“Well,” said the Squire peevishly, “I can do no more. Girls ha’ their
whimsies, and it’s much if you can hinder ’em running after Mr. Wrong
without forcing ’em to take Mr. Right. At any rate I’ve said what I
could for you, lad, and the end was as if I hadn’t. You must fight your
own battle. Jos hasn’t”—this would never have occurred to the Squire in
his seeing days—“too gay a life of it, and if you’re not man enough to
get on the soft side of her, with a clear field, why, damme, you don’t
deserve to have her.”
“I was well enough with her,” Arthur said resentfully, “till lately.
But she is changed, sir.”
“Well, like enough. Girls are like that.”
“There may be—someone else.”
The Squire snorted. “Who?” he said. “Who?”—more roughly. “You’re
talking nonsense.”
Arthur could not say who. He could not name anyone. So far as he knew
there could not be anyone. But his temper, chafed by a week of suspense
and anxiety, was not smoothed by the old man’s refusal to do more. And
then to fail with Josina! To be rejected by Josina, the simple girl
whom, in his heart, he had regarded as a _pis alter_, on whom he had
designed to confer a half-contemptuous affection, on whose youthful
fancy he had played for his pastime! This was enough to try him, apart
from the fact that things in Aldersbury looked black, and that, losing
her, he lost the consolation prize to which he had looked forward to
make all good. So, taken to task by the Squire, he did not at once
assent. “Who?” he repeated gloomily. “Ah, I don’t know.”
“Nor I!” the Squire retorted. “There is nobody. Truth is, my lad, the
man who has been robbed sees a face in every bush. However, there ’tis.
I’ve said my say, and I’ve done with it. Did you bring those deeds from
Welsh’s?”
Arthur swallowed his mortification as best he might—fortunately the old
man could not see his face. “Yes,” he said. “I left them downstairs.”
The Squire had caught a cold, sitting out on the hill on the Saturday,
and had been for some days in his bedroom.
“Well, I’m going to pay wages now,” he rejoined. “Bring ’em up after
dinner and I’ll sign ’em. You and the girl or Peacock can witness them.
And, hark you—here, wait a minute!” irascibly, for Arthur, giving as
much rein to his temper as he dared, had turned on his heel and was
marching off. “Take my keys and open the safe-cupboard downstairs, and
bring me up the agreement. I’ve got to compare it with the lease—I
shan’t sign it without! Lock the door, d’you hear, before you open the
cupboard, and have a care no one sees you.”
“Very well,” Arthur said, and was half-way to the door when again, as
if to try his patience, the old man stopped him. “What’s this they’re
saying about Ovington’s, eh? ’Bout the bank? Pretty thing, if he’s let
you in and your money too! But I’m not surprised. I told you you were a
fool, young man, to dirty your hands in that bag, whatever you thought
to get out of it. And if you’re not going to get anything out of it,
but to leave your own in, as I hear talk of—what then? Come, let’s hear
what you have to say about it! I’d like to know.”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, sir,” Arthur answered, sparring for
time. For self-control, provoking as the old man was, he had no longer
need to fight. For he had seen, the moment the Squire spoke, that here,
here if he chose to avail himself of it, was his chance of the twelve
thousand! Here was an opening, if he had the courage to seize it.
Granted the chance was desperate, and the opening unpromising—a poorer
or less promising could hardly be. And the courage necessary was great.
But here it was. The Squire himself had brought up the subject. He knew
of the rumors: he had broken the ice. Here it was, and for a moment,
uncertain, wavering, giddy with the swift interchange of _pros_ and
_cons_, Arthur tried for time—time to think. “What was it? What did you
hear, sir?” he asked.
“What did I hear?” the Squire answered. “Why, that they’re d—d
suspicious of them in the town. And I don’t wonder. Up in a night, and
cut off in a day, like a rotten mushroom!” He spoke with gusto,
forgetting for the moment what this might mean to his listener; who, on
his side, hardly heeded the brutality, so absorbed was he in the
question which he must answer—the question whether it would be wise or
foolish, ruin or salvation, to ask the Squire for help. “He’ll be
another Fauntleroy, ’fore he’s done,” the old man went on with relish.
“He’ll stretch a rope, you’ll see if he won’t! I told him as much
myself. I told him as much in those very words the day he came here
about his confounded silly toy of a railroad. He might take in
Woosenham and a lot of other fools, I told him, but he did not deceive
me. Now I hear that he’s going to burst up, and where’ll you be, my
lad? Where’ll you be? By Gad, you may be in the dock with him!”
Certainly he might speak on that. The old man was harsh and
hard-fisted, but he was also hard-headed and very shrewd; and
conceivably the case might be so put to him that he might see his
profit in it. Certainly it might be so put that he might see a fair
prospect of saving his nephew’s five thousand at no great risk to
himself. The books might be laid before him, the figures be taken out,
the precise situation made clear. There was—it could not be put higher
than this—just a slender chance that he would listen, prejudiced as he
was.
But twelve thousand! It was such a stupendous sum to name. It needed
such audacity to ask for it. And yet it was that or nothing. Less might
not serve; while to ask for less, to ask for anything at all, might
cost the petitioner the favor he had won—his standing in the house, and
the advantages which the Squire’s support might still gain for him. And
then it was such a forlorn hope, such a desperate, feckless venture!
No, he would be a fool to risk it. He dared not do it. He had not the
face.
Yet, for a few seconds after the Squire had ceased to speak, Arthur
hesitated, confession trembling on his lips. The twelve thousand would
make all good, save all, redeem all—ay, and bind Ovington to him in
bonds of steel. But no, he dared not. He would be a fool to speak. And
instead of the words that had risen to his lips, “I think you mistake,
sir,” he said coldly. “I think you’ll find that this is all cry and
little wool! Of course money is tight, and there is trouble in the
City. I’ve heard talk of two or three weak banks being in difficulties,
and I should not wonder if one or two of them stopped payment between
this and Christmas. We are told that it is likely. But we are perfectly
solvent. It will take more than talk to bring Ovington’s down.”
“Umph!” the Squire grumbled. “Well, maybe, maybe. You talk as if you
knew, and you ought to know. I hope you do know. After all—I don’t want
you to lose your money—Gad, a pretty fool you’d look, my lad! A pretty
fool, indeed! But as for Ovington, a confounded rascal, who thinks
himself a gentleman because he has filled his purse at some poor
devil’s expense—I’d see him break with pleasure.”
“I don’t think you’ll have the pleasure this time!” Arthur retorted
with a bitterness which he could not repress—a bitterness caused as
much by his own doubts as by the other’s harshness. He left the room
without more, the keys in his hand, and went downstairs.
It wanted about an hour of the Squire’s dinner-time, but Calamy had
laid the table early, and the dining-room was dark. Arthur carried in a
lamp from the hall, and himself closed the shutters. He locked the
door. Then he opened the nearer panel and the cupboard behind it, and
sought for and found the agreement—but all mechanically, his mind still
running on the Squire’s words, and now approving of the course he had
taken, now doubting if he had not missed his opportunity. The agreement
in his hand, his errand done, he closed the cupboard door, and was
preparing to close the panel, when, with his hand still on it, he
paused. More clearly than when his bodily eyes had rested upon them he
saw the contents of the cupboard.
And one thing in particular, a small thing, but it was on this that his
mind focussed itself—the iron box containing the India Stock. He saw it
before him; it stood out dark, its every outline sharp. And with equal
clearness he saw its contents, the two certificates that remained in
it. He recalled the value of them, and almost against his will he
calculated their worth at the price of the day. India Stock, sound and
safe security as it was, had fallen more than thirty points since the
Squire had sold. It stood to-day, he thought, at two hundred and forty
or a little over or a little under—somewhere about that. At the lowest
figure five thousand pounds would fetch—just twelve thousand, he
calculated.
Twelve thousand!
He stood staring at the door, and even by the yellow light of the lamp
his face looked pale. Twelve thousand! And upstairs in a pigeon-hole of
the old bureau, where he had carelessly thrust it, was the blank
transfer.
It seemed providential. It seemed as if the stock—stock to the precise
amount he required—had been placed there for a purpose. Twelve
thousand! And realizable, no matter what the pinch. If he borrowed it
for a month, what harm would there be? Or what risk? The bank was
solvent, he knew that: give it time, and it would stand as strong as
ever. Within a month, or two months at the most, he could replace the
stock, and no one would be the wiser. And the bank and his own fortune
would be saved.
Whereas—whereas, if the bank failed, he lost everything. And what was
it his uncle had said? “A pretty fool you will look!” It was true, it
was horribly true. He would be the laughing stock of the county. Men of
his own class would say with a sneer that it served him right. And the
Squire—what would he say? His life would be a hell!
Still he hesitated, though he told himself that it was not by boggling
at trifles that men arrived at great ends—nor by poltroonery. And who
would be the loser? No one. It would be all gain. The Squire, if he had
common sense, would be the first to wish it done.
Yet, as he felt through the bunch, with fingers that shook a little,
for the small key that opened the box, he glanced fearfully over his
shoulder. But the door of the room was locked, the windows were
shuttered: no one could see him. No one could ever say what he had done
in that room. And he was lawfully there, at the Squire’s own request,
on his errand.
Five minutes later he closed the door, closed the panel. He took up the
lamp with a steady hand and left the room. He went into the Squire’s
bedroom to return the keys, loitered a minute or two at the bureau,
then he went to his own room. On the table lay the lease and the
counterpart that he had brought from Aldersbury for the old man’s
signature. He closed and locked the door.
It was some hour and a half later that, having finished dinner—and he
had talked more fluently at the meal, and with less restraint than of
late—he rose from the table with Miss Peacock and Josina. “I’ll come
with you,” he said. “I shall have my wine upstairs.” And then, turning
to Miss Peacock, “The Squire will want you to witness his signature,”
he said. “Will you come? He has to sign some deeds that Welsh’s have
sent.”
Miss Peacock bewailed herself. She was in a flurry at the prospect.
“Oh, dear, dear,” she said, “I wish he didn’t! I am all of a twitter,
and then he scolds me. I am sure to put my name in the wrong place, or
write his or something.”
Josina laughed. “What will you give me to go instead?” she asked.
“Come? But, there, I’ll go. In fact, he told me before dinner that I
was to go.” She moved towards the door.
But Arthur did not move. He looked disturbed. “I don’t think that that
will do,” he said slowly. “Considering what it is—I think the Peahen
would be the better.”
“But if she doesn’t like it?” Jos objected. “And I must go, Arthur, for
he told me to go. So the sooner the better. We have sat longer than
usual, and, though Calamy is with him, he won’t like to be kept
waiting.”
Arthur seemed to consider it. “Oh, very well,” he said at last. He
followed her from the room.
The Squire was sitting before the fire, at the small round table at
which he had eaten his meal. A decanter of port and a couple of glasses
stood at his elbow. Two candles in tall silver candlesticks shed a
circle of light on the table, and showed up his white head and his
hands, but failed to illumine the larger part of the room. The great
bed with its drab hangings, the lofty press with its brass handles, the
dark Windsor chairs, now lurked in and now sprang from the shadows, as
the fire flickered up or sank. On the verge of the circle of light the
butler moved mysteriously, now appearing, now disappearing; now coming
forward to set an inkstand and goose-quills beside the decanter, now
withdrawing to pile unseen plates upon an unseen tray.
The Squire was tapping impatiently on the table when they entered.
“Well, you’re in no hurry for your wine to-night,” he said. “Have you
brought the papers? You might have a’most written them in the time
you’ve been.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Arthur. “They are here. Will you sit here, Jos?”
“Nay, nay, she must be near by,” the old man objected. His hearing was
still good. “Close up! Close up, girl! I want her eyes. And do you fill
your glass. Now have you all ready? Then do you read me the agreement
first, that I may see if the lease tallies. And read slowly, lad,
slowly. Calamy?”
“I am here, sir,” lugubriously. “Where we’ll be tomorrow——”
“D—n you, don’t whine, man, but snuff the candles. And then get out. Do
you hear?”
Calamy mumbled that it would be all the same at the latter end. He went
out with his tray, and closed the door behind him.
“Now!” said the Squire, and obediently to the word Arthur began to
read. Once or twice his voice failed him, and he had to clear his
throat. Josina would have thought that he was nervous, had she ever
known him nervous. Fortunately, the document was short, as legal
documents go, and some five minutes, during which the Squire sat
listening intently, saw it at an end.
“Umph! Sounds all right,” he commented. “Sight o’ words! But there,
they’ve got to charge. Now do you give the girl the counterpart, and do
you read the lease, lad, and read it slowly, so as I may understand.
And hark you, Jos, speak up if there is any differ—nail it like a rat,
girl, and don’t go to sleep over it! Don’t you let me be cheated. Welsh
is as honest, and I’d as lief trust him, as another, but if aught’s
amiss it’s not he that will suffer, nor the confounded scamp of a clerk
that made the mistake. And see you there’s no erasures: I’m lawyer
enough to know that. Now, slow, lad, slow,” he commanded, “so that I
can take it in.”
Arthur complied, and began to read slowly and carefully. But again he
had more than once to stop, his voice failing. He explained it by
saying that the light was not good, and he rose to snuff the candles.
The lease, too, was longer than the agreement, and was full of
verbiage, and it took some time to read, and some patience. But at long
last the delivery clause was reached. No discrepancy or erasure had
been discovered, and the Squire, whose attention had never faltered—he
was an excellent man of affairs—declared himself satisfied.
“Well, there,” he said, in a tone of relief, “that’s done! Drink up,
lad, and wet your throttle.” He turned himself squarely to the table.
“Give me the pen I used last,” he continued. “And do you guide my hand
to the right place.”
“I am afraid your pen was left to dry,” Arthur said, “and the nib has
opened. You’ll have to use a new one, sir, and try it first. And—the
sand? We shall want that. I am afraid it is downstairs. If Josina would
not mind running down for it?”
“Pooh! pooh! Never mind the sand! Let ’em dry o’ themselves. Less
chance of blotting. Where’s the pen?”—holding out his hand for it.
“Here, sir. Will you try it on this? If you’ll write your name in full,
as if you were signing the deeds”—he guided the Squire’s hand to the
place—“I shall see if it is right—and straight.”
“Ay, ay, best be careful,” the Squire agreed, squaring himself to his
task. “’Twon’t do to spoil ’em. Here?”
“Yes—just as you are now.”
The old man bent over the table, his white hair shining in the centre
of the little circle of light cast by the candles. Slowly and
laboriously, in a tense silence, while Arthur, leaning over his
shoulder, followed each movement of the pen, and Josina, half in light,
half in shadow, watched them both from the farther side of the table,
he wrote his name.
It was a perfect signature, though rather bolder and larger than usual,
and “Excellent!” Arthur cried in a tone of relief, which betrayed the
anxiety he had felt. “Good! It could not be better! Well done, sir!” He
removed the paper as he spoke, but in the act looked sharply across at
Josina. The girl’s eyes were upon him, but her face was in shadow, and
he could not read its expression. He hesitated a moment, the paper in
his hand, then he laid it on the table beside him—and out of her reach.
“Right!” said the Squire. “Then, now for business. Let’s have the
lease. My hand’s in now.”
Arthur laid it before him, and guided his hand to the place. “Is there
ink enough in the pen?” the old man asked.
“Quite enough, sir. It won’t do to blot it.”
“Right, lad, right!” The Squire wrote his name. “Now the counterpart!”
he continued briskly, holding the quill suspended.
Arthur put it before him. He signed it, steadily and clearly. “All
right?” he asked.
“Quite right. Couldn’t be better, sir.”
“Then, thank God that’s done!” He sank back in his chair, and raised
his hand to take off his glasses, then remembered himself. “Pheugh!” he
said, “it’s a job when you can’t see.” But it was plain that he was
pleased with himself.
Arthur turned to Josina. “Your turn next!” he said; and he gave her the
pen. He put the lease before her, and pointed to the place where she
was to sign.
She was not as nervous as Miss Peacock, but she was anxious to make no
mistake. “Here?” she asked.
“Yes, there. Be careful.” Arthur snuffed the candles, and as he did so
he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes searching the shadows. Then he
leant over her, watching her pen.
She wrote her name, slowly and carefully. “Good!” he said, and he
removed the document. He set another before her, and silently showed
her with his finger where to write. She wrote her name.
“Now here,” he said. “Here! But wait! Is there enough ink in the pen?”
She dipped the pen in the inkpot to make sure, and shook it, that there
might be no danger of a blot. Again she wrote her name.
“Capital!” he said. His voice betrayed relief. “That’s done, and well
done! Couldn’t be better. Now it’s my turn.”
“But”—Jos looked up in doubt, the pen still in her hand—“but I’ve
signed three, Arthur! I thought there were but two.”
“Three!” exclaimed the Squire, turning his head, his attention caught.
“Damme!”—peevishly—“what mess has the girl made now?” It was part of
his creed that in matters of business no woman was to be trusted to do
the smallest thing as it should be done.
But Arthur only laughed. “No mess, sir,” he said. “Only a goose of
herself! She has witnessed your trial signature as well as the others.
That’s all. I thought I could make her do it, and she did it as
solemnly as you like!” He laughed a little loudly. “I shall keep that
Jos.”
The Squire, pleased with himself, and glad that the business was over,
was in a good humor, and he joined in the laugh. “It will teach you not
to be too free with your signature, my girl,” he said. “When you come
some day to have a cheque book, you’ll find that that won’t do! Won’t
do, at all! Well, thank God, that’s done.”
Arthur, who was stooping over the table, adding his own name, completed
his task. He stood up. “Yes, sir, that’s done. Done!” he repeated in an
odd, rising tone. “And now—the lease goes back to Welsh’s. Shall I lock
up the counterpart—downstairs, sir?”
“No, lad,” the Squire announced. “I’ll do that myself o’ Monday.”
“But it’s no trouble, sir.” He held out his hand for the keys. “And
perhaps the sooner it’s locked up—the tenant’s signed it, and it is
complete now—the safer.”
But, “No, no, time enough!” the Squire persisted. “I’ll put it back on
Monday. I am not so helpless now I can’t manage that, and I shall be
downstairs o’ Monday.”
For a moment Arthur hesitated. He looked as if something troubled him.
But in the end, “Very good, sir. Then that’s all?” he said.
“Ay; put the counterpart in the old bureau there. ’Twill be safe there
till Monday. How’s the wine? Fill my glass and fill your own, lad. You
can go, Jos. Tell Calamy to come to me at half-past nine.”