Ovington's Bank Page 15

  CHAPTER XV

  The Squire was late.

  A hundred years ago night fell more seriously. It closed in on acountryside less peopled, on houses and hamlets more distant, anddivided by greater risks of flood and field. The dark hours werelonger and haunted by graver apprehensions. Every journey had to bemade on horses or behind them, roads were rough and miry, fords wereplenty, bridges scarce. Sturdy rogues abounded, and to double everyperil it was still the habit of most men to drink deep. Few returnedsober from market, fewer from fair or merry-making.

  For many, therefore, the coming of night meant the coming of fear.Children, watching the great moths fluttering against the lowceiling, or round the rush-light that cast such gloomy shadows,thought that their elders would never come upstairs to bed. Lonewomen, quaking in remote dwellings, remembered the gibbet where thetreacherous inn-keeper still moulded, and fancied every creak thecoming of a man in a crape mask. Thousands suffered nightly becausethe goodman lingered abroad, or the son was absent, and in many awindow the light was set at dusk to guide the master by the pool. Onmarket evenings women stole trembling down the lane that the sound ofwheels might the sooner dispel their fears.

  At Garth it was youth not age that first caught the alarm. ForJosina's conscience troubled her, and before even Miss Peacock, mostfidgety of old maids, had seen cause to fear, the girl was standing inthe darkness before the door, listening and uneasy. The Squire wasseldom late; it could not be that Clement had met him and there hadbeen a--but no, Clement was not the man to raise his hand against hiselder--the thought was dismissed as soon as formed. Yet why did notthe Squire come? Lights began to shine through the casements, she sawthe candles brought into the dining-room, the darkness thickened abouther, only the trunks of the nearer beeches gave back a gleam. And shefelt that if anything had happened to him she could never forgiveherself. Shivering, less with cold than with apprehension, she peereddown the drive. He had been later than this before, but then herconscience had been quiet, she had not deceived him, she had hadnothing with which to reproach herself on his account.

  Presently, "Josina, what are you doing there?" Miss Peacock cried. Shehad come to the open door and discovered the girl. She began to scold."Come in this minute, child! What are you starving the house for,standing there?"

  But Josina did not budge. "He is very late," she said.

  "Late? What nonsense! And what if he is late? What good can you do,standing out there? I declare one might suppose your father was one ofthose skimble-skambles that can't pass a tavern door, to hear youtalk! And Thomas with him! Come in at once when I tell you! As if Ishould not be the first to cry out if anything were wrong. Lateindeed--why, goodness gracious, I declare it's nearly eight. What canhave become of him, child? And Calamy and those good-for-nothing girlswarming their knees at the fire, and no more caring if their master isin the river than--Josina, do you hear? Do you know that your fatheris still out? Calamy!" ringing a hand-bell that stood on the table inthe hall, "Calamy! Are you all asleep? Don't you know that your masteris not in, and it is nearly eight?"

  Calamy was the butler. A tall, lanthorn-jawed man, he would havelooked lugubrious in the King's scarlet which he had once worn; in hisprofessional black, or in his shirt sleeves, cleaning plate, he wasmelancholy itself. And his modes and manners were at least as mournfulas his aspect--no man so sure as "Old Calamity" to see the dark sideof things or to put it before others. It was whispered that he hadbeen a Dissenter, and why the Squire, who hated a ranter as he hatedthe devil, had ever engaged him, much less kept him, was a puzzle toGarthmyle. That he had been his son's servant and had been with theboy when he died, might have seemed a sufficient reason, had theSquire been other than he was. But no one supposed that such a thingweighed with the old man--he was of too hard a grain. Yet at Garth,Calamy had lived for a score of years, and been suffered with apatience which might have stood to the credit of more reasonable men.

  "Nearly eight!" Miss Peacock flung at him, and repeated her statement.

  "We've put the dinner back, ma'am."

  "Put the dinner back! And that's all you think of, when at any minuteyour master--oh, dear, dear, what can have happened to him?"

  "Well, it's a dark night, ma'am, to be sure."

  "Gracious goodness, can't I see that? If Thomas weren't with him----"

  The butler shook his head. "Under notice, ma'am," he said. "I thinkthe worst of Thomas. On a dark night, with Thomas----"

  Miss Peacock gasped.

  "I should say my prayers, ma'am," the butler murmured softly.

  Miss Peacock stared, aghast. "Under notice?" she cried. "Well, of allthe--'deed, and I wish you were all under notice, if that is the bestyou've got to say."

  "Hadn't you better," said Josina from the darkness outside, "sendFewtrell to meet him with a lanthorn?"

  "And get my nose bitten off when your father comes home! La, bless me,I don't know what to do! And no one else to do a thing!"

  "Send him, Calamy," said Josina.

  Calamy retired. Miss Peacock looked out, a shawl about her head. "Jos!Where are you?" she cried. "Come in at once, girl. Do you think I amgoing to be left alone, and the door open? Jos! Jos!"

  But Josina was gone, groping her way down the drive. When Fewtrellfollowed with his lanthorn he came on her sitting on the bridge, andhe got a rare start, thinking it was a ghost. "Lord A'mighty!" hecried as the light fell on her pale face. "Aren't you afraid to sitthere by yourself, miss?"

  But Josina was not afraid, and after a word or two he shambled away,the lanthorn swinging in his hand. The girl watched the light gobobbing along as far the highway fifty yards on, saw it travel to theleft along the road, lost it for some moments, then marked it again, afaint blur of light, moving towards the village.

  Presently it vanished and she was left alone with her fears. Shestrained her ears to catch the first sound of wheels. The streammurmured beneath her, a sick sheep coughed, the breeze whispered inthe hedges, the cry of an owl, thrice repeated, sank into silence. Butthat was all, and in the presence of the silent world about her, ofthe all-enveloping night, of the solemn stars shining as they hadshone from eternity, the girl knew herself infinitely helpless,without remedy against the stroke of impending fate. She recognizedthat lighted rooms and glowing fires and the indoor life did butdeceive; that they did but blind the mind to the immensity of things,to the real issues, to life and death and eternity. Anguished, sheowned that a good conscience was the only refuge, and that she had itnot. She had deceived her father, and it would be her fate to endurea lasting remorse. At last, her eyes opened, she fancied that shedetected behind the mask a father's face. But too late, for the bridgewhich he had crossed innumerable times, the drive, rough and rutted,yet the harbinger of home, which he had climbed from boyhood to age,the threshold which he had trodden so often as master--they would knowhim no more! At the thought she broke down and wept, feeling all itspoignancy, all its pitifulness, and finding for the moment no supportin Clement, no recompense in a love which deceit and secrecy hadtainted.

  Doubtless she would not have taken things so hardly had she not beenoverwrought; and, as it was, the first sound that reached her from theGarthmyle road brought her to her feet. A light showed, moving fromthat direction, travelling slowly through the darkness. It vanished,and she held her breath. It came into view again, and she groped herway forward until she stood in the road. The light was close at handnow, though viewed from the front it moved so little that her worstforebodings were confirmed. But now, now that she saw her fearsjustified, the woman's fortitude, that in enduring is so much greaterthan man's, came to her aid, and it was with a calmness that surprisedherself that she awaited the slow procession, discerned by thelanthorn-light her father's huddled form, and in a trembling voiceasked if he still lived.

  "Yes, yes!" Arthur cried, and hastened to reassure her. "He will doyet, but he is hurt. Go back, Jos, and get his bed ready, and hotwater, and some linen. The doctor will be here in a mi
nute."

  His voice, firm and collected, struck the right note, and the girlanswered to it bravely. She made no lamentation, shed no tears--therewould be time for tears later--but gathering up her skirts she sped upthe drive, and before the carriage had passed the bridge she had giventhe alarm in the house. There, in a moment, all was confusion. MissPeacock, whatever fears she had expressed, was ill prepared forthe fact, and it was Josina, who, steadied by that half-hour ofself-examination, stilled the outcry of the maids, gave the needfulorders, and seconded Calamy in carrying them out, had candles placedon the stairs, and with her own hand brought out a stout chair. Whenthe carriage, the lanthorn gleaming sombrely on the shining trunks,drew slowly out of the darkness, she was there with lights and brandy.For her the worst was over. The scared faces of the women, theirstifled cries and confused hovering, were but a background to hersteady courage.

  Still, even she yielded the first place to Arthur. Whatever pity orhorror he had felt, he had had time to overcome, and to think both ofthe present and the future. And he rose to the occasion. He directed,arranged, and was himself the foremost worker. By the time Mr. Farmer,the village doctor, arrived, he had done much which had to be done.The Squire had been carried upstairs, and lay, breathing stertorously,on his great four-post bed with the dingy drab curtains and the twowatch-pockets at the head; and everything which could be of use hadbeen brought to hand.

  The doctor shut out the frightened maids and shut out Miss Peacock.But Arthur was only at the beginning of his resources. His nerve wasgood and he aided Farmer in his examination, while Jos, standing outof sight behind the curtain, calm but quivering in every nerve, handedto him or to Calamy what they needed. Even then, however, and while hewas thus employed, Arthur found occasion to whisper a cheering word tothe girl, to reassure her and give her hope. He forced her to take aglass of wine, and when Calamy, shaking his head, muttered that he hadknown a man to recover who had been worse hurt--but he was a strongyoung fellow--he damned the butler for an old fool, regardless of thefact that coming from Calamy this was a cheerful prognostic.

  Presently he made her go downstairs. "Nothing more can be done now,"said he. "The doctor thinks well of him so far. He and I will staywith him to-night. You must save yourself, Jos. You will be neededto-morrow."

  He left the room with her, and as she would not go to bed he made herlie down on a couch, and covered her with a cloak. He had dropped thetone of patronage, almost of persiflage, which he had used to her oflate, and he was kindness itself, behaving to her as a brother; sothat she did not know how to be thankful enough for his presence, orfor the relief from responsibility which it afforded. Afterwards,looking back on that long, strange night, during which lights burnedin the rooms till dawn, and odd meals were served at odd times, andstealthy feet trod the stairs, and scared faces peeped in only to bewithdrawn--looking back on that strange night, and its happenings, itseemed to her that without him she could not have lived through thehours.

  In truth there was not much sleep for anyone. The village doctor,who lived in top-boots, and went his rounds on horse-back, and byold-fashioned people was called the apothecary, could say nothingfor certain; in the morning he might be able to do so. But in themorning--well, perhaps by night, when the patient came to himself, hemight be able to form an opinion. To Arthur he was more candid. Theeye was beyond hope--it could not be saved, and he feared that theother eye was injured; and there was serious concussion. He playedwith his fob seals and looked sagely over his gold-rimmed spectaclesas he mouthed his phrases. Whether there was a fracture he could notsay at present.

  He had seen in a long life and a country practice many such cases, andwas skilful in treating them. But--no active measures. "Dr. Quiet," hesaid, "Dr. Quiet, the best of the faculty, my dear. If he does notalways effect a cure, he makes no mistakes. We must leave it to him."

  So morning came, and passed, and noon; and still nothing more could bedone. With the afternoon reaction set in; the house resigned itself torest. Two or three stole away to sleep. Arthur dozed in an arm-chair.The clock struck with abnormal clearness, the cluck of a hen in theyard was heard in the attics. So the hours passed until sunsetsurprised a yawning house, and in the parlor they pressed one anotherto eat, and in the kitchen unusual luxuries were consumed with aghoulish enjoyment, and no fear of the housekeeper. And still Farmercould add nothing. They must wait and hope. Dr. Quiet! He praised himafresh in the same words.

  Some hours earlier, and before Josina, after much scolding by MissPeacock, had retired to her room to lie down, Arthur had told hisstory.

  He did not go into details. "It would only shock you, Jos," he said."It was Thomas, of course, and I hope to heaven he'll swing for it. Isuppose he knew that your father was carrying a large sum, and he musthave struck him, possibly as he turned to say something, and thenthrown him out. We must set the hue and cry after him, but Clementwill see to that. It was lucky that he turned up when he did."

  She drew a sharp breath; this was the first she had heard of Clement.And in her surprise "Clement?" she exclaimed. Then, covering herconfusion as well as she could, "Mr. Ovington? Do you mean--he wasthere, Arthur?"

  "By good luck he was, just when he was wanted. Poor chap. I can tellyou it knocked him fairly down. All the same, I don't know what mightnot have happened if he had not come up. I sent him for Farmer, and itsaved time."

  "I did not know that he had been there," she murmured, tooself-conscious to ask further questions.

  "Well, you wouldn't, of course. He'd been fishing, I fancy, and camealong just when it made all the difference. I don't know what I shouldhave done without him."

  "And Thomas? You are sure that it was Thomas? What became of him?"

  "He made off across the fields. It was dark and useless to followhim--we had other things to think of, as you may imagine. Ten to onehe has made for Manchester, but Clement will see to that. Oh, we'llhave him! But there, I'll not tell you any more, Jos. You look ill asit is, and it will only spoil your sleep. Do you go upstairs and liedown, or you will never be able to go on." And, Miss Peacock fussilyseconding his advice, Jos consented and went.

  Arthur's manner had been kind, and Jos thought him kind. A brothercould not have been more anxious to spare her unpleasant details. But,told as he had told it, the story left her under the impression thatClement's part had been secondary only, and slight, and that if therewere a person to whom she owed the preservation of her father's life,it was Arthur, and Arthur only. Which she was the more ready tobelieve, in view of the masterly way in which he had managed all atthe house, had taken the upper hand in all, and saved her, and sparedher.

  Yet Arthur had been careful to state no facts which could becontradicted by evidence, should the whole come out--at an inquest,for instance. He had foreseen the possibility of that, and had beencareful. Indeed, it was with that in his mind that he had--well, thathe had not gone into details.