Ovington's Bank

She was all of a tremble when she came to him, and for that he was prepared. That did not surprise him. It was due to him. But he expected that she would excuse herself and fib and protest and shift her ground, and pour forth a torrent of silly explanations, as in his experience women always did. But Mrs. Bourdillon took him aback by doing none of these things. She was white-faced and frightened, but, strange thing in a woman, she was dumb, or nearly dumb. Almost all she had to say or would say, almost all that he could draw from her was that it was her letter-yes, it was her letter. She repeated that several times. And she meant it? She meant what she had written? Yes, oh yes, she did. Certainly, she did. It was her letter.

But beyond that she had nothing to say, and at length, harshly, but not as harshly as he had intended, "What do you mean, then," he asked, "to do with the money, ma'am, eh? I suppose you know that much?"

"I am putting it into the bank," she replied, her eyes averted. "Arthur is going-to be taken in."

"Into the bank?" The Squire glared at her. "Into Ovington's?"

"Yes, into Ovington's," she answered, with the courage of despair. "Where he will get twelve per cent. for it." She spoke in the tone of one who repeated a lesson.

He struck the floor with his cane. "And you think that it will be safe there? Safe, ma'am, safe?"

"I hope so," she faltered.

"Hope so, by G-d? Hope so!" he rapped out, honestly amazed. "And that's all. Hope so! Well, all I can say is that I hope you mayn't live to regret your folly. Twelve per cent. indeed! Twelve-"

He was going to say more, but the silly woman burst into tears and wept with such self-abandonment that she fairly silenced him. After watching her a moment, "Well, there, there, ma'am, it's no good crying like that," he said irritably. "But damme, it beats me! It beats me. If that is the way you look at it, why do you do it? Why do you do it? Of course you'll have the money. But when it's gone, don't come to me for more. And don't say I didn't warn you! There, there, ma'am!" moved by her grief, "for heaven's sake don't go on like that! Don't-God bless me, if I live to be a hundred, if I shall ever understand women!"

He went away, routed by her tears and almost as much perplexed as he was enraged. "If the woman feels like that about it, why does she call up the money?" he asked himself. "Hope that it won't be lost! Hope, indeed! No, I'll never understand the silly fools. Never! Hope, indeed! But I suppose that it's that son of hers has befooled her."

He saw, of course, that it was Arthur who had pushed her to it, and his anger against him and against Ovington grew. He would take his balance from Ovington's on the very next market day. He would go back to Dean's, though it meant eating humble pie. He thought of other schemes of vengeance, yet knew that when the time came he would not act upon them.

He was in a savage mood as he crossed the stable-yard at Garth, and unluckily his eye fell upon Thomas, who was seated on a shaft in a corner of the cart-shed. The man espied him at the same moment and hurried away a paper-it looked like a newspaper-over which he had been poring. Now, the Squire hated idleness, but he hated still more to see a newspaper in one of his men's hands. A laborer who could read was, in his opinion, a laborer spoiled, and his wrath blazed up.

"You d-d idle rascal!" he roared, shaking his cane at the man. "That's what you do in my time, is it! Read some blackguard twopenny trash when you should be cleaning harness! Confound you, if I catch you again with a paper, you go that minute! D'you hear? D'you think that that's what I pay you for?"

The worm will turn, and Thomas, who had been spelling out an inspiring speech by one Henry Hunt, did turn. "Pay me? You pay me little enough!" he answered sullenly.

The Squire could hardly believe his ears. That one of his men should answer him!

"Ay, little enough!" the man repeated impudently. "Beggarly pay, and 'tis time you knew it, Master."

The Squire gasped. Thomas was a Garthmyle man, who ten years before had migrated to Lancashire. Later he had returned-some said that he had got into trouble up north. However that may be, the Squire had wanted a groom, and Thomas had offered himself at low wages and been taken. The village thought that the Squire had been wrong, for Thomas had learned more tricks in Manchester than just to read the newspaper, and, always an ill-conditioned fellow, was fond of airing his learning in the ale-house.

Perhaps the Squire now saw that he had made a mistake; or perhaps he was too angry to consider the matter. "Time I knew it?" he cried, as soon as he could recover himself. "Why, you idle, worthless vagabond, do you think that I do not know what you're worth? Ain't you getting what I've always given?"

"That's where it be!"

"Eh!"

"That's where it be! I'm getting what you gave thirty years agone! And you soaking in money, Master, and getting bigger rents and bigger profits. Ain't I to have my share of it?"

"Share of it!" the old man ejaculated, thunderstruck by an argument as new as the man's insolence. "Share of it!"

"Why not?" Thomas knew his case desperate, and was bent on having something to repeat to the awe-struck circle at the Griffin Arms. "Why not?"

"Why, begad?" the Squire exclaimed, staring at him. "You're the most impudent fellow I ever set eyes on!"

"You'll see more like me before you die!" Thomas answered darkly. "In hard times didn't we share 'em and fair clem? And now profits are up, the world's full of money, as I hear in Aldersbury, and be you to take all and us none?"

It was a revelation to the Squire. Share? Share with his men? Could there be a fool so foolish as to look at the matter thus? Laborers were laborers, and he'd always seen that they had enough in the worst times to keep soul and body together. The duty of seeing that they had as much as would do that was his; and he had always owned it and discharged it. If man, woman or child had starved in Garthmyle he would have blamed himself severely. But the notion that they should have more because times were good, the notion that aught besides the county rate of wages, softened by feudal charity, entered into the question, was a heresy as new to him as it was preposterous. "You don't know what you are talking about," he said, surprise diminishing his anger.

"Don't I?" the man answered, his little eyes sparkling with spite. "Well there's some things I know as you don't. You'd ought to go to the summer-house a bit more, Master, and you'd learn. You'd ought to walk in the garden. There's goings-on and meetings and partings as you don't know, I'll go bail! But t'aint my business and I say nought. I do my work."

"I'll find another to do it this day month," said the Squire. "And you'll take that for notice, my man. You'll do your duty while you're here, and if I find one of the horses sick or sorry, you'll sleep in jail. That's enough. I want no more of your talk!"

He went into the house. Things had come to a pretty pass, when one of his men could face him out like that. The sooner he made a change and saw the rogue out of Garthmyle the better! He flung his stick into a corner and his hat on the table and damned the times. He would put the matter out of his mind.

But it would not go. The taunt the man had flung at him at the last haunted him. What did the rogue mean? And at whom was he hinting? Was Arthur working against him in his own house as well as opposing him out of doors? If so, by heaven, he would soon put an end to it! And by and by, unable to resist the temptation-but not until he had sent Thomas away on an errand-he went heavily out and into the terraced garden. He climbed to the raised walk and looked abroad, his brow gloomy.

The day had mended and the sun was trying to break through the clouds. The sheep were feeding along the brook-side, the lambs were running races under the hedgerows, or curling themselves up on sheltered banks. But the scene, which usually gratified him, failed to please to-day, for presently he espied a figure moving near the mill and made out that the figure was Josina's. From time to time the girl stooped. She appeared to be picking primroses.

It was the idle hour of the day, and there was no reason why she should not be taking her pleasure. But the Squire's brow grew darker as he marked her lingering steps and uncertain movements. More than once he fancied that she looked behind her, and by and by with an oath he turned, clumped down the steps, and left the garden.

He had not quite reached the mill when she saw him descending to meet her. He fancied that he read guilt in her face, and his old heart sank at the sight.

"What are you doing?" he asked, confronting her and striking the ground with his cane. "Eh? What are you doing here, girl? Out with it! You've a tongue, I suppose?"

She looked as if she could sink into the ground, but she found her voice. "I've been gathering-these, sir," she faltered, holding out her basket.

"Ay, at the rate of one a minute! I watched you. Now, listen to me. You listen to me, young woman. And take warning. If you're hanging about to meet that young fool, I'll not have it. Do you hear? I'll not have it!"

She looked at him piteously, the color gone from her face. "I-I don't think-I understand, sir," she quavered.

"Oh, you understand well enough!" he retorted, his suspicions turned to certainty. "And none of your woman's tricks with me! I've done with Master Arthur, and you've done with him too. If he comes about the place he's to be sent to the right-about. That's my order, and that's all about it. Do you hear?"

She affected to be surprised, and a little color trickled into her cheeks. But he took this for one of her woman's wiles-they were deceivers, all of them.

"Do you mean, sir," she stammered, "that I am not to see Arthur?"

"You're neither to see him nor speak to him nor listen to him! There's to be an end of it. Now, are you going to obey me, girl?"

She looked as if butter would not melt in her mouth. "Yes, sir," she answered meekly. "I shall obey you if those are your orders."

He was surprised by the readiness of her assent, and he looked at her suspiciously. "Umph!" he grunted. "That sounds well, and it will be well for you, girl, if you keep to it. For I mean it. Let there be no mistake about that."

"I shall do as you wish, of course, sir."

"He's behaved badly, d-d badly! But if you are sensible I'll say no more. Only understand me, you've got to give him up."

"Yes, sir."

"From this day? Now, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

After that he had no more to say. He required obedience, and he should have been glad to receive it. But, to tell the truth, he was a little at a loss. Girls were silly-such was his creed-and it behoved them to be guided by their elders. If they did not suffer themselves to be guided, they must be brought into line sharply. But somewhere, far down in the old man's heart, and unacknowledged even by himself, lay an odd feeling-a feeling of something like disappointment. In his young days girls had not been so ready, so very ready, to surrender their lovers. He had even known them to fight for them. He was perplexed.

CHAPTER X