"You've lost blood, sir, that's what it is," the butler said. "And at your age it's not to be replaced in a week, nor a fortnight. You lie still, sir. Maybe in a month you'll be tramping the stairs. But blindfold--it's the Lord's mercy as you didn't fall and only stop in Kingdom Come! For if fall you did, I don't know where else you'd stop."
"I'm afraid so. Anyway I canna do it!"
"Only feet foremost."
The Squire sighed and turned himself to the wall, perhaps to hide the tear that helplessness forced from old eyes. He couldn't do it, and he must put up with the consequences. He could not any longer be sufficient to himself. It was a sad thought, but apparently he made up his mind to it, for twenty-four hours later, when Jos and Arthur were with him, he sent the girl away. When she had gone he sought under the pillow for his keys, and after handling them for a time, "Is the door shut? And no one here but you?"
"We are quite alone, sir."
"No one within hearing, lad?"
"Not a soul, sir."
"It's not that I mistrust the wench," the Squire muttered. "She's a Griffin and a good girl, a good girl. But she's a tongue like other women." By this time he had found what he wanted, and holding the bunch by one of the keys he offered it to Arthur. "That's the key. Now you listen to me. Go down to the dining-room, and don't you do anything till you've locked the door and seen there's no one at the windows. The panel, right side of the fireplace--are you minding me?
Ay? Well, pass your hand down the moulding next the hearth and you'll feel a crack across it, and, an inch below, another. They're so small you as good as can't see them, when you know they're there. Twist that bit, top part to the right, and you'll see a key-hole. Turn the key and pull, and the panel comes open, and you'll see a cupboard door behind it. Same key unlocks it. Are you minding me?"
"I am, sir, I quite understand."
"Well, on the middle shelf--you'll see a box. The key to that box is the next on the bunch. Open it and you will have the India Stock Certificates." The Squire sighed and for a moment was silent. "There's one for two thousand two hundred, which will do it. Bring it here. You needn't," drily, "go routing among the others, once you've found it.
Then lock up, and slip the moulding into place. But be sure, lad, before you do aught, that the door is locked."
"I will be careful," Arthur assured him. "I quite understand, sir."
"It's not that I distrust Jos," the Squire repeated--as if he defended himself against an accusation. "But tell a secret to a woman, and you tell it to the parish."
"Shall I do it now, sir?"
"Ay. And bring back the keys. Don't let 'em out of your hands."
Arthur went downstairs, and as he descended the shallow steps he smiled. Men, even the sharpest of men, were easy to manage if you had patience.
The afternoon was drawing in. The corners in the hall were growing dim. The sky seen through the open door was pale green. The air came in from the garden, sweet but chilly, laden with the scent of lilac and gilly flowers. A single rook cawed. The peace of the country was upon all. He could hear his mother and Josina talking somewhere within the house.
He slipped into the dining-room and, locking himself in, looked round him. The paint on the panelled walls was faded, blistered in places by the sun, or soiled where elbows had rubbed it or the butler's tray standing against it through long years, had marked it. The panels were large, dating from Dutch William or Anne, of chestnut and set in heavy mouldings.
Arthur glanced at the windows to make sure that he was unseen, then he stepped to the hearth and felt for and found the bit of moulding, in front of which, though he had forgotten to mention it, the Squire had hung an old almanac. Arthur twisted the upper end to the right, uncovered the key-hole, and within a minute had the inner door open.
It masked a cupboard, contrived in the thickness of the chimney-breast, perhaps at the time when the open shaft had been closed and a smaller fireplace had been inserted. Inside, two shelves formed three receptacles. In the uppermost were parcels of old letters secured with dusty and faded ribands, and piled at random one on another--the relics of the love-letters or law-letters of past generations. In the lowest compartment were bigger bundles secured with straps, which Arthur judged to contain leases and farm agreements, and the like. Some were of late date--he took up one or two bundles and looked at the endorsements--none of them appeared to be very old.
The middle space displayed a row of old ledgers and farm books, and standing alone before them a small iron box. It was with this no doubt that his business lay and he tried his key in it. The key fitted. He opened the box.
It contained three certificates and, though he had been bidden not to rout among them, he felt it his duty to ascertain--for he would probably have to inform the brokers--what was the total of the Squire's holding. They all three represented India Stock, and Arthur's eyes glistened as he noted the amount and figured up the value in his mind. One, as the Squire had said, was for two thousand two hundred, the other two were for two thousand five hundred each. Arthur calculated that at the price of the day they were worth little short of twenty thousand pounds. He withdrew the smallest certificate and locked the box. He had done his errand, but as he went about to close the cupboard-door he paused. He had seen old letters, and modern agreements and the like. But no old deeds. Where did the Squire keep the title deeds of Garth? They were not here.
At Welshes? Perhaps.
Arthur glanced at the other side of the fireplace. There, precisely corresponding with the almanac which he had removed, hung an old-fashioned silver sconce with a flat back serving for a reflector.
A pair of snuffers flanked the candle-holder on one side, an extinguisher on the other. It was a piece which Arthur had admired for its age but had never seen in use. He stared at it, and as he closed the cupboard and panel by which he stood, and replaced the bit of moulding, he hesitated. With the keys in his hand he cast a glance at the windows, then he crossed the hearth, took down the sconce, and ran his fingers down the moulding.
Yes, here were the cracks, barely to be discovered by the fingers and not at all by the eye. The bit of moulding, when he twisted it, moved stiffly, but it moved. With another glance over his shoulder he inserted the key, then he listened. All was quiet in the house.
Outside, a wood-pigeon coo'd in a neighboring tree while a solitary rook uttered a shrill "Bah-doo! Bah-doo!" not the common caw, but a cry that he had often heard.
Something in the stealthiness of his movements and the stillness of the house, whispered a warning to him, and he paused, his arm raised.
Yet--why not? What could come of it? Knowledge was always useful, and if his business had lain with this second cupboard his uncle would have sent him to it as freely as to the other. With an effort he shook off his scruples, and to satisfy himself that he was doing no wrong he laughed. He turned the key and swung back the panel. He unlocked and opened the inner door.
Here there were but two divisions. The lower one was piled high with plate; with a part, of a dinner-service, cups, bowls, candlesticks, wine-jugs, salt-cellers--a collection that, tarnished and dull as the pieces were, made Arthur's mouth water. Among them lay half a dozen leather cases which he fancied held jewellery, and more than a dozen bulky parcels--spoons and forks and the like. They had not been disturbed, it was plain, for years, and he dared not touch them.
On the shelf were two iron boxes, and arrayed before them four parcels of deeds, old and discolored, with ends of green riband hanging from them, and here and there a great seal--one seal was of lead. They gave out a damp, sour smell, the odor of slowly decaying sheepskin. Three of the parcels related to farms which the Squire had bought within Arthur's memory. The fourth and largest bundle, in a coarse wrapper, neatly bound about with straps, had a label attached to it, "The Title Deeds of the Garth Estate," and thrust under one of the straps was a folded slip of parchment. Arthur opened this and saw that it was a memorandum, dated fifty years before, of the deposit of the deeds to secure the repayment of thirty-eight thousand pounds and interest.
Below were receipts for instalments repaid at intervals of years, and opposite the last receipt appeared, in the Squire's hand "Cancelled and deeds returned--Thank God for His mercies!"
Arthur felt a thrill of sympathy as he read the words. He returned the slip to its place and softly closed the door. He swung back the panel and secured it. He replaced the silver sconce.
But though two inches of wood now intervened, he retained a vision of the bundle of deeds. It was not large, he could have carried it under his arm. But it meant, that little parcel, power, wealth, position, the Garth Estate! It spoke to Arthur the banker--for whom wealth lay in broad acres themselves, the farms and water-mills, the pieces of paper, not in gold and silver--as eloquently as the coverts and dingles, the wide-flung hill-side that he loved, spoke to the Squire.
For the first time Arthur coveted Garth, valuing it not as the Squire did for what it was, hill and dale spread under heaven, but for what it was worth, for what might be made of it, for the uses to which it might be put.
"He has added to it. One could raise fifty thousand on it," he thought. And with fifty thousand what could one not do? With fifty thousand pounds, free money, added to the bank's resources, what might not be done? It was a golden vision that he saw, as he stood in the evening stillness with the scent of roses stealing into the room, and the wood-pigeon cooing softly in the tree outside. Ay, what might he not do!
But the Squire might be growing suspicious. He roused himself, saw that all was as he had found it, and unlocking the door, he went upstairs.
"You've been a long time about it, young man," the Squire grumbled.
"What's amiss?"
But Arthur was ready with his answer. "You told me to go about it quietly, sir. So I waited until the coast was clear. It's a capital hiding-place. It's not to be found in a minute even when you know where it is."
"Ay, ay. It would take a clever rogue to find it," complacently.
"I suppose it's old, sir?"
"My grandfather put it in when the Scots were at Derby. And, mark ye, no one knows of it but Frederick Welsh--and now you. D'you be careful and keep your mouth shut, lad. You ha' got the certificate?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, go about the business and get it done. And now do you send Jos to me."
Arthur made a mental note that the old man was changing at last--was losing that hard grip on all about him which he had maintained for half a century; and he was confirmed in this idea by the ease with which the India Stock transaction presently went through. The brokers showed themselves unusually complaisant. They wrote that, as the matter was personal to him, they were anxious that nothing should go wrong; and, as his customer was blind, they were forwarding with the transfer on which the particulars had been inserted a duplicate in blank, in order that if the former were spoiled in the execution delay might be avoided. This was irregular, but if the duplicate were not needed, it could be returned and no harm done.
Arthur thought this polite of them, and was flattered; he felt that he was a client of value. But as it turned out the duplicate was not needed; the Squire made nothing of the formality. His hand once directed to the proper place, he signed his name boldly and plainly--as he did most things; and Arthur and Jos added their signatures as witnesses. Ten days later the money was received, and five-sixths of it was paid over to the bank. The duplicate transfer, overlooked at the moment, lay on the Squire's bureau until it did not seem worth while to return it. Then Arthur, tired of coming upon it every day, thrust it out of sight in a pigeonhole.
He had other things to think of, indeed, for he was in high feather in these days, while the summer sun climbed slowly to the zenith and began again to sink. He had two-fold interests. After a long day spent in the bank he would ride out of town in the cool of the evening, and passing down the winding streets under the gables of the old black and white houses, he would cross the West Bridge. Bucketing his horse up the rise that led from the river, he would leave the town behind and see before him the road running straight and dusty towards the sunset-glow, which still shone above the Welsh hills. From the fields on either side came the sharp sound of the scythe-stone, the laughter of hay-makers, the call of the wagoner to his team, the creaking of the laden wheels over the turf. Partridges dusting themselves in the road scuttled out of his way and presently took wing; rabbits watched him from the covert-edge. The corncrake's persistent note spoke rather of the hot hours that were past than of the evening air that cooled his cheek. An aged simpleton in a smocked frock, the clown of the country-side, danced a jig before an ale-house; a stray bullock gazed patiently at him from a pound. The country-side lay quiet about him, and despite himself he owned the charm of peace, the fall of night, the end of labor.
But his thoughts still dwelt on the day's work. There had been a discussion over Wolley's account. Wolley had been behaving ill.
Ignoring the claim of the bank he had assigned a number of his railway shares to meet a bill discounted elsewhere. The natural course would have been to insist on the lien and to retain the shares. But the consequences, as Ovington saw, might be serious. The step might not only involve the bank in a loss, which he still hoped to avoid, but it might imply taking over the mill--and it is not the business of bankers to run mills. Arthur, on the other hand, who did not like the man, would have cut the knot and sent him to the devil.
In the end Ovington had decided against Arthur. "We must be careful,"
the banker had said. "Credit is like a house of cards. You take one card away, you do not know how many may fall."
"But if we don't teach him a lesson now?"
"Quite true, lad. But--well, I will see him. If, as Rodd thinks, he is drawing bills on men of straw, whose acceptances are worthless----"