"Walker or Watkins? Of Wolverhampton? I don't remember any customer of that name. And the other? Who was he?"
"From somewhere Bretton way. I could look him up."
The banker eyed Rodd closely. Had the day's work been too much for him? "You could look him up?" he rejoined. "Why, man, of course you could. Four hundred and seventy! A bank has failed before now for lack of less. All good notes, I suppose? No Gibbons' or Garrards', eh?" an idea striking him. "But you'd see to that. If some one had the idea of washing his hands that way--and the two banks already closed!"
But Rodd shook his head. "No, sir. It was in gold and Bank of England notes. I saw to that."
"Then I don't understand it," the banker decided. He sat pondering--the thing had taken hold of his mind. Was it a trick?
Did they mean to draw out the amount next morning? But, no they would not risk the money, and he would stand no worse if they drew it. An enemy could not have done it, then. A friend? But such friends were rare and the sum was no trifle. The amount was more than he had received for his plate, the proceeds of which had already gone into the cash-drawer. He pondered.
Meanwhile, "Another cup of tea?" Betty said politely. And as Rodd, avoiding her eyes, handed her his cup, "It's so nice to hear of strangers helping us," she continued with treacherous sweetness. "One feels so grateful to them."
Rodd muttered something, his mouth full of toast.
"It's so fine of them to trust us, when they don't know how things are--as we do, of course. I think it is splendid of them," Betty continued. "Father, you must bring them to me, some day, when all these troubles are over--that I may thank them."
But her father had risen to his feet. He was standing on the hearthrug, a queer look on his face. "I think that they are here now,"
he said. "Rodd, why did you do it?"
The cashier started. "I, sir? I don't think I----"
"Oh, you understand, man!" The banker was much moved. "You understand very well. Walker of Wolverhampton? You've a brother at Wolverhampton, I remember, though I don't think I've ever seen him. This is your three hundred, and all you could add to it. My G--d, man----" Ovington was certainly moved, for he seldom swore, "but if we go you'll lose it! You must draw it out before the bank opens to-morrow."
"No," said Rodd, who had turned red. "I shall do nothing of the sort, sir. It's as safe there as anywhere. I'm not afraid."
"But I don't understand," Betty said, looking from one to the other.
It couldn't be true. It could not be that she had made such a--a dreadful mistake!
"There's no Mr. Walker," her father explained, "and no gentleman from Bretton. They are both Rodd. It's his money."
"Do you mean----" in a very small voice. "I thought that Mr. Rodd took his money out!"
"Only to put it in again when he thought that it might help us more.
But we can't have it. He mustn't lose his money, all I expect that he----"
"It came out of the bank," Rodd said, "And there's where it belongs, and I'm not going," stubbornly, "to take it out. I've been here ten years--very comfortable, sir. And if the bank closed where'd I be?
It's my interest that it shouldn't close."
The banker turned to the fire and put one foot on the fender as if to warm it. "Well, let it stay," he said, but his voice was unsteady. "If we have to close you'll have done a silly thing--that's all. But if we don't, you'll not have been such a fool!"
"Oh, we shall not close," Rodd boasted, and he gulped down his tea, his ears red.
There was an embarrassing silence. Ovington turned. "Well, Betty," he said, attempting a lighter tone. "I thought that you were going to thank--Mr. Walker of Wolverhampton?"
But Betty, murmuring something about an order for the servants, had already hurried from the room.
CHAPTER XXXVII
That the Squire suffered was certain; whether he suffered more deeply in pocket or in pride, whether he felt more poignantly the loss of his hoarded thousands or the dishonor that Arthur had done to his name, even Josina could not say. His ruling passions through life had been pride of race and the desire to hoard, and it is certain that sorely wounded in both points he suffered as acutely as age with its indurated feelings can suffer. But after the first outburst, after the irrepressible cry of anguish which the discovery of his nephew's treachery had wrung from him, he buried himself in silence. He sat morose and unheeding, his hands clasping his stick, his sightless eyes staring at the fire. He gave no sign, and sought no sympathy. He was impenetrable. Even Josina would not guess what were his thoughts.
Nor did she try to learn. The misfortune was too great, the injury on one side beyond remedy, and the girl had the sense to see this. She hung over him, striving to anticipate his wishes and by mute signs of affection to give him what comfort she might. But she was too wise to trouble him with words or to attempt to administer directly to a mind which to her was a mystery, darkened by the veil of years that separated them.
She was sure of one thing, however, that he would not wish anything to be said in the house; and she said nothing. But she soon found that she must set a guard also on her looks. On the Tuesday Mrs. Bourdillon "looked in," as it was her habit to look in three or four times a week. She had usually some errand to put forward, and her pretext on this occasion was the Squire's Christmas list. Near as he was, he thought much of old customs, and he would not for anything have omitted to brew a cask of October for his servants' Christmas drinking, or to issue the doles of beef to the men and of blankets to the women which had gone forth from the Great House since the reign of Queen Anne. Mrs. Bourdillon was never unwilling to gain a little reflected credit, or to pay in that way for an hour's job-work, so that there were few years in which she did not contrive to graft a name or two on the list.
That was apparently her business this afternoon. But Josina, whose faculties were quickened by the pity which she felt for the unconscious mother, soon perceived that this was not her only or, indeed, her real motive. The visitor was not herself. She was nervous, the current of her small talk did not run with its usual freedom, she let her eyes wander, she broke off and began again. By and by as the strain increased she let her anxiety appear, and at last, "I wish you would tell me," she said, "what is the matter with Arthur. He is not open with me," raising her eyes with a piteous look to Josina's face.
"And--and he's something on his mind, I'm sure. I noticed it on Sunday, and I am sure you know. Is there"--and Josina saw with compassion that her mittened hands were trembling--"is there anything--wrong?"
The girl had her answer ready, for she had already decided what she would say. "I am afraid that they are anxious about the bank," she said. "There is what they call a 'run' upon it."
The explanation was serious enough, but, strange to say, Mrs.
Bourdillon looked relieved. "Oh! And I suppose that they all have to be there?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And that's all?"
"I am afraid that that is enough."
"But--but you don't mean that there may be a--a failure?"
"I hope not. Indeed, I hope not. But people are so silly! They think that they can all have their money out at once. And of course," Josina continued, speaking from a height of late-acquired knowledge, "a bank lends its money out and cannot get it in again in a minute. But I've no doubt that it will be all right. Mr. Ovington is very clever."
Mrs. Bourdillon sighed. "That's bad," she said. And she seemed to think it over. "You know that all our money is in the bank now, Josina! I don't know what we should do if it were lost! I don't know what we should do!" But, all the same, Josina was clear that this was not the fear that her visitor had had in her mind when she entered the room. "Nor why Arthur was so set upon putting it in," the good lady continued. "For goodness knows," bridling, "we were never in trade.
Mr. Bourdillon's grandfather--but that was in the West Indies and quite different. I never heard anyone say it wasn't. So where Arthur got it from I am sure I don't know. And, oh dear, your father was so angry about it, he will never forgive us if it is lost."
"I don't think that you need be afraid," Josina said, as lightly as she could. "It's not lost yet, you know. And of course we must not say a word to anyone. If people thought that we were afraid----"
"We? But I can't see"--Mrs. Bourdillon spoke with sudden sharpness, "what you have to do with it?"
Josina blushed. "Of course we are all interested," she said.
Mrs. Bourdillon saw the blush. "You haven't--you and Arthur--made it up?" she ventured.
Josina shook her head.
"But why not? Now--now that he's in trouble, Josina?"
"I couldn't! I couldn't, indeed."
The mother's face fell, and she sighed. She stared for awhile at the faded carpet. When she looked up again, the old anxiety peeped from her eyes. "And you don't think that--there's anything else?" she asked, as she prepared to rise.
"I am afraid that that is enough--to make them all anxious!"
But later, when the other was gone, Josina wondered. What had aroused the mother's misgivings? What had brought that look of alarm to her eyes? Arthur's sudden departure might have vexed her, but it could hardly have done more, unless he had dropped some hint, or she had other grounds for suspicion? But that was impossible, Josina decided.
And she dismissed the thought.