trembling hand in his, was not
unpleasant—“I come to you—for my reward.”
“But, Arthur,” she protested, almost too much surprised for words, “I
had no idea——”
“Come, don’t say that! Don’t say that, Jos dear! No idea? Why, hasn’t
it always been this way with us! Since the day that we cut our names on
the old pew? Haven’t I seen you blush like a rose when you looked at
it—many and many a time? And if I haven’t dared to make love to you of
late, surely you have known what was in my mind? Have we not always
been meaning this—you and I?”
She was thunder-struck. Had it been really so? Could he be right? Had
she been blind, and had he been feeling all this while she guessed
nothing of it? She looked at him in distress, in increasing distress.
“But indeed, indeed,” she said, “I have not been meaning it, Arthur, I
have not, indeed!”
“Not?” incredulously. “You’ve not known that I——”
“No!” she protested. “And I don’t think that it has always been so with
us.” Then, collecting herself and in a firmer voice, “No, Arthur, not
lately, I am sure. I don’t think that it has been so on your side—I
don’t, indeed. And I’m sure that I have not thought of this myself.”
“Jos!”
“No, Arthur, I have not, indeed.”
“You haven’t seen that I loved you?”
“No. And,” looking him steadily in the face, “I am not sure that you
do.”
“Then let me tell you that I do. I do!” And he tried to possess himself
of her other hand, and there was a little struggle between them. “Dear,
dear girl, I do love you,” he swore. “And I want you, I want you for my
wife. And your father permits it. Do you understand—I don’t think you
do? He sanctions it.”
He would have put his arm round her, thinking to overcome her
bashfulness, thinking that this was but maidenly pride, waiting to be
conquered. But she freed herself with unexpected vigor and slipped from
him. “No, I don’t wish it!” she said. And her attitude and her tone
were so resolute, that he could no longer deceive himself. “No! Listen,
Arthur.” She was pale, but there was a surprising firmness in her face.
“Listen! I do not believe that you love me. You have given me no cause
to think so these many months. Such a boy and girl affection as was
once between us might have grown into love in time, had you wished it.
But you did not seem to wish it, and it has not. What you feel is not
love.”
“You know so much about love!” he scoffed. He was taken aback, but he
tried to laugh—tried to pass it off.
But she did not give way. “I know what love is,” she answered firmly.
And then, without apparent cause, a burning blush rose to her very
hair. Yet, in defiance of this, she repeated her words. “I know what
love is, and I do not believe that you feel it for me. And I am sure,
quite sure, Arthur,” in a lower tone, “that I do not feel it for you. I
could not be your wife.”
“Jos!” he pleaded earnestly. “You are joking! Surely you are joking.”
“No, I am not joking. I do not wish to hurt you. I am grieved if I do
hurt you. But that is the truth. I do not want to marry you.”
He stared at her. At last she had compelled him to believe her, and he
reddened with anger; only to turn pale, a moment later, as a picture of
himself humiliated and rejected, his plans spoiled by the fancy of this
foolish girl, rose before him. He could not understand it; it seemed
incredible. And there must be some reason? Desperately he clutched at
the thought that she was afraid of her father. She had not grasped the
fact that the Squire had sanctioned his suit, and, controlling his
voice as well as he could, “Are you really in earnest, Jos?” he said.
“Do you understand that your father is willing? That it is indeed his
wish that we should marry?”
“I cannot help it.”
“But—love?” Though he tried to keep his temper his voice was growing
sharp. “What, after all, do you know of—love?” And rapidly his mind ran
over the possibilities. No, there could be no one else. She knew few,
and among them no one who could have courted her without his knowledge.
For, strange to say, no inkling of the meetings between Clement and his
cousin had reached him. They had all taken place within a few weeks,
they had ceased some months back, and though there were probably some
in the house who had seen things and drawn their conclusions, the
favorers of young love are many, and no one save Thomas had tried to
make mischief. No, there could be no one, he decided; it was just a
silly girl’s romantic notion. “And how can you say,” he continued,
“that mine is not real love? What do you know of it? Believe me, Jos,
you are playing with your happiness. And with mine.”
“I do not think so,” she answered gravely. “As to my own, I am sure,
Arthur. I do not love you and I cannot marry you.”
“And that is your answer?”
“Yes, it must be.”
He forced a laugh. “Well, it will be news for your father,” he said. “A
clever game you have played, Miss Jos! Never tell me that it is not in
women’s nature to play the coquette after this. Why, if I had treated
you as you have treated me—and made a fool of me! Made a fool of me!”
he reiterated passionately, unable to control his chagrin—“I should
deserve to be whipped!”
And afraid that he would break down before her and disgrace his
manhood, he turned about, sprang down the steps and savagely spurning,
savagely trampling under foot the shrivelled leaves, he strode across
the garden to the house. “The little fool!” he muttered, and he
clenched his hands as if he could have crushed her within them. “The
little fool!”
He was angry, he was very angry, for hitherto fortune had spoiled him.
He had been successful, as men with a single aim usually are
successful. He had attained to most of the things which he had desired.
Now to fail where he had deemed himself most sure, to be repulsed where
he had fancied that he had only to stoop, to be scorned where he had
thought that he had but to throw the handkerchief, to be rejected and
rejected by Jos—it was enough to make any man angry, to make any man
grind his teeth and swear! And how—how in the world was he to explain
the matter to his uncle? How account to him for his confidence in the
issue? His cheeks burned as he thought of it.
He was angry. But his wrath was no match for the disappointment that
warred with it and presently, as passion waned, overcame it. He had to
face and to weigh the consequences. The loss of Jos meant much more
than the loss of a mild and biddable wife with a certain charm of her
own. It meant the loss of Garth, of the influence that belonged to it,
the importance that flowed from it, the position it conferred. It meant
the loss of a thing which he had come to consider as his own. The
caprice of this obstinate girl robbed him of that which he had bought
by a long servitude, by much patience, by many a tiresome ride between
town and country!
There, in that loss, was the true pinch! But he must think of it. He
must take time to review the position and consider how he might deal
with it. It might be that all was not yet lost—even at Garth.
In the meantime he avoided seeing his uncle, and muttering a word to
Miss Peacock, he had his horse saddled. He mounted in the yard and
descended the drive at his usual pace. But as soon as he had gained the
road, he lashed his nag into a canter, and set his face for town. At
worst the bank remained, and he must see that it did remain. He must
not let himself be scared by Ovington’s alarms. If a crisis came he
must tackle the business as he alone could tackle business, and all
would be well. He was sure of it.
Withal he was spared one pang, the pang of disappointed love.