CHAPTER XXIII
It was with a firmer tread that Clement went back to his desk in thebank. He had pleased his father and he was pleased with himself. Hereat last was something to do. Here at last was something to fight. Hereat last was mettle in the banking business that suited him; and not amere counting of figures and reckoning of pennies, and taking in atfour per cent. and putting out at eight. His gaze, passing over theledger that lay before him, focussed itself on the unconsciouscustomers beyond the counter. He had the air of challenging them, ofdefying them. They were the enemy. It was their folly, their greed,their selfishness, their insensate desire to save themselves, let whowould perish, that menaced the bank, that threatened the security, thewell-being, the happiness of better men. It was a battle and they werethe enemy. He scowled at them. Supposing them to have sense, patience,unselfishness, there would be no battle and no danger. But he knewthat they had it not in them. No, they would rush in at the firstalarm, like a flock of silly sheep, and thrusting and pushing andtrampling 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 wasromance. Even Rodd, adding up a customer's pass-book, his face morethoughtful than usual, wore a halo, for he stood in peril. If theshutters went up Rodd would suffer with his betters. He would lose hisplace, he would be thrown on the world. He would lose, too, the triflewhich he had on deposit in the bank. And even Rodd might have hisplans and aims and ambitions, might be hoping for a rise, might belooking to marry some day--and some one!
Pheugh! Clement's mouth opened, he stared aghast--stared at the wireblind that obscured the lower half of the nearer window, as if all hisfaculties were absorbed in reading the familiar legend, KNABS'NOTGNIVO, that showed darkly upon it. Customers, Rodd, the bank, allvanished. For he had forgotten! He had forgotten Josina! Incontemplating what was exciting in the struggle before him he hadforgotten that his stake was greater than the stake of others--that itwas immeasurably greater. For it was Josina. He stood far enough belowher as it was, separated from her by a height of pride and prejudiceand convention, which he must scale if he would reach her. But he hadone point in his favor--as things were. His father was wealthy, andstanding a-tiptoe on his father's money-bags he might possibly aspireto her hand. So uplifted, so advantaged he might hope to grasp thathand, 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 wasa position difficult enough. But if the money-bags crumbled and sankbeneath 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, theone footing that money now gave him? Then her hand would be altogetherout of his reach, she would be far above him. He could not hope toreach her, could not hope to gain her, could not in honor even aspireto her?
He saw that now. His stake was Josina, and the battle lost, he lostJosina. He had been brave enough until he thought of that, recklesseven, welcoming the trumpet call. But seeing that, and seeing itsuddenly, he groaned.
The sound recalled him to himself, and he winced, remembering hisfather's injunction to show a cheerful front. That he should havefailed so soon! He looked guiltily at Arthur. Had he heard?
But Arthur had not heard. He was standing at a desk attached to thewall, his back towards Clement, his side-face to the window. He hadnot heard, because his thoughts had been elsewhere, and strange tosay, the subject which had engaged them had been also Josina. Thebanker's warning had been a sharp blow to him. He was practical. Heprided himself on the quality, and he foresaw no pleasure in a contestin which the success that was his be-all and end-all would behazarded.
True, his mercurial spirit had already begun to rise, and with everyminute he leant more and more to the opinion that the alarm wasgroundless. He thought that the banker was scaring himself, and seeingbogies where no bogies were--as if forsooth a little fall meant agreat catastrophe, or all the customers would leave the bank becauseWolley did! But he none the less for that looked abroad. Prudently hereviewed the resources that would remain to him in the event ofdefeat, and like a cautious general he determined beforehand his lineof retreat.
That line was plain. If the bank failed, if a thing so cruel andincredible could happen, he still had Garth. He still had Garth tofall back upon, its lands, its wealth, its position. The bank mightgo, and Ovington--confound him for the silly mismanagement that hadbrought things to this!--might go into limbo with it, and Clement andRodd and the rest of them--after all, it was their native level! Butfor 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 waitedtoo long, word of the bank's embarrassments might reach the old man,re-awaken his prejudices, warp his mind, and all might be lost. Theinfluence on which he counted for success might cease to be his, andin a moment he might find himself out in the cold. Weakened as theSquire was, it would not be wise to trust too much to the change inhim!
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 tospeak to Josina. He would leave no room for accidents, and, settingthese 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 theother ought to remain on the spot. But Arthur had the habit of theupper 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 gavehim the opening he desired.
The old man had been listening to the town news, and apparently hadbeen engrossed in it. But suddenly, he leant forward, and poked Arthurwith the end of his stick. "Here do you tell me!" he said. "What ailsthe girl? I've no eyes, but I've ears, and there's something. What'samiss with her, eh?"
"Do you mean Josina, sir?"
"Who else, man? I asked you what's the matter with her. D'you think Idon't know that there is something? I've all my senses but one, thankGod, and I can hear if I can't see! What is it?"
Arthur saw in a moment that here was the opportunity, he needed, andhe made haste to seize it. "The truth is, sir----" he said with acandor which was attractive. "I was going to speak to you aboutJosina, 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 awareof my feelings."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" the Squire said drily. It was impossible tosay whether he was pleased or not.
"If I had your permission to speak to her, sir?" Arthur felt, now thathe had come to the point, just the amount of nervousness which wasbecoming. "We have been brought up together, and I don't think that Ican 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 hasbeen my wish for some time, but I have hesitated. Of course, I am nogreat match for her, but I am of her blood, and----"
He paused. He did not know what to add, and the Squire did not helphim, and for the first time Arthur felt a pang of uneasiness. This wasnot 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 anominous silence. The Squire might be taking it well or ill--it wasimpossible to judge. He had not changed his attitude and still sat,leaning forward, his hands on his stick, impenetrable behind hisbandages. It struck Arthur that he might have been premature; that hemight have put his favor to too high a test. It might have been wiserto 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 hesighed 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 mayhave. That's understood, eh?" sharply.
"Willingly, sir," Arthur answered. A great weight had been lifted fromhim.
"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. Mostheartily he wished--though he thought that Ovington's views wereunnecessarily dark--that he could leave the bank. But he could not.The moment when Ovington might have released him, when thecancellation of the articles had been possible, was past. The bankercould no longer afford to cancel them, or to lose the five thousandpounds that Arthur had brought in.
He hesitated, and the old man read his hesitation, and was wroth. "Youheard what I said?" he growled, and he struck his stick upon thefloor. "Do you think I am going to have my daughter's husbandcounterskipping in Aldersbury? Cheek by jowl with every grocer andlinen-draper in the town? Bad enough as it is, bad enough, but whenyou'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 nothave the name of Griffin dragged in the dirt."
Arthur had not anticipated this, though he might easily have foreseenit; and he cursed his folly. He ought to have known that the oldquestion would be raised, and that it would revive the Squire'santagonism. He was like a fox caught in a trap, nay, like a fox thathas put its own foot in the trap; and he had no time to give any but acandid answer. "I am afraid, sir," he said. "I mean--I am quitewilling to comply with your wishes. But unfortunately there's adifficulty. I am tied to the bank for three years. At the end of threeyears----"
"Three years be d--d!" In a passion the Squire struck his stick on thefloor. "Three years! I'm to sit here for three years while you go inand out, partner with Ovington! Then my answer is, No! No! Do youhear? I'll not have it."
The perspiration stood on Arthur's brow. Here was a _debacle!_ An end,crushing and complete, to all his hopes! Desperately he tried toexplain himself and mend matters. "If I could act for myself, sir," hesaid, "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 foolwould 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'dnot 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 _debacle_; and Arthur could hardly believe his ears,or that he stood in his own shoes. In a moment, in one moment he hadfallen from the height of favor and the pinnacle of influence, anddisowned and defeated, he could hardly take in the mischance that hadbefallen him. Slowly he got to his feet, and as soon as he couldmaster his voice, "I'm grieved, sir," he answered, "more grieved thanI, 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 hopefor the best; and he moved towards the door, cursing his folly, hisall but incredible folly, but finding no remedy. His hand was on thelatch 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, andpresently he sighed. Then, "Here, come back!" he ordered. But againfor awhile he said no more, and Arthur waited, completely in the darkas to what was working in the other's mind. At last. "There, maybeI've been hasty," the old man muttered, "and not thought of all. Willyou 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 hemarked the reluctance with another sigh.
And so, as suddenly as he had raised the objection, he withdrew it, toArthur's intense astonishment. Only one conclusion could he draw--thatthe Squire was indeed failing. And on that, with a hastily murmuredword of thanks, he escaped from the room, hardly knowing whether hewalked on his head or his feet.
Lord, what a near thing it had been. And yet--no! The Squire--it mustbe that--was a failing man. He had no longer the strength or thestubbornness to hold to the course that his whims or his crabbed humorsuggested. The danger might not have been so real or substantial,after all.
Yet the relief was great, and coming on Miss Peacock, who was crossingthe hall with a bowl in her hand, he seized her by the waist andwhirled her round, bowl and all. "Hallo, Peacock! Hallo, Peacock!" hecried 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 pretendedanger, though she liked it well enough. "What's come to you? If youmust know, she's moping in her room. It's where I find her most timeswhen she's not catching cold in the gardenhouse, and her father'snoticed it at last. He's in a pretty stew about her, and if you askme, 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 Peacockanother 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 notuntil after breakfast on the morrow that he saw her go into the gardenthrough the side-door, a relic of the older house that had once stoodthere. To frame it a stone arch of Tudor date had been filled in, andon either side of this, outlined in stone on the brick wall, was apointed window of three lights. But Arthur's thoughts as he followedJos into the garden were far from such dry-as-dust matters. Thereaction after fear, the assurance that all was well, intoxicatedhim, and in a glow of spirits that defied the November day he strodedown the walk under boughs that half-bare, and over leaves thathalf-shrivelled, owned alike the touch of autumn. He caught sight of askirt on the raised walk at the farther end of the garden and he madefor it, bounding up the four steps with a light foot and a lover'shaste. A handsome young fellow, with a conquering air!
Jos was leaning on the wall, a shawl about her shoulders, her eyesbent on the mill and the Thirty Acres; and her presence in that placeon that not too cheerful morning, and her pensive stillness, mighthave set him wondering, had he given himself time to think. But he wasfull of his purpose, he viewed her only as she affected it, and he sawnothing except what he wished to see. When, hearing his footsteps, sheturned, her color did not rise--and that too might have told himsomething. But had he spared this a thought, it would only have beento think that her color would rise soon enough when he spoke.
"Jos!" he cried, while some paces still separated them. "I've seenyour father! And I've spoken to him!" He waved his hand as oneproclaiming a victory.
But what victory? Jos was as much in the dark as if he had never paidcourt to her in those far-off days. "Is anything the matter?" sheasked, and she turned as if she would go back to the house.
But he barred the way. "Nothing," he said. "Why should there be? Onthe 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 ofwhat he meant.
"Yes! My dear girl, don't you understand? He has given me leave tospeak to you--to ask you to be my wife?" And as her lips parted andshe gazed at him in astonishment, he took possession of her hand. Theposition 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
whichhe had passed gave this lover an ardor that he might otherwise havelacked. "Jos, dear," he continued, looking into her eyes, "I'vewaited--waited patiently, knowing that it was useless to speak untilhe gave me leave. But now"--after all, love-making with that prettystartled face before him, that trembling hand in his, was notunpleasant--"I come to you--for my reward."
"But, Arthur," she protested, almost too much surprised for words, "Ihad no idea----"
"Come, don't say that! Don't say that, Jos dear! No idea? Why, hasn'tit always been this way with us! Since the day that we cut our nameson the old pew? Haven't I seen you blush like a rose when you lookedat it--many and many a time? And if I haven't dared to make love toyou of late, surely you have known what was in my mind? Have we notalways been meaning this--you and I?"
She was thunder-struck. Had it been really so? Could he be right? Hadshe been blind, and had he been feeling all this while she guessednothing of it? She looked at him in distress, in increasing distress."But indeed, indeed," she said, "I have not been meaning it, Arthur, Ihave not, indeed!"
"Not?" incredulously. "You've not known that I----"
"No!" she protested. "And I don't think that it has always been sowith 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 yourside--I don't, indeed. And I'm sure that I have not thought of thismyself."
"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 youdo."
"Then let me tell you that I do. I do!" And he tried to possesshimself of her other hand, and there was a little struggle betweenthem. "Dear, dear girl, I do love you," he swore. "And I want you, Iwant you for my wife. And your father permits it. Do you understand--Idon't think you do? He sanctions it."
He would have put his arm round her, thinking to overcome herbashfulness, thinking that this was but maidenly pride, waiting to beconquered. But she freed herself with unexpected vigor and slippedfrom him. "No, I don't wish it!" she said. And her attitude and hertone were so resolute, that he could no longer deceive himself. "No!Listen, Arthur." She was pale, but there was a surprising firmness inher face. "Listen! I do not believe that you love me. You have givenme no cause to think so these many months. Such a boy and girlaffection 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 hetried 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 veryhair. Yet, in defiance of this, she repeated her words. "I know whatlove 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 dohurt 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 hereddened with anger; only to turn pale, a moment later, as a pictureof himself humiliated and rejected, his plans spoiled by the fancy ofthis foolish girl, rose before him. He could not understand it; itseemed incredible. And there must be some reason? Desperately heclutched at the thought that she was afraid of her father. She had notgrasped 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 itis indeed his wish that we should marry?"
"I cannot help it."
"But--love?" Though he tried to keep his temper his voice was growingsharp. "What, after all, do you know of--love?" And rapidly his mindran over the possibilities. No, there could be no one else. She knewfew, and among them no one who could have courted her without hisknowledge. For, strange to say, no inkling of the meetings betweenClement and his cousin had reached him. They had all taken placewithin a few weeks, they had ceased some months back, and though therewere probably some in the house who had seen things and drawn theirconclusions, the favorers of young love are many, and no one saveThomas had tried to make mischief. No, there could be no one, hedecided; it was just a silly girl's romantic notion. "And how can yousay," he continued, "that mine is not real love? What do you know ofit? Believe me, Jos, you are playing with your happiness. And withmine."
"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 notin women's nature to play the coquette after this. Why, if I hadtreated you as you have treated me--and made a fool of me! Made a foolof me!" he reiterated passionately, unable to control his chagrin--"Ishould deserve to be whipped!"
And afraid that he would break down before her and disgrace hismanhood, he turned about, sprang down the steps and savagely spurning,savagely trampling under foot the shrivelled leaves, he strode acrossthe garden to the house. "The little fool!" he muttered, and heclenched his hands as if he could have crushed her within them. "Thelittle 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 aresuccessful. He had attained to most of the things which he haddesired. Now to fail where he had deemed himself most sure, to berepulsed where he had fancied that he had only to stoop, to be scornedwhere he had thought that he had but to throw the handkerchief, to berejected and rejected by Jos--it was enough to make any man angry, tomake any man grind his teeth and swear! And how--how in the world washe to explain the matter to his uncle? How account to him for hisconfidence in the issue? His cheeks burned as he thought of it.
He was angry. But his wrath was no match for the disappointment thatwarred with it and presently, as passion waned, overcame it. He had toface and to weigh the consequences. The loss of Jos meant much morethan the loss of a mild and biddable wife with a certain charm of herown. It meant the loss of Garth, of the influence that belonged to it,the importance that flowed from it, the position it conferred. Itmeant 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 hadbought by a long servitude, by much patience, by many a tiresome ridebetween town and country!
There, in that loss, was the true pinch! But he must think of it. Hemust take time to review the position and consider how he might dealwith 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 toMiss Peacock, he had his horse saddled. He mounted in the yard anddescended the drive at his usual pace. But as soon as he had gainedthe 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. Hemust not let himself be scared by Ovington's alarms. If a crisis camehe must tackle the business as he alone could tackle business, and allwould be well. He was sure of it.
Withal he was spared one pang, the pang of disappointed love.