Ovington's Bank Part 59

The Squire struck his stick on the floor. "I don't want to hear from him!" he cried with violence. "I want no message from him, d'you hear? I'm not come down to that! And as for your excuses, young gentleman----"

"I am not come with any excuses," Clement answered, restraining himself with difficulty--but after all the old man had had provocation enough to justify many hard words, and he was blind besides. As he sat there, glaring sightlessly before him, his hands on his stick, he was a pathetic figure in his anger and helplessness. "I've been to town, as I said I would."

The Squire was silent for some seconds. "And come back?" he exclaimed.

"Well, yes, sir," with a smile. "I'm here."

"Umph? How did you do it?"

"I posted up and came down as far as Birmingham by the Bull and Mouth coach. I posted on this morning."

"Well, you've been devilish quick!" The Squire admitted it reluctantly. He hardly knew whether to believe the tale or not. "You didn't wait long there, that's certain. And did as little, I suppose.

Bank's going, I hear?"

"I hope not."

"Pooh!" the Squire said impatiently. "You may speak out! Speak out, man! There is no one here."

"There's some danger, I'm afraid."

"Danger! I should think there was! More than danger, as I hear!" The Squire drummed for a moment with his fingers on the table. He was thinking not of the bank, or even of his loss, but of his nephew and the scandal that would not pa.s.s by him. But he would not refer to Arthur, and after a pause, "Well," with an angry snort, "if that's all you've come to tell me, you might have spared yourself--and me. I cannot say that your company's very welcome, so if you please, we'll dispense with compliments. If that's all----"

"But that's not all, sir," Clement interposed. "I wish I could have brought back the securities, or even the whole of the money."

The Squire laughed. "No doubt," he said.

"But I was too late to ensure that. The stock had already been transferred."

"So he was quick, too!"

"And selling for cash in the middle of such a crisis he had to accept a loss of seven per cent. on the current price. But he suggests that if you reinvest immediately, a half, at least, of this may be recovered, and the eventual loss need not be more than three or four hundred. I ought perhaps to have stayed in town to effect this, but I had to think of my father, who was alone at the bank. However, I did what I could, sir, and----"

Clement paused; the Squire had uttered an exclamation which he did not catch. The old man turned a little in his chair so as to face the speaker. "Eh?" he said. "Do you mean that you've got any of the money--here?"

"I've eleven thousand and a bit over," Clement explained. "Five thousand in gold and the rest----"

"What?"

"Sir?"

"Do you mean"--the Squire spoke haltingly, after a pause--he did not seem to be able to find the right words. "Do you mean that you've brought back the money?"

"Not all. What I've told you, sir. There's six thousand and odd in notes. The gold is in two bags in the chaise."

"Here?"

"At the door, sir. I'll bring it in."

"Ay," said the Squire pa.s.sively. "Bring it in."

Clement went out and returned, carrying in two small leather bags. He set them down at the Squire's feet "There's the gold, sir," he said.

"I've not counted it, but I've no doubt that it is right. It weighs a little short of a hundred pounds."

The old man felt the bags, then, standing up, he lifted them in turn a few inches from the floor. "What does a thousand pounds weigh?" he asked.

"Between eighteen and nineteen pounds, sir."

"And the notes?"

"I have them here." Clement drew a thick packet from the pocket of his inner vest and put it into the Squire's hands. "They're Bank of England paper. They were short even at the bank, and wanted Bourdillon to take it in one-pound notes, but he stood out and got these in the end."

The Squire handled the packet, felt its thickness, weighed it lovingly in his hand. So much money, so much money in so small a s.p.a.ce! Six thousand and odd pounds! It seemed as if he could not let it go, but in the end he placed it in the breast pocket of his high-collared old coat, the shabby blue coat with the large gilt b.u.t.tons that was his common wear at home. The money secured, he sat, looking before him, while Clement, a little mortified, waited for the word of acknowledgment that did not come. At last, "Did you call at your father's?" the old man asked--irrelevantly, it seemed.

Clement colored. He had not expected the question. "Well, I did, sir,"

he admitted. "Bourdillon----"

"He was with you?"

"As far as the town. He was anxious that the money should be seen to arrive. He thought that it might check the run, and I agreed that it might do some good, and that we might make that advantage of it. So I took it through the bank."

"Pretty full, I expect, eh? Pretty full?"

"Well," ruefully, "it was, sir."

"A strong run, eh?"

"I'm afraid so. It looked like it. It was full to the doors. That's why," glancing at his watch as he stood by the window, the table between him and the Squire, "I must get back to my father. We took it through the bank and out by the garden, and put it in the chaise again in Roushill."

"Umph! He came back to town with you?"

"Bourdillon, sir? Yes--as far as the East Bridge. He left me there."

"Where is he?"

Clement hesitated. "I hope that he's gone to the bank, sir," he said.

He did not add, as he might have, that, after Arthur and he had left the coach at Birmingham and posted on, there had been a pa.s.sionate scene between them. No doubt Arthur had never given up hope, but from the first had determined to make another fight for it; and there was no police officer at their elbows now. He had appealed to Clement by all that he loved to take the money to the bank, and there to deal with it as his father should decide. Finding Clement firm and his appeals useless, he had given way to pa.s.sion, he had stormed and threatened and even shed tears; and at last, seizing the pistol case that lay at their feet, he had sworn that he would shoot himself before the other's eyes if he did not give way. In his rage he had seemed to be capable of anything, and there had been a struggle for the pistol, blows had been exchanged, and worse might have come of it if the noise of the fracas had not reached the postboy's ears. He had pulled up, turned in his saddle, and asked what the devil they would be at; he would have no murder in his master's carriage.

That had shamed them. Arthur had given way, had flung himself back, white and sullen, in his corner, and they had continued the journey on such terms as may be imagined. But even so, Arthur had proved his singular power of adaptation. The environs of the town in sight, he had suggested that at least they should take the money through the bank. Clement, anxious to make peace, had consented to that, and on the East Bridge Arthur had called on the postboy to stop, had jumped out, and, turning his back on his companion, had made off without a word.

Clement said nothing of this to the Squire, though the scene had been painful, and though he felt that something was due to him, were it but a word of thanks, or an expression of acknowledgment. It had not been his fault or his father's, that the money had been taken; it was through him that the greater part of it had been recovered, and now reposed safe in the Squire's pocket or in the bags at his feet.

At the least, it seemed to him, the old man might remember that his father was alone and needing him--was facing trouble, and, it might be, ruin. He took up his hat. "Well, sir, that's all," he said curtly.

"I must go now."

"Wait!" said the Squire. "And ring the bell, if you please."

Clement stepped to the hearth, and pulled the faded drab cord, which once had been blue, that hung near it. The bell in the pa.s.sage had hardly tinkled before Calamy entered. "Bid your mistress come here,"

said the old man. "Where is she? Fetch her?"