But he had spent his loose cash on the journey, he was almost without money, and instinct as well as necessity turned his thoughts towards his mother. The notion once accepted grew upon him, and he longed to be at the Cottage. He felt that there he might be quiet, that there no one would watch him, and stealthily--on fire to be gone now that he had made up his mind--he sought for his hat and coat and let himself out of the house.
There was no one in sight, and descending from the Town Wall by some steps, he crossed the meadows to the river. He passed the water by a ferry, and skirting the foot of the rising ground on the other side, he presently struck into the Garthmyle road a little beyond the West Bridge.
He trudged along the road, his hat drawn down to his eyes, his shoulders humped, his gaze fixed doggedly on the road before him. He marched as men march who have had the worst of the battle, yet whom it would be unwise to pursue too closely. At first he walked rapidly, taking where he could a by-path, or a short-cut, and though the hills, rising from the plain before him, were fair to see on this fine winter day, as the sun began to decline and redden their slopes, he had no eye for them or for the few whom he met, the road-man, or the carter, who, plodding beside his load of turnips or manure, looked up and saluted him.
But when he had left the town two or three miles behind he breathed more freely. He lessened his pace. Presently he heard on the road behind him the clip-clop of a trotting horse, and not wishing to be recognized, he slipped into the mouth of a lane, and by and by he saw Clement Ovington ride by. He flung a vicious curse after him and, returning to the road, he went on more slowly, chewing the sour cud of reflection, until he came to the low sedgy tract where the Squire had met with his misadventure, and where in earlier days the old man had many a time heard the bittern's note.
He was in no hurry now, for he did not mean to reach the Cottage until Clement had left it, and he stood leaning against the old thorn tree, viewing the place and thinking bitterly of the then and the now. And presently a spark of hope was kindled in him. Surely all was not lost--even now! The Squire was angry--angry for the moment, and with reason. But could he maintain his anger against one who had saved his life at the risk of his own? Could he refuse to pardon one, but for whom he would be already lying in his grave? With a quick uplifting of the spirit Arthur conceived that the Squire could not. No man could be so thankless, so unmindful of a benefit, so ungrateful.
Strange, that he had not thought of that before! Strange--that under the pressure of difficulties he had let that claim slip from his mind.
It had restored him to his uncle's favor once. Why should it not restore him a second time? Properly handled--and he thought that he could trust himself to handle it properly--it should avail him. Let him once get speech of his uncle, and surely he could depend on his own dexterity for the rest.
Hope awoke in him, and confidence. He squared his shoulders, he threw back his head, he strode on, he became once more the jaunty, gallant, handsome young fellow, whom women's eyes were wont to follow as he passed through the streets. But, steady, not so fast. There was still room for management. He had no mind to meet Clement, whom he hated for his interference, and he went a little out of the way, until he had seen him pass by on his return journey. Then he went on. But it was now late, and the murmur of the river came up from shadowy depths, the squat tower of the church was beginning to blend with the dark sky, lights shone from the cottage doors, when he passed over the bridge.
He hastened on through the dusk, opened the garden-gate, and saw his mother standing in the lighted doorway. She had missed Clement, but had gathered from the servant who had seen him that Arthur might be expected at any moment, and she had come to the door with a shawl about her head, that she might be on the look-out for him.
Poor Mrs. Bourdillon! She had passed a miserable day. She had her own--her private grounds for anxiety on Arthur's account, and that anxiety had been strengthened by her last talk with Josina. She was sure that something was wrong with him, and this had so weighed on her spirits and engrossed her thoughts, that the danger that menaced the bank and her little fortune had not at first disturbed her. But as the tale of village gossip grew, and the rumors of disaster became more insistent, she had been forced to listen, and her fears once aroused, she had not been slow to awake to her position. Gradually Arthur's absence and her misgivings on his account had taken the second place.
The prospect of ruin, of losing her all and becoming dependent on the Squire's niggard bounty, had closed her mind to other terrors.
So at noon on this day, unable to bear her thoughts alone, she had walked across the fields and seen Josina. But Josina had not been able to reassure her. The girl had said as little as might be about Arthur, and on the subject of the bank was herself so despondent that she had no comfort for another. The Squire had gone to town--for the first time since he had been laid up--in company with Sir Charles, and Josina fancied that it might be upon the bank business. But she hardly dared to hope that good could come of it, and Mrs. Bourdillon, who flattered herself that she knew the Squire, had no hope. She had returned from Garth more wretched than she had gone, and had she been a much wiser woman than she was, she would have found it hard to meet her son with tact.
When she heard his footsteps on the road, "Is it you?" she cried. And as he came forward into the light, "Oh, Arthur!" she wailed, "what have you brought us to? What have you done? And the times and times I've warned you! Didn't I tell you that those Ovingtons----"
"Well, come in now, mother," he said. He stooped and kissed her on the forehead. He was very patient with her--let it be said to his credit.
"But, oh dear, dear!" She had lost control of herself and could not stay her complaints if she would. "You would have your way! And you see what has come of it! You would do it! And now--what am I to say to your uncle?"
"You can leave him to me," Arthur replied doggedly. "And for goodness'
sake, mother, come in and shut the door. You don't want to talk to the village, I suppose? Come in."
He shepherded her into the parlor and closed the door on them. He was cold, and he went to the fire and stooped over it, warming his hands at the blaze.
"But the bank?"
"Oh, the bank's gone," he said.
She began to cry. "Then, I don't know what's to become of us!" she sobbed. "It's everything we have to live upon! And you know it wasn't I signed the order to--to your uncle! I never did--it was you--wrote my name. And now--it has ruined us! Ruined us!"
His face grew darker. "If you wish to ruin us," he said, "at any rate if you wish to ruin me, you'll talk like that! As it is, you'll not lose your money, or only a part of it. The bank can pay everyone, and there'll be something over. A good deal, I fancy," putting the best face on it. "You'll get back the greater part of it." Then, changing the subject abruptly, "What did Clement Ovington want?"
"I don't--know," she sobbed. But already his influence was mastering her; already she was a little comforted. "He asked for you. I didn't see him--I could not bear it. I suppose he came to--to tell me about the bank."
"Well," ungraciously, "he might have spared himself the trouble." And under his breath he added a curse. "Now let me have some tea, mother.
I'm tired--dog tired. I had no sleep last night. And I want to see Pugh before he goes. He must take a note for me--to Garth."
"I'm afraid the Squire----"
"Oh, hang the Squire! It's not to him," impatiently. "It's to Josina, if you must know."
She perked up a little at that--she had always some hope of Josina; and the return to everyday life, the clatter of the tray as it was brought in, the act of giving him his tea and seeing that he had what he liked, the mere bustling about him, did more to restore her. The lighted room, the blazing fire, the cheerful board--in face of these things it was hard to believe in ruin, or to fancy that life would not be always as it had been. She began again to have faith in him.
And he, whose natural bent it was to be sanguine, whose spirits had already rebounded from the worst, shared the feeling which he imparted. That she knew the worst was something; that, at any rate, was over, and confidently, he began to build his house again. "You won't lose," he said, casting back the locks from his forehead with the gesture peculiar to him. "Or not more than a few hundreds at worst, mother. That will be all right. I'll see to that. And my uncle--you may leave him to me. He's been vexed with me before, and I've brought him round. Oh, I know him. I've no doubt that I can manage him."
"But Josina?" timidly. "D'you know, she was terribly low, Arthur--about something yesterday. She wouldn't tell me, but there was something. She didn't seem to want to talk about you."
He winced, and for a moment his face fell. But he recovered himself, and, "Oh, I'll soon put that right," he answered confidently. "I shall see her in the morning. She's a good soul, is Josina. I can count on her. Don't you fret, mother. You'll see it will all come right--with a little management."
"Well, I know you're very clever, Arthur. But Jos----"
"Jos is afraid of him, that's all." And laughing, "Oh, I've an arrow in my quiver, yet, mother. We shall see. But I must see Jos in the morning. Is Pugh there? I'll write to her now and ask her to meet me at the stile at ten o'clock. Nothing like striking while the iron is hot."
On the morrow he did not feel quite so confident. The sunshine and open weather of the day before had given place to rain and fog, and when, after crossing the plank-bridge at the foot of the garden, he took the field path which led to Garth, mist hid the more distant hills, and even the limestone ridge which rose to her knees. The vale had ceased to be a vale, and he walked in a plain, sad and circumscribed, bounded by ghostly hedges, which in their turn melted into grey space. That the day should affect his spirits was natural, and that his position should appear less hopeful was natural, too, and he told himself so, and strove to rally his courage. He strode along, swinging his stick and swaggering, though there was no one to see him.
And from time to time he whistled to prove that he was free from care.
After all, the fact that it rained did not alter matters. Wet or dry he had saved the Squire's life, and a man's life was his first and last and greatest possession, and not least valued when near its end.
He who saved it had a claim, and much--much must be forgiven him.
Then, too, he reminded himself that the old man was no longer the hard, immovable block that he had been. The loss of sight had weakened him; he had broken a good deal in the last few months. He could be cajoled, persuaded, made to see things, and surely, with Josina's help, it would not be impossible to put such a color on the--the loan of the securities as might make it appear a trifle. Courage! A little courage and all would be well yet.
He was still hopeful when he saw Josina's figure, muffled in a cloak and poke-bonnet, grow out of the mist before him. The girl was waiting for him on the farther side of the half-way stile, which had been their trysting place from childhood; and what slight doubt he had felt as to her willingness to help him died away. He whistled a little louder, and swung his stick more carelessly, and he spoke before he came up to her.
"Hallo, Jos!" he cried cheerfully. "You're before me. But I knew that I could count on you, if I could count on any one. I only came from London last night, and"--his stick over his shoulder, and his head thrown back--"I knew the best thing I could do was to see you and get your help. Why?" In spite of himself his voice fell a tone. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, Arthur!" she said. That was all, but the two words completed what her look had begun. His eyes dropped. "How could you? How would you do it?"
"Why--why, surely you're not going to turn against me?" he exclaimed.
"And he was blind! Blind! And he trusted you. He trusted you, Arthur."
"The devil!" roughly--for how could he meet this save by bluster? "If we're going to talk like that--but you don't understand, Jos. It was business, and you don't understand, I tell you. Business, Jos."
"He does."
Two words only, but they rang a knell in his ears. They gripped him in the moment of his swagger, left him bare before her, a culprit, dumb.
"He has felt it terribly! Terribly," she continued. "He was blind, and you deceived him. Whom can he trust now, Arthur?"
He strove to rally his confidence. He could not meet her gaze, but he tapped a rail of the stile with his stick. "Oh, but that's nonsense!"
he said. "Nonsense! But, of course, if you are against me, if you are not going to help me----"
"How can I help you? He will not hear your name."
"I can tell you how--quite easily, if you will let me explain?"
She shook her head.
"But you can. If you are willing, that is. Of course, if you are not----"
"What can I do? He knows all."