Ovington's Bank

"Well, of course it was. You can see that."

She looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her pride in him showing in her eyes. He had indeed justified her choice of him, her belief in him, her confidence in him. He had done this and had said nothing. The day was cold, and she was not warmly clad, but she felt no cold-now. It was raining, but she was no longer aware of it. There had sprung up in her heart, not only courage, but a faint, a very faint hope.

He had come to dash her down, to fill her cup of sorrow to the brim, to leave her lonely in the world and comfortless-for never, never could she love another! And instead he had given her hope-a hope forlorn and far off, gleaming faint as the small stars in distant Cassiopeia, and often doubt, like an evening mist, would veil it. But it sparkled, she saw it, she drew courage from it.

Meanwhile, surprised by the turn her thoughts had taken, he was still more surprised by the change in her looks, the color in her cheeks, the light in her eyes. He did not understand, and for a moment, seeing himself no hope but only sorrow and parting, he was tempted to think that she trifled. What mattered it what coat he wore, or what had stained it, or the details of a story old now, and which he supposed to be as well known to her as to him? Perhaps she did not comprehend, and, "Jos," he said, inviting her to be serious, "do you understand that this is our parting?"

But "No! no!" she said resolutely. "We are not going to part."

"But don't you see," sadly, "that I cannot go to your father now? That next week we may be beggars, and my father a ruined man? I could ask no man, even a poor man, for his daughter now. I must work to live, work as a clerk-as, I don't know what, Jos, but in some position far removed from your life, and far removed from your class. I could not speak to your father now, and it is that which has brought me to you to-to say good-bye, dearest-to part, Jos! The gates are closed, we must go out of the garden, dear. And you" – he looked at her with yearning eyes-"must forgive me, before we part."

"Perhaps we are not going to part," she said.

He shook his head. He would not deceive her. "Nothing else is possible," he said.

"Perhaps, and perhaps not. At any rate," putting her hands in his, and looking at him with brave, loving eyes, "I would not undo one of those days-in the garden! No, nor an hour of them. They are precious to me. And for forgiving, I have nothing to forgive and nothing to regret, if we never meet again, Clement. But we shall meet. What if you have to begin the world again? We are both young. You will work for me. And do you think that I will not wait for you, wait until you have climbed up again, or until something happens to bring us together? Do you not know that I love you more now, far more, in your unhappiness-that you are more to me, a thousand times more to-day-than in your prosperity?"

"Oh, Jos!" He could say no more, but his swimming eyes spoke for him.

"But you must leave it to me now," she continued. "After all, things may turn out better than you think. You may not be ruined. People may not be so foolish as to want all their money at once. Have hope, and-and remember that I am always here, though you do not see me or hear from me; that I am always here, thinking of you, waiting for you, loving you, always yours, Clement, till you come-though it be ten years hence."

"Oh, Jos!" His eyes were overflowing now.

"You believe me, you do believe me, don't you?" she said. "And now you must go. But kiss me first. No, I do not mind who sees us, or who knows that I am yours now. I am past that."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, not as he would have kissed her an hour before, with passion, but in reverence and humility, in love too sacred for words. Never till now had he known what a woman's love was, how much it gave, how little it asked, how pure in its highest form it could be-and how strong! Nor ever till now had he known her, this girl to whom he had once presumed to teach firmness, whose weakness he had taken on himself to guide, whom he had thought to encourage, to strengthen, to arm-he, who had not been worthy to kiss the hem of her robe!

Oh, the wonderful power of love, which had transformed her! Which had made her what she was, and now laid him in the dust before her!

Work for her, wait for her, live for her? Ah, would he not, and deem himself happy though the years brought him no nearer, though the memory of her, transfiguring his whole life, proved his only and full reward!

CHAPTER XXIX

An hour after Arthur had left the house on the Monday morning Josina went slowly up the stairs to her father's room. She was young and the stairs were shallow, but the girl's knees shook under her as she mounted them, as she mounted them one by one, while her hand trembled on the banister. Before now the knees of brave men, going on forlorn hopes, have shaken under them, but, like these men, Josina went on, she ascended step by step. She was frightened, she was horribly frightened, but she had made a vow to herself and she would carry it out. How she would carry it out, how she would find words to blurt out the truth, how she would have the courage to live through that which would follow, she did not know, she could not conceive. But her mind was fixed.

She reached the shabby landing on which two or three sheep-skins laid at the doors of the rooms served for carpet, and there, indeed, she paused awhile and pressed her hand to her side to still the beating of her heart. She gazed through the window. On the sweep below, Calamy was shaking out the cloth, while two or three hens clucked about his feet, and a cat seated at a distance watched the operation with dignity. In the field beyond the brook a dog barked joyously as it rounded up some sheep. Miss Peacock's voice, scolding a maid, came up from below. All was going on as usual, going on callous and heedless: while she-she had that before her which turned her sick and faint, which for her, timid and subject, was almost worse than death.

And with her on this forlorn hope went no comrades, no tramp of marching feet, no watching eyes of thousands, no bugle note to cheer her. Only Clement's shade-waiting.

She might still draw back. But when she had once spoken there could be no drawing back. A voice whispered in her ear that she had better think it over-just once more, better wait a little longer to see if aught would happen, revolve it once again in her mind. Possibly there might be some other, some easier, some safer way.

But she knew what that whisper meant, and she turned from the window and grasped the handle of the door. She went in. Her father was sitting beside the fire. His back was towards her, he was smoking his after-breakfast pipe. She might still retreat, or-or she might say what she liked, ask perhaps if he wanted anything. He would never suspect, never conceive in his wildest moments the thing that she had come to confess. It was not too late even now-to draw back.

She went to the other side of the table on which his elbow rested, and she stood there, steadying herself by a hand which she laid on the table. She was sick with fear, her tongue clung to her mouth, her very lips were white. But she forced herself to speak. "Father, I have something-to tell you," she said.

"Eh?" He turned sharply. "What's that?" She had not been able to control her voice, and he knew in a moment that something was wrong. "What ha' you been doing?"

Now! Now, or never! The words she had so often repeated to herself rang in her ears. "Do you know who it was," she said, "who saved you that night, sir? The night you were-hurt?"

He turned himself a little more towards her. "Who? Who it was?" he repeated. "What art talking about, girl? Why, the lad, to be sure. Who else?"

"No, sir," she said, shaking from head to foot, so that the table rocked audibly under her hand. "It was Mr. Ovington's son. And-and I love him. And he wishes to marry me."

The Squire did not say a word. He sat, his head erect still as a stone.

"And I want-to help him," she added, her voice dying away with the words. Her knees were so weak, that but for the support of the table she must have sunk on the floor.

Still the Squire did not speak. His jaw had fallen. He sat, arrested in the attitude of listening, his face partly turned from her, his pipe held stiffly in his hand. At last, "Ovington's son wants to marry you?" he repeated, in a tone so even that it might have deceived many.

"He saved your life!" she cried. She clung desperately to that.

"And you love him?"

"Oh, I do! I do!"

He paused as if he still listened, still expected more. Then in a low voice, "The girl is mad," he muttered. "My God, the girl is mad! Or I am mad! Blind and mad, like the old king! Ay, blind and mad!" He let the pipe fall from his hand to the floor, and he groped for his stick that he might rap and summon assistance. But in his agitation he could not find the stick.

Then, as he still felt for it with a flurried hand, nature or despair prompted her, and the girl who had never caressed him in her life, never taken a liberty with him, never ventured on the smallest familiarity, never gone beyond the morning and evening kiss, timidly given and frigidly received, sank on the floor and clasped his knees, pressed herself against him. "Oh, father, father! I am not mad," she cried, "I am not mad. Hear me! Oh, hear me!" A pause, and then, "I have deceived you, I am not worthy, but you are my father! I have only, only you, who can help me! Have mercy on me, for I do love him. I do love him! I-" Her voice failed her, but she continued to cling to him, to press her head against his body, mutely to implore him, and plead with him.

"My God!" he ejaculated. He sat upright, stiff, looking before him with sightless eyes; as far as he could withholding himself from her, but not actively repelling her. After an interval, "Tell me," he muttered.

That, even that, was more than she had expected from him. He had not struck her, he had not cursed her, and she took some courage. She told him in broken words, but with sufficient clearness, of her first meeting with Clement, of the gun-shot by the brook, of her narrow escape and the meetings that had followed. Once, in a burst of rage, he silenced her. "The rascal! Oh, the d-d rascal!" he cried, and she flinched. But she went on, telling him of Clement's resolve that he must be told, of that unfortunate meeting with him on the road, and then of that second encounter the same night, when Clement had come to his rescue. There he stopped her.

"How do you know?" he asked. "How do you know? How dare you say-" And now he did make a movement as if to repel her and put her from him.

But she would not be repulsed. She clung to him, telling him of the coat, of the great stains that she had seen upon it; and at last, "Why did you hide this?" broke from him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She told him that she had not known, that the part which Clement had taken on that night was new to her also.

"But you see him?" he snarled, speaking a little more like himself. "You see him!"

"Twice only-twice only since that night," she vowed. "Indeed, indeed, sir, only twice. Once he came to speak to you and tell you, but you were ill, and I would not let him. And yesterday he came to-to give me up, to say good-bye. Only twice, sir, as God sees me! He would not. He showed me that we had been wrong. He said," sobbing bitterly, "that we must be open or-or we must be nothing-nothing to one another!"

"Open? Open!" the Squire almost shouted. "D-d open! Shutting the stable door when the horse is gone. D-n his openness!" And then, "Good Lord! Good Lord!" with almost as much amazement as anger in his voice. That all this should have been going on and he know nothing about it! That his girl, this child as he had deemed her, should have been doing this under his very eyes! Under his very eyes! "Good Lord!" But then rage got the upper hand once more, and he cursed Clement with passion, and again made a movement as if he would rise and throw her off. "To steal a man's child! The villain!"

"Oh, don't call him that!" she cried. "He is good, father. Indeed, indeed, he is good. And he saved your life."

He sat back at that, as if her words shifted his thoughts to another matter. "Tell me again," he said, sternly, but more calmly. "He told you this tale yesterday, did he? Well, tell me as he told you, do you hear? And mind you, if you're lying, you slut, he or you, 'twill come up! I am blind, and you may think to deceive me now as you have deceived me before-"

"Never, never again, sir!" she vowed. Then she told him afresh, from point to point, what she had learned on the Sunday.

"Then the lad didn't come up till after?"

"Arthur? No, sir. Not till after Thomas was gone. And it was Clement who followed Thomas to Birmingham and got the money back." For Clement had told her that also.

When she had done, the Squire leant forward and felt again for his stick, as if he were now equipped and ready for action. "Well, you begone," he said, harshly. "You begone, now. I'll see to this."

But, "Not till you forgive me," she entreated, holding him close, and pressing her face against his unwilling breast. "And there's more, there's more, sir," in growing agitation, "I must tell you. Be good to me, oh, be good to me! Forgive me and help him."

"Help him!" the Squire cried, and this time he was indeed amazed. "I help him! Help the man who has gone behind my back and stolen my girl! Help the man who-let me go! Do you hear me, girl! Let me get up, you shameless hussy!" growing moment by moment more himself, as he recovered from the shock of her disclosure, and could measure its extent. "How do I know what you are? Or what he mayn't have done to you? Help, indeed? Help the d-d rascal who has robbed me? Who has dared to raise his eyes to my girl-a Griffin? Who-"

"He saved your life," she cried, pleading desperately with him, though he strove to free himself. "Oh, father, he saved your life! And I love him! I love him! If you part us I shall die."

He could not struggle against her young strength, and he gave up the attempt to free himself. He sank back in his chair. "D-n the girl!" he cried. He sat silent, breathing hard.

And she-she had told him, and she still lived! She had told him and he had not cursed her, he had not struck her to the ground, he had not even succeeded in putting her from him! She had told him, and the world still moved about her, his gold watch, which lay on the table on a level with her head, still ticked, the dog still barked in the field below. Miss Peacock's voice could still be heard, invoking Calamy's presence. She had told him, and he was still her father, nay, if she was not deceived, he was more truly her father, nearer to her, more her own, than he had ever been before.

Presently, "Ovington's son! Ovington's son!" he muttered in a tone of wonder. "Good God! Couldn't you find a man?"

"He is a man," she pleaded, "indeed, indeed, he is!"

"Ay, and you are a woman!" bitterly. "Fire and tow! A few kisses and you are aflame for him. For shame, girl, for shame! And how am I to be sure it's no worse? Ain't you ashamed of yourself?"

She shivered, but she was silent.

"Deceiving your father when he was blind!"

She clung to him. He felt her trembling convulsively.

After that he sat for a time as if exhausted, suffering her embrace, and silent save when at rare intervals an oath broke from him, or, in a gust of passion, he struck his hand on the arm of his chair. Once, "My father would ha' spurned you from the house," he cried, "you jade." She did not answer, and a new idea striking him, he sat up sharply. "But what-what the devil is all this about? What's all this, if it's over and-and done with?" His tone was almost jubilant. "If he's off with it? Maybe, girl, I'll forgive you, bad as you've been, if-if that's so. Do you say it's over?"

"No, no!" she cried. "He came-"

"You told me-"

"He came to say good-bye to me, because-" And then in words the most moving that she could find, words sped from her heart, winged by her love, she explained Clement's errand, the position at the bank, the crisis, the menace of ruin, the need of help.

The Squire listened, his business instincts aroused, until he grasped her meaning. Then he struck his hand on the table. "And he thought that I should help them!" he cried, with grim satisfaction. "He thought that, did he?" And he would not listen to her protests that it was not Clement, that it was not Clement, it was she who-"He thought that? I see it now, I see it all! But the fool, the fool, to think that! Why, I wouldn't stretch out my little finger to save his father from hell! And he thought that? He took me for as big a fool as the silly girl he had flattered and lured, and thought he could use, to save them from perdition! As if he had not done me harm enough! As if he hadn't stolen my daughter from me, he'd steal my purse! Why, he must be the most d-d impudent, cunning thief that ever trod shoe leather. He must be a cock of a pretty hackle, indeed. He should go far, by G-d, with the nerve he has. Far, by G-d! My daughter first and my purse afterwards! This son of an upstart, whose grandfather would have sat in my servants' hall, he'd steal my-"

"No, no!" she protested.

"Yes, yes! Yes, yes! But he'll find that he's not got a girl to deal with now! Help him? Save his bank? Pluck him from the debtors' prison he's due to rot in! Why, I'll see him-in hell first!"

She had risen and moved from him. She was standing on the other side of the table now. "He saved your life!" she cried. And she, too, was changed. She spoke with something of his passion. "He saved your life!" she repeated, and she stamped her foot on the floor.

"Well, the devil thank him for it!" the Squire cried with zest. "And you," with fresh anger, "do you begone, girl! Get out of my room before you try my patience too far!" He waved his stick at her. "Go, or I'll call up Calamy and have you put out! Do you hear? Do you hear? You ungrateful, shameless slut! Go!"

She had fancied victory, incredible, unhoped-for-victory to be almost within her grasp; and lo, it was dashed from her hand, it was farther from her than ever. And she could do no more. Courage, strength, hope were spent, shaken as she was by the emotions of the past hour. She could no no more; a little more and he might strike her. She crept out weeping, and went, blinded by her tears, up the stairs, up, stair by stair, to hide herself in her room. There had been a moment when she had fancied that he was melting, but all had been in vain. She had come close to him, but in the end he had put her from him. He had thrust her farther from him than before. Her only consolation, if consolation she had, was that she had spoken, that the truth was known, that she had no longer any secret to weigh her down. But she had failed.

CHAPTER XXX

Meantime the old man, left to himself, sat for a while, deeply moved. He breathed quickly, wiping his brow from time to time with a hand that trembled, and for some minutes it was upon the last and the least unwelcome aspect of the matter that he dwelt. So that was the point of it all, was it? That was the end and the aim of this clandestine, this disgraceful intrigue! This conspiracy! They had made this silly woman-child, soft like all her sex, their puppet, and using her they had thought that he, too, might be drawn into their game and used and exploited for their profit. But they had been mad, mad, as they would learn, to think it. They must have been mad to dream of it. Or desperate. Ay, that must be it. Desperate!

But as he grew cooler, and the first impulse, so natural in him, to pin his enemies and shake them, began to lose its force, less pleasant aspects of the matter rose before him. For the girl and her nonsense and her bad, bad behavior, he did not tell himself, he would not allow, that it was that which hurt him most. On the contrary, he affected to put that from him-for the time. He told himself and strove to believe that he could deal with it when it pleased him. He could easily put an end to that folly. Girls were only girls, and she'd forget. He would deal with that later.

But Arthur's five thousand-that would be lost, if the girl's story were true. Five thousand! It was a fine sum and a d-d pity! The Squire's avarice rose in arms as he thought of it. Five thousand! And that silly woman, Arthur's mother-he would have to provide for her. She would be penniless, almost penniless.

And Arthur himself? Confound him, what had the lad been doing? Why had he been silent about the bank's difficulties and the peril in which his money stood? For, it was only two days ago that he had denied the existence of any peril. And then, again, what was this story about that unlucky night which had cost him his sight? If it really was young Ovington who had come to his rescue and beaten off Thomas, why had not Arthur said so? Why had he never let fall a single word about him, never mentioned the young fellow's name, never given him the credit that-that was certainly due to him, rogue as he was, if this story were true. There was something odd about that-the Squire moved uneasily in his chair-something underhand and-and fishy! He had a glimpse of Arthur in a new light, and he did not like what he saw.

He liked it almost less, if that were possible, than he liked another thing-the idea that this young Ovington's silence was creditable to him. If it were indeed he who had done the thing, why had he been quiet all this time, and never even said "I did it"? If a gentleman had behaved after that fashion, the Squire would have known what to think of it. But that this low-bred young cub, who had behaved so disgracefully to his daughter, should bear himself in that way-no, he was not going to believe it. After all, the world wasn't turned upside down to that extent.

No! For in his connection with the girl the young scamp had shown what he was-a sneaking, underhand, interloping puppy. In connection with his girl! As he thought of it, the veins swelled on the Squire's forehead and he shook with rage. His girl! "Damn him! Damn him!" he cried, trembling with passion. And again and again he cursed the man who had dared to raise his eyes to a Griffin-who had stolen his child's heart from him. No fate, no punishment, no lot was too bad for such a one. Help him! Help him, indeed!

The Squire laughed mirthlessly at the notion.

After that there remained only his daughter to think of, and as he came back to her and to her share in the matter, more, far more than he wished, recurred to his memory: her prayers and her pleading, her clinging arms and her caresses, the tears that had fallen on his hands, her warm, slender body pressed against his. He could not forget the sound of her voice in his ears, nor the touch of her hand, nor the feel of her body. Words that she had used returned and beat on his old heart, and beat and beat again, tormenting him, trying him, softening, ay, softening him. He thought of the boy, dead these many years at Alexandria, and, yes, she was all that he had, all. And he must thwart her, he must make her unhappy. It was his duty. She knew not what she asked. And she had behaved ill, ay, very ill.

But on that, with a vividness which the reflection had never assumed before-for the old man, like other old men, did not feel old-he saw that he had but a very short span to live-a year or two, or it might be three or four years. The last page of his life was all but turned, the book was near its end. Two or three years and all that he treasured would be hers. Even now he was dependent on her for care and affection, and to the last he must be dependent. A little while and she would be alone, her own mistress; and he who had ruled his lands and his people for more than half a century would be a memory. A memory of what?

Again, and yet again, he felt her arms about his knees, her little head pressed against his breast. Again and yet again her tears, her prayers beat upon his heart. She was a silly woman-child, a fool; but a dear fool, made dear to him in the very hour of her misbehavior. It was his duty to deny her. It was for him to order, for her to obey. And yet, "He saved your life!" that cry so oft repeated, so often dinned into his ears, that, too, came back to him. And before he was aware of it he was wondering what manner of man this young fellow was, what spell he had woven about the girl, whence his power over her.