Ovington's Bank Part 65

"No, no, sir, we weren't drawn down to that--quite."

"We were mighty near it, my lad. And easily might have been."

"Yes," said the banker; "we shall not forget it, Rodd. But, after all," with a faint smile, "it's Bourdillon we have to thank." And he explained the motives which, on the surface at least, had moved the Squire to intervene. "If I had not taken Bourdillon in when I did----"

"Just so," Clement a.s.sented drily. "And if Bourdillon had not----"

"Umph! Yes. But--where is he? Do you know?"

"I don't. He may be at his rooms, or he may have ridden out to his mother's. I'll look round presently, and if he is not in town I'll go out and tell him the news."

"You didn't quarrel?"

Clement shrugged his shoulders. "Not more than we can make up," he said lightly, "if it is to his interest."

The banker moved uneasily in his chair. "What is to be done about him?" he asked.

"I think, sir, that that's for the Squire. Let us leave it to him.

It's his business. And now--come! Has any one told Betty!"

The banker rose, conscience-stricken. "No, poor girl, and she must be anxious. I quite forgot," he said.

"Unless Rodd has," Clement replied, with a queer look at his father.

For Rodd had vanished while they were talking of Arthur, whom it was noteworthy that neither of them now called by his Christian name.

"Well go and tell her," said Ovington, reverting to his everyday tone.

And he turned briskly to the door which led into the house. He opened it, and was crossing the hall, followed by Clement, who was anxious to relieve his sister's mind, when both came to a sudden stand. The banker uttered an exclamation of astonishment--and so did Betty. For Rodd, he melted with extraordinary rapidity through a convenient door, while Clement, the only one of the four who was not taken completely by surprise, laughed softly.

"Betty!" her father cried sternly. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Well, I thought--you would know," said Betty, blus.h.i.+ng furiously. "I think it's pretty plain." Then, throwing her arms round her father's neck, "Oh, father, I'm so glad, I'm so glad, I'm so glad!"

"But that's an odd way of showing it, my dear."

"Oh, he quite understands. In fact"--still hiding her face--"we've come to an understanding, father. And we want you"--half laughing and half crying--"to witness it."

"I'm afraid I did witness it," gravely.

"But you're not going to be angry? Not to-day? Not to-day, father."

And in a small voice, "He stood by you. You know how he stood by you.

And you said you'd never forget it."

"But I didn't say that I should give him my daughter."

"No, father; she gave herself."

"Well, there!" He freed himself from her. "That's enough now, girl.

We'll talk about it another time. But I'm not pleased, Betty."

"No?" said Betty, gaily, but dabbing her eyes at the same time. "He said that. He said that you would not be pleased. He was dreadfully afraid of you. And I said you wouldn't be pleased, too. But----"

"Eh?"

"I said you'd come to it, father, by and by. In good time."

"Well, I'm----" But what the banker was, was lost in the peal of laughter that Clement could no longer restrain.

CHAPTER XLI

Arthur, after he had dropped from the post-chaise that morning, did not at once move away. He stood on the crown of the East Bridge, looking down the river, and the turmoil of his feelings was such as for a time to render thought of the future impossible, and even to hold despair at bay. The certainty that his plan would have succeeded if it had not been thwarted by the very persons who would have profited by it, and the knowledge that but for their scruples all that he had at stake in the bank would have been saved--this certainty and this knowledge, with the fact that while they left him to bear the obloquy they had denied him the prize, so maddened him that for a full minute he stood, grasping the stone bal.u.s.trade of the bridge, and whispering curses at the current that flowed smoothly below.

The suns.h.i.+ne and the fair scene did but mock him. The green meadows, and the winding river, and the crescent of stately buildings, spire-crowned, that, curving with the stream, looked down upon it from the site of the ancient walls, did but deride his misery. For, how many a time had he stood on that spot and looked on that scene in days when he had been happy and carefree, his future as sunny as the landscape before him! And now--oh, the cowards! The cowards, who had not had the courage even to pick up the fruit which his daring had shaken from the bough.

Ay, his daring and his enterprise! For what else was it? What had he done, after all, at which they need made mouths? It had been but a loan he had taken, the use for a few weeks of money which was useless where it lay, and of which not a penny would be lost! And again he cursed the weakness of those who had rendered futile all that he, the bolder spirit, had done, who had consigned themselves and him to failure and to beggary. He had bought their safety at his own cost, and they had declined to be saved. He shook with rage, with impotent rage, as he thought of it.

Presently a man, pa.s.sing over the bridge, looked curiously at him, paused and went on again, and the incident recalled him to himself. He remembered that he was in a place where all knew him, where his movements and his looks would be observed, where every second person who saw him would wonder why he was not at the bank. He must be going.

He composed his face and walked on.

But whither? The question smote him with a strange and chilly sense of loneliness. Whither? To the bank certainly, if he had courage, where the battle was even now joined. He might fling himself into the fray, play his part as if nothing had happened, smile with the best, ignore what he had done and, if challenged, face it down. And there had been a time when he could have done this. There had been a time, when Clement had first alighted on him in town, when he had decided with himself to play that role, and had believed that he could carry it off with a smiling face. And now, now, as then, he maintained that he had done nothing that the end did not justify, since the means could harm no one.

But at that time he had believed that he could count on the complicity of others, he had believed that they would at least accept the thing that he had done and throw in their lot with his, and the failure of that belief, brag as he might, affected him. It had sapped his faith in his own standards. The view Clement had taken had slowly but surely eclipsed his view, until now, when he must face the bank with a smile, he could not muster up the smile. He began to see that he had committed not a crime, but a blunder. He had been found out!

He walked more and more slowly, and when he came, some eighty yards from the bridge and at the foot of the Cop, to a lane on his left which led by an obscure shortcut to his rooms, he turned into it. He did not tell himself that he was not going to the bank. He told himself that he must change his clothes, and wash, and eat something before he could face people. That was all.

He reached his lodgings, beneath the shadow of an old tower that looked over the meadows to the river, without encountering any one. He even stole upstairs, unseen by his landlady, and found the fire alight in his sitting-room, and some part of a meal laid ready on the table.

He washed his hands and ate and drank, but instinctively, as he did so, he hushed his movements and trod softly. When he had finished his meal he stood for a moment, his eyes on the door, hesitating. Should he or should he not go to the bank? He knew that he ought to go. But the wear and tear of three days of labor and excitement, during which he had hardly slept as many hours, had lowered his vitality and sapped his will, and the effort required was now too much for him. With a sigh of relief he threw up the sponge, he owned himself beaten. He sank into a chair and, moody and inert, he sat gazing at the fire. He was very weary, and presently his eyes closed, and he slept.

Two hours later his landlady discovered him, and the cry which she uttered in her astonishment awoke him. "Mercy on us!" she exclaimed.

"You here, sir! And I never heard a sound, and no notion you were come! But I was expecting you, Mr. Bourdillon. 'He won't be long,' I says to myself, 'now that that plaguy bank's gone and closed--worse luck to it!"

"Closed, has it?" he said, dully.

"Ay, to be sure, this hour past." Which of course was not true, but many things that were not true were being said in Aldersbury that day.

"And nothing else to be expected, I am told, though there's n.o.body blames you, sir. You can't put old heads on young shoulders, asking your pardon, sir, as I said to Mrs. Brown no more than an hour ago. It was her Johnny told me--he came that way from school and stopped to look. Such a sight of people on Bride Hill, he said, as he never saw in his life, 'cept on Show Day, and the shutters going up just as he came away."

He did not doubt the story--he knew that there was no other end to be expected. "I am only just from London," he said, feeling that some explanation of his ignorance was necessary. "I had no sleep last night, Mrs. Bowles, and I sat down for a moment, and I suppose I fell asleep in my chair."

"Indeed, and no wonder. From London, to be sure! Can I bring you anything up, sir?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Bowles. I shall have to go out presently, and until I go out, don't let me be disturbed. I'm not at home if any one calls. You understand?"

"I understand, sir." And on the stairs, as she descended, a pile of plates and dishes in her arms, "Poor young gentleman," she murmured, "it's done him no good. And some in my place would be thinking of their bill. But his people will see me paid. That's where the gentry come in--they're never the losers, whoever fails."

For a few minutes after she had retired he dawdled about the room, staring through the window without seeing anything, revolving the news, and telling himself, but no longer with pa.s.sion, that the game was played out. And gradually the idea of flight grew upon him, and the longing to be in some place where he could hide his head, where he might let himself go and pity himself unwatched. Had his pockets been full he would have returned to London and lost himself in its crowds, and presently, he thought--for he still believed in himself--he would have shown the world what he could do.