"I see." Farmer rubbed his chin with the horn-handle of his riding-crop. "Well--I see no reason at present why he should not be.
He's one in a hundred, you know. Sound heart, good digestion, a little gouty--but tough. Tough! You never know, of course. There may be some harm we haven't detected, but I should say that he had a good few years of life in him yet."
"Ah!"
"Of course, an unusual recovery--from such injuries. And I say nothing about the sight. I'm not hopeful of that."
"Well," said Arthur. "I'll tell you why I asked. There's a question arisen about a lease for lives--his is one. But you won't talk, of course."
Farmer nodded. He found it quite natural. Leases for lives were still common, and doctors were often consulted as to the value of lives which survived or which it was proposed to insert. With another word or two they parted and Arthur rode on.
But he no longer doubted. To wait for eight or ten years, dependent on the whims of an arbitrary and crotchety old man? No! Only in a moment of imbecility could he have dreamed of resigning for this, the golden opportunities that the new world, opening before him, offered to all who had the courage to seize them. He had been mad to think of it, and now he was sane. Garth was worth a mass. He might have served a year or two for it. But seven, or it might be ten? No. Besides, why should he not take the Squire at his word and make the best of both worlds, and availing himself of the favor he had gained, employ the one to exploit the other? He had his foot in at Garth and he was no fool, he could make himself useful. Already, he was well aware, he had made himself liked.
It was noon when he rode into Aldersbury, the town basking in the first warmth of the year, the dogs lying stretched in the sunshine.
And he was in luck, for, having met Farmer, he now met Frederick Welsh coming down Maerdol. The lawyer, honestly concerned for his old friend, was urgent in inquiry, and when he had heard the news, "Thank God!" he said. "I'm as pleased to hear that as if I'd made a ten-pound note! Aldshire without the Squire--things would be changing, indeed!"
Arthur told him what the Squire had said about the lease. But that was another matter. The Squire was too impatient. "He's got his agreement.
We'll draw the lease as soon as we can," the lawyer said. "The office is full, and more haste less speed. We'll let him know when it's ready." Like all old firms he was dilatory. There was no hurry. All in good time.
They parted, and Arthur rode up the street, alert and smiling, and many eyes followed him--followed him with envy. He worked at the bank, he had his rooms on the Town Walls, he chatted freely with this townsman and that. He was not proud. But they never forgot who he was.
They did not talk to him as they talked even to Ovington. Ovington had risen and was rich, but he came as they came, of common clay. But this young man, riding up the street in the sunshine, smiling and nodding this way and that, his hand on his thigh, belonged to another order.
He was a Griffin--a Griffin of Garth. He might lose his all, his money might fly from him, but he would still be a Griffin, one of the caste that ruled as well as reigned, that held in its grasp power and patronage. They looked after him with envy.
CHAPTER XIX
The week in early June which witnessed Arthur's return to his seat at the bank--that and the following week which saw his mother's five thousand pounds paid over for his share in the concern--saw the tide of prosperity which during two years had been constantly swelling, reach its extreme point. The commerce and wealth of the country, as they rose higher and higher in this flood-time of fortune, astonished even the casual observer. Their increase seemed to be without limit; they answered to every call. They not only filled the old channels, but over-ran them, irrigating, in appearance at least, a thousand fields hitherto untilled. Abroad, the flag of commerce was said to fly where it had never flown before; its clippers brought merchandise not only from the Indies, East and West, and tea from China, and wool from Sydney, and rich stuffs from the Levant, but Argosies laden with freight still more precious were--or were reported to be--on their way from that new Southern continent on the opening of which to British trade so many hopes depended. The gold and silver of Peru, the diamonds of Brazil, the untapped wealth of the Plate were believed to be afloat and ready to be exchanged for the produce of our looms and spindles, our ovens and forges.
Nor was that produce likely to fail, for at home the glow of foundries, working night-shifts, lit up the northern sky, and in many a Lancashire or Yorkshire dale, old factories, brought again into service, shook, almost to falling, under the thunder of the power-loom. Mills and mines, potteries and iron-works changed hands from day to day, at ever-rising prices. Men who had never invested before, save in the field at their gate, or the house under their eyes, rushed eagerly to take shares in these ventures, and in thousands of offices and parlors conned their securities, summed up the swelling total of their gains, and rushed to buy and buy again, with a command of credit which seemed to have no bottom.
To provide that credit, the banks widened their operations, increased, on the security of stocks ever rising in value, their over-drafts, issued batch after batch of fresh notes. The most cautious admitted that accommodation must keep step with trade; and the huge strides which this was making, the changed conditions, the wider outlook, the calling in of the new world to augment the wealth of the old--all seemed to demand an advance which promised to be as profitable as it was warranted. To the ordinary eye the sun of prosperity shone in an unclouded sky. Even the experienced, though they scanned the heavens with care, saw nothing to dismay them. Only here and there an old fogey whose memory went back to the crisis of '93, or to the famous Black Monday of twenty years earlier, uttered a note of warning; or some mechanical clerk, of the stamp of Rodd, sunk in a rut of routine, muttered of Accommodation Bills where his employer saw only legitimate trade. But their croakings, feeble at best, were lost in the joyous babble of an Exchange, enriched by commissions, and drunk with success.
It was a new era. It was the age of gold. It was the fruit of conditions long maturing. Men's labor, aided by machinery, was henceforth to be so productive that no man need be poor, all might be rich. Experts, reviewing the progress which had been made and the changes which had been wrought during the last fifty years, said these things; and the vulgar took them up and repeated them. The Bank of England acted as if they were true. The rate of discount was low.
And while all men thus stretched out their hands to catch the golden manna Aldersbury was not idle. The appetite for gain grows by what it feeds upon and Aldersbury appetites had been whetted by early successes in their own field. The woollen mills, sharing in the general prosperity of the last two years, had done well, and more than one mill had changed hands at unheard-of prices. The Valleys were said to be full of money which, or part of it, trickled into the town, improving a trade already brisk. Many had made large gains by outside speculations and had boasted of them. Report had multiplied their profits, others had joined in and they too had gained, and their gains had fired the greed of their neighbors. Some had followed up their first successes. Others prepared to extend their businesses, built new premises, put in new-fangled glass windows, and by their action gave an impetus to subordinate trades, and spread still farther the sense of well-being.
On the top of all this had come the Valleys Railroad Scheme, backed by Ovington's Bank, and offering to everyone a chance of speculating on his door-step: a scheme which while it appealed to local pride, had a specious look of safety, since the railway was to be built under the shareholders' own eyes, across the fields they knew, and by men whom they saw going in and out every day.
There was a great run on it. Some of the gentry, following the old Squire's example, held aloof, but others put their hundreds into it, not much believing in it but finding it an amusing gamble. The townsfolk took it more seriously, with the result that a week after allotment the shares were changing hands at a premium of thirty shillings and there was still a busy market in them. Some who, tempted by the premium, sold at a profit suspected as soon as they had sold that they had thrown away their one chance of wealth, and went into the market and bought again, and so the rise was maintained and even extended. More than once Ovington put in a word of caution, reminding his customers that the first sod was not yet cut, that all the work was to do, that even the Bill was not yet passed. But his warnings were disregarded.
To the majority it seemed a short and easy way to fortune, and they wondered that they had been so simple in the past as to know nothing of it. It was by this way, they now saw, that Ovington had risen to wealth, while they, poor fools, not yet admitted to the secret, had gaped and wondered. And what a secret it was! To rise in the morning richer by fifty pounds than they had gone to bed! To retire at night with another fifty as good as in the bank, or in the old and now despised stocking! The slow increment of trade seemed mean and despicable beside their hourly growing profits, made while men slept or dined, made, as a leading tradesman pithily said, while they wore out their breeches on their chairs! Few troubled themselves about the Bill, or the cutting of the first sod, or considered how long it would be before the railroad was at work! Fewer still asked themselves whether this untried scheme would ever pay. It was enough for them that the shares were ever rising, that men were always to be found to buy them at the current price, and that they themselves were growing richer week by week.
For the directors these were great days! They walked Bride Hill and the Market Place with their heads high and their toes turned out. They talked in loud voices in the streets. They got together in corners and whispered, their brows heavy with the weight of affairs. They were great men. The banker, it is true, did not like the pitch to which the thing was being carried, but it was his business to wear a cheerful face, and he had no misgivings to speak of, though he knew that success was a long way off. And even on him the prosperity of the venture had some effect. Sir Charles and Acherley, too, were not of those who openly exulted; it is possible that the latter sold a few shares, or even a good many shares.
But Purslow and Grounds and Wolley? Who shall describe the importance which sat upon their brows, the dignity of their strut, the gravity of their nod, the mock humility of their reticence? Never did they go in or go out without the consciousness that the eyes of passers-by were upon them! Theirs to make men's fortunes by a hint--and their bearing betrayed that they knew it. Purslow's apron was discarded, no longer did he come out to customers in the street; if he still rubbed one hand over the other it was in self-content. Grounds was dazzled, and wore his Sunday clothes on week-days. Wolley, always a braggart, swaggered and talked, closed his eyes to his commitments and remembered only his gains. He talked of buying another mill, he even entered into a negotiation with that in view. He was convinced that safety lay in daring, and that this was the golden moment, if he would free himself from the net of debt that for years had been weaving itself about him.
He assumed the airs of a rich man, but he was not the worst. The draper, if more honest, had less brains, and success threw him off his balance. "A little country 'ouse," he said, speaking among his familiars. "I'm thinking of buying a little country 'ouse. Two miles from town. A nice distance." He recalled the fact that the founder of Sir Charles's family had been Mayor of Aldersbury in the days of Queen Bess, and had bought the estate with money made in the town. "Who knows," with humility--"my lad's a good lad--what may come of it?
After all there is nothing like land."
Grounds shook his head. "I don't know. It doesn't double----"
"Double itself in a month, Grounds? No. But all in good time. All in good time. 'Istory repeats itself. My lad may be a parliament-man, yet. I saw Ovington this morning." Two months before it would have been "Mr. Ovington." "He's sold those Anglo-Mexicans for me and it beats all! A gold-mine! Bought at forty, sold at seventy-two! He wanted me to pay off the bank, but not I, Grounds. When you can borrow at seven and double the money in a month! No, no! Truth is, he's jealous. He gets only seven per cent. and sees me coining! Of course he wants his money. No, no, I said."
Grounds looked doubtful. He was too cautious to operate on borrowed money. "I don't know. After all, enough is as good as a feast, Purslow."
Purslow prodded him playfully. "Ay, but what is enough?" he chuckled.
"No. We've been let in and I mean to stay in. There's plenty of fools grubbing along in the old way, but you and me, we are inside now, Grounds, and I mean to stay in. The days of five per cent are gone for you and me. Gone! 'Twarn't by five per cent. that Ovington got where he is."
"My wife wants a silk dress."
"Let 'er 'ave it! And come to me for it! You can afford it!" He strutted off. "Grounds all over!" he muttered. "Close; d--d close!
Hasn't the pluck of a mouse--and a year ago he could buy me twice over!" In fancy he saw his Jack a college-man and counsellor, and by and by he passed various parks and halls before his mental vision and saw Jack seated in them, saw him Sir John Purslow, saw him Member for Aldersbury. He held his head high as he marched across the street to his shop, jingling the silver in his fob. Queen Bess, indeed, what were Queen Bess's days to these?
But a man cannot talk big without paying for the luxury. The draper's foreman asked for higher wages; his second hand also. Purslow gave the rise, but, reminded that their pay was in arrear, "No, Jenkins, no,"
he said. "You must wait. Hang it, man, do you think I've nothing better to do with my money in these days than pay you fellows to the day? 'Ere! 'ere's a pound on account. Let it run! Let it run! All in good time, man. Fancy my credit's good enough?"
And instead of meeting the last acceptance that he'd given to his cloth-merchant, he took it up with another bill at two months--a thing he had never done before. "Credit! Credit's the thing in these days,"
he said, winking. "Cash? Excuse me! Out of date, man, with them that knows. Credit's the 'orse!"
Arthur Bourdillon wore his honors more modestly, and courted the mean with success. But even he felt the intoxication of this noontide prosperity. At Garth he had doubted, and suffered scruples to weigh with him. But no sooner had he returned to the bank than the atmosphere of money enveloped him, and discerning that it was now in his power to make the best of two worlds, hitherto inconsistent, he plunged with gusto into the business. As secretary of the company he was a person to be courted; as a partner, now recognized, in the bank, he was more. He felt himself capable of all, for had not all succeeded with him? And awake to the fact that the times were abnormal--though he did not deduce from this the lesson he should have drawn--he thanked his stars that he was there to profit by them, and to make the most of them.
He was beyond doubt an asset to the bank. His birth, his manners, his good looks, the infection of his laugh made him a favorite with gentle and simple. And then he worked. He had energy, he was tireless, no task was too hard or too long for him. But he labored under one disadvantage, though he did not know it. He had had experience of the rise, not of the fall. As far back as he had been connected with Ovington's, trade had continued to expand, things had gone well; and by nature he was sanguine and leant towards the bold policy. He threw his weight on that side, and, able and self-confident, he made himself felt. Even Ovington yielded to the thrust of his opinion, was swayed by him, and at times, perhaps, put a little out of his course.
Not that Arthur was without his troubles. Naturally and inevitably a cloud had fallen on the relation, friendly hitherto, between him and Clement. Clement had grown cool to him, and the change was unwelcome, for it was in Arthur's nature to love popularity and to thrive and to bask in the sunshine of it. But it could not be helped. Without breaking eggs one could not make omelettes. Clement blamed him, he knew, feeling, and with reason, that what he had done deserved acknowledgment, and that it lay with Arthur to see that justice was done. And Arthur, for his part, would have gladly acquitted himself of the debt had it consisted with his own interests. But it did not.
Had he suspected the tie between Clement and Josina he might have acted otherwise. He might have foreseen the possibility of Clement's gaining the old man's ear, might have scented danger, and played a more cautious game. But he knew nothing of this. Garth and Clement stood apart in his mind. Clement and Josina were as far as he knew barely acquainted. He was aware, therefore, of no special reason why Clement should desire to stand well at Garth, while he felt sure that his friend was the last person to push a claim, or to thrust himself uninvited on the Squire's gratitude.
Accordingly, and the more as the banker had not himself taken up the quarrel, he put it aside as of no great importance. He shrugged his shoulders and told himself that Clement would come round. The cloud would pass, and its cause be forgotten.
In the meantime he ignored it. He met Clement's hostility with bland unconsciousness, smiled and was pleasant. He was too busy a man to be troubled by trifles. He was not going to be turned from his course by the passing frown of a silly fellow, who could not hold an advantage when he had won it.
Betty was another matter. Betty was behaving ill and showing temper, in league apparently with her brother and sympathizing with him. She was changed from the Betty of old days. He had lost his hold upon her, and though this fell in well enough with the change in his views--or the possible change, for he had not quite made up his mind--it pricked his conceit as much as it surprised him. Moreover, the girl had a sharp tongue and was not above using it, so that more than once he smarted under its lash.
"Fine feathers make fine birds!" she said, as Arthur came bounding into the house one day and all but collided with her. "Only they should be your own, Mr. Daw!"
"Oh, I give your father all the credit," he replied, "only I do some of the work. But you used not to be so critical, Betty."
"No? Well, I'll tell you why if you like."
"Oh, I don't want to know."
"No, I don't think you do!" the girl retorted. "But I'll tell you. I thought your feathers were your own then. Now--I should be uneasy if I were you."
"Why?"
"You might fall among crows and be plucked. I can tell you, you'd be a sorry sight in your own feathers!"