Ovington's eyes were still on the bags, and though he forced himself to speak, his tone was dull and mechanical. "Yes," he said. "We paid out fifteen thousand and odd yesterday. About six thousand in odd sums to-day. I have just settled with Yapp--two thousand seven hundred. Mills and Blakeway have drawn6 at the counter--three thousand and fifty between them. A packet of notes from Birmingham, eleven hundred. Jenkins sent his cheque for twelve hundred by his son, but he omitted to fill in the date."
"And you didn't pay it?"
"No, I didn't pay it. Why should I? But he will be in himself by the two o'clock coach. The only other account--large account outstanding--is Owen's for eighteen hundred. Probably he will come in by the same coach. In the meantime--" he took a slip of paper from the table--"we have notes for rather more than two thousand still out; half of these may not, for one reason or another, be presented. And payable8 on demand we still owe something like two or three thousand."
"You may be called upon for another six thousand, then, sir?"
"Six at best, seven thousand or a little more at worst. And we had in the till to meet it, a quarter of an hour ago, about three thousand. We should not have had as much if Rodd had not paid in four hundred and fifty."
"Rodd?" Clement eyes sparkled. "God bless him! He's a Trojan, and I shan't forget it! Bravo, Rodd!"
The banker nodded, but in a perfunctory way. "That's the position," he said. "If Owen and Jenkins hold off--but there's no hope of that--we may go on till four o'clock. But if either comes in we must close. Close," bitterly, "for the lack of three thousand or four thousand pounds!"
Clement sighed. Young as he was he was beginning to feel the effect of his exertions9, of his double journey, and his two sleepless10 nights. At last, "No one will lose, sir?" he said.
"No, no one, ultimately and directly, by us. And if we were an old bank, if we were Dean's even--" there was venom11 in the tone in which he uttered his rival's name "--we might resume in a week or a fortnight. We might reopen and go on. But," shrugging his shoulders, "we are not Dean's, and no one would trust us after this. It would be useless to resume. And, of course, the sacrifices that we have made have been very costly12. We have had to rediscount bills at fifteen per cent., and sell a long line of securities at a loss, and what is left on our hands may be worth money some day, but it is worthless at present."
"Wolley's Mill?"
"Ay, and other things. Other things."
Clement looked at the floor, and again the longing13 to say something or do something that might comfort his father pressed upon him. To himself the catastrophe14, save so far as it separated him from Josina, was a small thing. He had had no experience of poverty, he was young, and to begin the world at the bottom had no terrors for him. But with his father it was different, and he knew that it was different. His father had built up from nothing the edifice15 that now cracked and crumbled16 about them. He had planned it, he had seen it rise and grow, he had rejoiced in it and been proud of it. On it he had spent the force and the energy of the best twenty years of his life, and he had not now, he had no longer, the vigor17 or the strength to set about rebuilding.
It was a tragedy, and Clement saw that it was a tragedy. And all for the lack--pity rose strong within him--all for the lack of--four thousand pounds. To him, conversant18 with the bank's transactions, it seemed a small sum. It was a small sum.
"Ay, four thousand!" his father repeated. His eyes returned mechanically to the money at his feet, returned and fixed19 themselves upon it. "Though in a month we may be able to raise twice as much again! And here--here"--touching it with his foot--"is the money! All, and more than all that we need, Clement."
Then at last Clement perceived the direction of his father's gaze, and he took the alarm. He put aside his reserve, he laid his hand gently on the elder man's shoulder, and by the pressure of his silent caress20 he strove to recall him to himself, he strove to prove to him that whatever happened, whatever befell, they were one--father and son, united inseparably by fortune. But aloud, "No!" he said firmly. "Not that, sir! I have given my word. And besides----"
"He would be no loser."
"No, we should be the losers."
"But--but it was not we, it was Bourdillon, lad!"
"Ay, it was Bourdillon. And we are not Bourdillon! Not yet! Nor ever, sir!"
Ovington turned away. His hand shook, the papers that he affected21 to put together on his desk rustled22 in his grasp. He knew--knew well that his son was right. But how great was the temptation! There lay the money at his feet, and he was sure that he could not be called to account for it. There lay the money that would gain the necessary time, that would meet all claims, that would save the bank!
True, it was not his, but how great was the temptation. It was so great that what might have happened had Clement not been there, had he stood there alone and unfettered, it is impossible to say--though the man was honest. For it was easy, nothing was more easy, than to argue that the bank would be saved and no man, not even the Squire23, would lose. It was so great a temptation, and the lower course appeared so plausible24 that four men out of five, men of average honesty and good faith, might have fallen.
Fortunately the habit of business integrity came to the rescue, and reinforced and supported the son's argument--and the battle was won. "You are right," the banker said huskily, his face still averted25, his hands trembling among the papers. "But take it away! For God's sake, boy, take it away! Take it out of my sight, or I do not know what I may do!"
"You'll do the right thing, sir, never fear!" the son answered confidently. And with an effort he lifted the two heavy bags and moved towards the door. But on the threshold and as the door closed behind him, "Thank God!" he whispered to himself, "Thank God!" And to Betty, who met him in the hall and flung her arms about his neck--the girl was in tears, for the shadow of anxiety hung over the whole house, and even the panic-stricken maids were listening on the stairs or peering from the windows--"Take care of him, Betty," he said, his eyes shining. "Take care of him, girl. I shall be back by one o'clock. If I could stay with him now I would, but I cannot. I cannot! And don't fret26. It will come right yet!"
"Oh, poor father!" she cried. "Is there no hope, Clement?"
"Very little. But worse things have happened. And we may be proud of him, Betty. We've good cause to be proud of him. I say it that know! Cheer up!"
She watched him go with his heavy burden and his blunt common-sense down the garden walk; and when he had disappeared behind the pear-tree espaliers she went back to listen outside the parlor27 door. She had been her father's pet. He had treated her with an indulgence and a familiarity rare in those days of parental28 strictness, and she understood him well, better than others, better even than Clement. She knew what failure would mean to him. It was not the loss of wealth which would wound him most sorely, though he would feel that; but the loss of the position which success had gained for him in the little world in which he lived, and lived somewhat aloof29. He had been thought, and he had thought himself, cleverer than his neighbors. He had borne himself as one belonging to, and destined30 for, a wider sphere. He had met the pride of the better-born and the older-established with a greater pride; and believing in his star, he had allowed his contempt for others and his superiority to be a little too clearly seen.
For all this he would now pay, and his pride would suffer. Betty, lingering in the darker part of the hall, where the servants could not spy on her, listened and longed to go in to him and comfort him. But all the rules forbade this, she might not distract him at such a time. Yet, had she known how deep was his depression as he sat sunk in his chair, had she known how the past mocked him, and the long chain of his successes rose and derided31 him, how the mirage32 of long-cherished hopes melted and left all cold before him--had she guessed the full bitterness of his spirit, she had broken through every rule and gone in to him.
The self-made man! Proudly, disdainfully he had flung the taunt33 back in men's faces. Could they make, could they have made themselves, as he had? And now the self-ruined man! He sat thinking of it, and the minutes went by. Twice one of the clerks came in and silently placed a slip beside him and went softly out. He looked at the slip, but without taking in its meaning. What did it matter whether a few more or a few less pounds had been drawn out, whether the drain had waxed or waned34 in the last quarter of an hour? The end was certain, and it would come when the two men arrived on the Chester coach. Then he would have to bestir himself. Then he would have to resume the lead and play the man, give back hardness for hardness and scorn for scorn, and bear himself so in defeat that no man should pity him. And he knew that he could do it. He knew that when the time came his voice would be firm and his face would be granite35, and that he would pronounce his own sentence and declare the bank closed with a high head. He knew that even in defeat he could so clothe himself with power that no man should browbeat36 him.
But in the meantime he paid his debt to weakness, and sat brooding on the past, rather than preparing for the future; and time passed, the relentless37 hand moved round the clock. Twice the clerk came in with his doom-bearing slips, and presently Rodd appeared. But the cashier had nothing to say that the banker did not know. Ovington took the paper and looked at the figures and at the total, but all he said was, "Let me know when Owen and Jenkins come."
"Very good, sir." Rodd lingered a moment as if he would gladly have added something, would have ventured, perhaps, some word of sympathy. But his courage failed him and he went out.
Nor when Clement, half an hour afterwards, returned from his mission to Garth did he give any sign. Clement laid his hand on his shoulder and said a cheery word, but, getting no answer, or as good as none, he went through to his desk. A moment later his voice could be heard rallying a too conscious customer, greeting another with contemptuous good humor, bringing into the close, heated atmosphere of the bank, where men breathed heavily, snapped at one another, and shuffled38 their feet, a gust39 of freer brisker air.
Another half-hour passed. A clerk brought in a slip. The banker looked at it. No more than seven hundred pounds remained in the till. "Very good," he said. "Let me know when Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins come." And as the door closed behind the lad he fell back into his old posture40 of depression. There was nothing to be done.
But five minutes later Clement looked in, his face concerned. "Sir Charles Woosenham is here," he said in a low voice. "He is asking for you."
The banker roused himself. The call was not unexpected nor quite unwelcome. "Show him in," he said; and he took up a pen and drew a sheet of paper towards him that he might appear to be employing himself.
Sir Charles came in, tall, stooping a little, his curly-brimmed hat in his hand; the dignified41 bearing with which he was wont42 to fence himself against the roughness of the outer world a little less noticeable than usual. He was a gentleman, and he did not like his errand.
Ovington rose. "Good morning, Sir Charles," he said, "you wanted to see me? I am unfortunately busy this morning, but I can give you ten minutes. What is it, may I ask?" He pushed a chair toward his visitor.
But Woosenham would not sit down. If the man was down he hated to--but, there, he had come to do it. "I am sure it is all right, Mr. Ovington," he said awkwardly, "but I am concerned about the--about the Railway money, in fact. The sum is large, and--and--" stammering43 a little--"but I think you will understand my position?"
The banker smiled. "You wish to know if it's safe?" he said.
"Well, yes--precisely," with relief. "You'll forgive me, I am sure. But people are talking."
"They are doing more," Ovington answered austerely--he no longer smiled. "They are doing their best to ruin me, Sir Charles, and to plunge44 themselves into loss. But I need not go into that. You are anxious about the Railroad money? Very good." He rang the bell and the clerk came in. "Go to the strong-room," the banker said, taking some keys from the table, "with Mr. Clement, and bring me the box with the Railway Trust."
"I am sorry," Sir Charles said, when they were alone, "to trouble you at this time, but----"
Ovington stopped him. "You are perfectly45 in order," he said. "Indeed, I am glad you have come. The box will be here in a minute."
Clement brought it in, and Ovington took another key and unlocked it. "It is all here," he explained, "except the small sum already expended46 in preliminary costs--the sum passed, as you will remember, at the last meeting of the Board. Here it is." He took a paper which lay on the top of the contents of the box. "Except four hundred and ten pounds, ten shillings. The rest is invested in Treasury47 Bills until required. The bills are here, and Clement will check them with you, Sir Charles, while I finish this letter. We have, of course, treated this as a Trust Fund, and I think that the better course will be for you to affix48 your seal to the box when you have verified the contents."
He turned to his letter, though it may be doubted whether he knew what he was writing, while Sir Charles and Clement went through the box, verified the securities, and finally sealed the box. That done, Woosenham would have offered fresh apologies, but the banker waved them aside and bowed him out, directing Clement to see him to the door.
That done, left alone once more, he sat thinking. The incident had roused him and he felt the better for it. He had been able to assert himself and he had confirmed in good will a man who might yet be of use to him. But he was not left alone very long. Sir Charles had not been gone five minutes before Rodd thrust a pale face in at the door, and in an agitated49 whisper informed him that Owen and Jenkins were coming down the High Street. A scout50 whom the cashier had sent out had seen them and run ahead with the news. "They'll be here in two minutes, sir," Rodd added in a tone which betrayed his dismay. "What am I to do? Will you see them, sir?"
"Certainly," Ovington answered. "Show them in as soon as they arrive."
He spoke51 firmly, and made a brave show in Rodd's eyes. But he knew that up to this moment he had retained a grain of hope, a feeling, vague and baseless, that something might yet happen, something might yet occur at the last moment to save the bank. Well, it had not, and he must steel himself to face the worst. The crisis had come and he must meet it like a man. He rose from his chair and stood waiting, a little paler than usual, but composed and master of himself.
He heard the disturbance52 that the arrival of the two men caused in the bank. Some one spoke in a harsh and peremptory53 tone, and something like an altercation54 followed. Raised voices reached him, and Rodd's answer, civil and propitiatory55, came, imperfectly, to his ear. The peremptory voice rose anew, louder than before, and the banker's face grew hard as he listened. Did they think to browbeat him? Did they think to bully56 him? If so, he would soon--but they were coming. He caught the sound of the counter as Rodd raised it for the visitors to pass, and the advance of feet, slowly moving across the floor. He fixed his eyes on the door, all the manhood in him called up to meet the occasion.
The door was thrown open, widely open, but for a moment the banker could not see who stood in the shadow of the doorway57. Two men, certainly, and Rodd at their elbow, hovering58 behind them; and they must be Owen and Jenkins, though Rodd, to be sure, should have had the sense to send in one at a time. Then it broke upon the banker that they were not Owen and Jenkins. They were bigger men, differently dressed, of another class; and he stared. For the taller of the two, advancing slowly on the other's arm, and feeling his way with his stick, was Squire Griffin, and his companion was no other than Sir Charles, mysteriously come back again.
Prepared for that which he had foreseen, Ovington was unprepared for this, and the old man, still feeling on his unguarded side with his stick, was the first to speak. "Give me a chair," he grunted59. "Is he here, Woosenham?"
"Yes," Woosenham said, "Mr. Ovington is here."
"Then let me sit down." And as Sir Charles let him down with care into the chair which the astonished banker hastened to push forward, "Umph!" he muttered, as he settled himself and uncovered his head. "Tell my man"--this to Rodd--"to bring in that stuff when I send for it. Do you hear? You there? Tell him to bring it in when I bid him." Then he turned himself to the banker, who all this time had not found a word to say, and indeed had not a notion what was coming. He could only suppose that the Squire had somehow revived Woosenham's fears, in which case he should certainly, Squire or no Squire, hear some home truths. "You're surprised to see me?" the old man said.
"Well, I am, Mr. Griffin. Yes."
"Ay," drily. "Well, I am surprised myself, if it comes to that. I didn't think to be ever in this room again. But here I am, none the less. And come on business."
The banker's eyes grew hard. "If it is about the Railroad moneys," he said, "and Sir Charles is not satisfied----"
"It's none of his business. Naught60 to do with the Railroad," the Squire answered. Then sharply, "Where's my nephew? Is he here?"
"No, he is not at the bank to-day."
"No? Well, he never should ha' been! And so I told him and told you. But you would both have your own way, and you know what's come of it. Hallo!" breaking off suddenly, and turning his head, for his hearing was still good. "What's that? Ain't we alone?"
"One moment," Ovington said. Rodd had tapped at the door and put in his head.
The cashier looked at the banker, over the visitors' heads. "Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins are here," he said in a low tone. "They wish to see you. I said you were engaged, sir, but----" his face made the rest of the sentence clear.
Ovington reddened, but retained his presence of mind. "They can see me in ten minutes," he said, coldly. "Tell them so."
But Rodd only came a little farther into the room. "I am afraid," he said, dropping his voice, "they won't wait, sir. They are----"
"Wait?" The word came from the Squire. He shot it out so suddenly that the cashier started. "Wait? Why, hang their infernal impudence61," wrathfully, "do they think their business must come before everybody's? Jenkins? Is that little Jenkins--Tom Jenkins of the Hollies62?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then d--n his impudence!" the old man burst forth63 again in a voice that must have wellnigh reached the street. "Little Tom Jenkins, whose grandfather was my foot-boy, coming and interrupting my business! God bless my soul and body, the world is turned upside-down nowadays. Fine times we live in! Little--but, hark you, sirrah, d'you go and tell him to go to the devil! And shut the door, man! Shut the door!"
"Tell them I will see them in ten minutes," said the banker.
But the old man was still unappeased. "That's what we're coming to, is it?" he fumed64. "Confound their impudence," wiping his brow, "and they've put me out, too! I dunno where I was. Is the door closed? Oh, 'bout5 my nephew! I didn't wish it, I've said that, and I've said it often, but he's in. He's in with you, banker, and he's lugged65 me in! For, loth as I am to see him in it, I'm still lother that any one o' my name or my blood should be pointed66 at as the man that's lost the countryside their money! Trade's bad, out of its place. But trade that fails at other folks' cost and ruins a sight of people who, true or false, will say they've been swindled----"
"Stop!" the banker could bear it no longer, and he stepped forward, his face pale. "No one has swindled here! No one has been robbed of his money. No one--if it will relieve your feelings to know it, Mr. Griffin will lose by the bank in the end. I shall pay all demands within a few weeks at most."
"Can you pay 'em all to-day?" asked the Squire, at his driest.
"It may be that I cannot. But every man to whom the bank owes a penny will receive twenty shillings in the pound and interest, within a few weeks--or months."
"And who will be the loser, then, if the bank closes? Who'll lose, man?"
"The bank. No one else."
"But you can't pay 'em to-day, banker?"
"That may be."
"How much will clear you? To pay 'em all down on the nail," truculently67, "and tell 'em all to go and be hanged? Eh? How much do you need for that?"
Ovington opened his mouth, but for a moment, overpowered by the emotions that set his temples throbbing68, he could not speak. He stared at the gaunt, stooping figure in the chair--the stooping figure in the shabby old riding-coat with the huge plated buttons that had weathered a dozen winters--and though hope sprang up in him, he doubted. The man might be playing with him. Or, he might not mean what he seemed to mean. There might be some mistake. At last, "Five thousand pounds would pull us through," he said in a voice that sounded strange to himself, "as it turns out."
"You'd better take ten," the Squire answered. "There," fumbling69 in his inner pocket and extracting with effort a thick packet, "count five out of that. And there's five in gold that my man will bring in. D'you give me a note for ten thousand at six months--five per cent."
"Mr. Griffin----"
"There, no words!" testily70. "It ain't for you I'm doing it, man. Understand that! It ain't for you. It's for my name and my nephew, little as he deserves it! Count it out, count it out, and give me back the balance, and let's be done with it."
Ovington hesitated, his heart full, his hands trembling. He was not himself. He looked at Woosenham. "Perhaps, Sir Charles," he said unsteadily, "will be good enough to check the amount with me!"
"Pshaw, man, if I didn't think you honest I shouldn't be here, whether or no. No such fool! I satisfied myself of that, you may be sure, before I came in. Count it, yourself. And there! Bid 'em bring in the gold."
The banker rang the bell and gave the order. He counted the notes, and by the time he had finished, the bags had been brought in. "You'll ha' to take that uncounted," the Squire said, as he heard them set down on the floor, "as I took it myself."
"My son will have seen to that," Ovington replied. He was a little more like himself now. He sat down and wrote out the note, though his hand shook.
"Ay," the Squire agreed, "I'm thinking he will have." And turning his head towards Woosenham, "He's a rum chap, that," he continued, with a chuckle71 and speaking as if the banker were not present. "He gave me a talking-to--me! D'you know that he got to London in sixteen hours, in the night-time?"
"Did he, by Jove! Our friend at Halston could hardly have beaten that."
"And nothing staged either! Railroads!" scornfully. "D'you think there's any need o' railroads when a man can do that? Or that any railroad that's ever made will beat that? Sixteen hours, by George, a hundred and fifty-one miles in the night-time!"
Sir Charles, who had been an astonished spectator of the scene, gave a qualified72 assent73, and by that time Ovington was ready with his note. The Squire pouched74 it with care, but cut short his thanks. "I've told you why I do it," he said gruffly. "And now I'm tired and I'll be getting home. Give me your arm, Woosenham. But as we pass I've a word to say to that little joker in the bank."
He had his word, and a strange scene it was. The two great men stood within the counter, the old man bending his hawk-like face and sightless eyes on the quailing75 group beyond it, while the clerks looked on, half in awe76 and half in amusement. "Fools!" said the Squire in his harshest tone. "Fools, all of ye! Cutting your own throats and tearing the bottom out of your own money-bags! That's what ye be doing! And you, Tom Jenkins, and you, Owen, that should know better, first among 'em! You haven't the sense to see a yard before you, but elbow one another into the ditch like a pair of blind horses! You deserve to be ruined, every man of you, and it's no fault o' yourn that you're not! Business men? You call yourselves business men, and run on a bank as if all the money was kept in a box under the counter ready to pay you! Go home! Go home!" poking77 at them with his stick. "And thank God the banker has more sense than you, and a sight more money than your tuppenny ha'penny accounts run to! Damme, if I were master here, if one single one o' you should cross my door again! But there, take me out, Woosenham; take me out! Pack o' fools! Pack o' dumb fools, they are!"
The two marched out with that, but the Squire's words ran up and down the town like wild-fire. What he had said and how he had said it, and the figure little Tom Jenkins of the Hollies had cut, was known as far as the Castle Foregate before the old man had well set his foot on the step of his carriage. The crowd standing7 about Sir Charles's four bays in the Market Place and respectfully gazing on the postillions' yellow jackets had it within two minutes. Within four it was known at the Gullet that the old Squire was supporting the bank, and had given Welsh Owen such a talking-to as never was. Within ten, the news was being bandied up and down the long yard at the Lion, where they stabled a hundred horses, and was known even to the charwomen who, on their knees, were scrubbing the floors of the Assembly Rooms that looked down on the yard. Dean's, at which a persistent78 and provoking run had been prosecuted79 since morning, got it among the first; and Mr. Dean, testy80 and snappish enough before, became for the rest of the day a terror and a thunder-cloud to the junior clerks. Nay81, the news soon passed beyond Aldersbury, for the three o'clock up-coach swept it away and dropped it with various parcels and hampers82 at every stage between the Falcon83 at Heygate and Wolverhampton. Not a turn-pike man but heard it and spread it, and at the Cock at Wellington they gave it to the down-coach, which carried it back to Aldersbury.
Owen, it was known, had drawn his money. But Jenkins had thought better of it. He had gone out of the bank with his cheque in his hand, and had torn it up coram public in the roadway; and from that moment the run, its force already exhausted84, had ceased. Half an hour later he would have been held a fool who looked twice at an Ovington note, or distrusted a bank into which, rumor85 had it, gold had been carried by the sackful. Had not the Bank of England sent down a special messenger bearing unstinted credit? And had not the old Squire of Garth, the closest, stingiest, shrewdest man in the county, paid in thirty, forty, fifty thousand pounds and declared that he would sell every acre before the bank should fail? Before night a dozen men were considering ruefully the thing that they had done or pondering how they might, with the least loss of dignity, undo86 it. Before morning twice as many wives had told their husbands what they thought of them, and reminded them that they had always said how it would be--only they were never listened to!
At the Gullet in the Shut off the Market Place, where the tap never ceased running that evening, and half of the trade of the town pressed in to eat liver and bacon, there was no longer any talk of Boulogne. All the talk ran the other way. The drawers of the day were the butts87 of the evening, and were bantered88 and teased unmercifully. Their friends would not be in their shoes for a trifle--not they! They had cooked their goose with a vengeance--no more golden eggs for them! And very noticeable was it that whenever the banker's name came up, voices dropped and heads came together. His luck, his power, his resources were discussed with awe and in whispers. There were not a few thoughtful faces at the board, and here and there were appetites that failed, though the suppers served in the dingy89 low-ceiled room at the Gullet, dark even at noon-day, were famous for their savoriness.
* * * * *
Very different was the scene inside the bank. At the counter, indeed, discipline failed the moment the door fell to behind the last customer. The clerks sprang to their feet, cheered, danced a dance of triumph, struck a hundred attitudes of scorn and defiance90. They cracked silly jokes, and flung paper darts91 at the public side; they repaid by every kind of monkey trick the alarms and exertions from which they had suffered during three days. They roared, "Oh, dear, what can the matter be!" in tones of derision that reached the street. They challenged the public to come on--to come on and be hanged! They ceased to make a noise only when breath failed them.
But in the parlor, whither Clement, followed after a moment's hesitation92 by Rodd, had hastened to join and to congratulate his father, there was nothing of this. The danger had been too pressing, the margin93 of safety too narrow to admit of loud rejoicing. The three met like ship-wrecked mariners94 drawn more closely together by the ordeal95 through which they had passed, like men still shaken by the buffeting96 of the waves. They were quiet, as men amazed to find themselves alive. The banker, in particular, sat sunk in his chair, overcome as much by the scene through which he had passed as by a relief too deep for words. For he knew that it was by no art of his own, and through no resources of his own that he survived, and his usual self-confidence, and with it his aplomb97, had deserted98 him. In a room vibrating with emotion they gazed at one another in thankful silence, and it was only after a long interval99 that the older man let his thoughts appear. Then "Thank God!" he said unsteadily, "and you, Clement! God bless you! If we owe this to any one we owe it to you, my boy! If you had not been beside me, God knows what I might not have done!"
"Pooh, pooh, sir," Clement said; yet he did but disguise deep feeling under a mask of lightness. "You don't do yourself justice. And for the matter of that, if we have to thank any one it is Rodd, here." He clapped the cashier on the shoulder with an intimacy100 that brought a spark to Rodd's eyes. "He's not only stuck to it like a man, but if he had not paid in his four hundred and fifty----"
"No, no, sir, we weren't drawn down to that--quite."
"We were mighty101 near it, my lad. And easily might have been."
"Yes," said the banker; "we shall not forget it, Rodd. But, after all," with a faint smile, "it's Bourdillon we have to thank." And he explained the motives102 which, on the surface at least, had moved the Squire to intervene. "If I had not taken Bourdillon in when I did----"
"Just so," Clement assented103 drily. "And if Bourdillon had not----"
"Umph! Yes. But--where is he? Do you know?"
"I don't. He may be at his rooms, or he may have ridden out to his mother's. I'll look round presently, and if he is not in town I'll go out and tell him the news."
"You didn't quarrel?"
Clement shrugged104 his shoulders. "Not more than we can make up," he said lightly, "if it is to his interest."
The banker moved uneasily in his chair. "What is to be done about him?" he asked.
"I think, sir, that that's for the Squire. Let us leave it to him. It's his business. And now--come! Has any one told Betty!"
The banker rose, conscience-stricken. "No, poor girl, and she must be anxious. I quite forgot," he said.
"Unless Rodd has," Clement replied, with a queer look at his father. For Rodd had vanished while they were talking of Arthur, whom it was noteworthy that neither of them now called by his Christian105 name.
"Well go and tell her," said Ovington, reverting106 to his everyday tone. And he turned briskly to the door which led into the house. He opened it, and was crossing the hall, followed by Clement, who was anxious to relieve his sister's mind, when both came to a sudden stand. The banker uttered an exclamation107 of astonishment--and so did Betty. For Rodd, he melted with extraordinary rapidity through a convenient door, while Clement, the only one of the four who was not taken completely by surprise, laughed softly.
"Betty!" her father cried sternly. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Well, I thought--you would know," said Betty, blushing furiously. "I think it's pretty plain." Then, throwing her arms round her father's neck, "Oh, father, I'm so glad, I'm so glad, I'm so glad!"
"But that's an odd way of showing it, my dear."
"Oh, he quite understands. In fact"--still hiding her face--"we've come to an understanding, father. And we want you"--half laughing and half crying--"to witness it."
"I'm afraid I did witness it," gravely.
"But you're not going to be angry? Not to-day? Not to-day, father." And in a small voice, "He stood by you. You know how he stood by you. And you said you'd never forget it."
"But I didn't say that I should give him my daughter."
"No, father; she gave herself."
"Well, there!" He freed himself from her. "That's enough now, girl. We'll talk about it another time. But I'm not pleased, Betty."
"No?" said Betty, gaily108, but dabbing109 her eyes at the same time. "He said that. He said that you would not be pleased. He was dreadfully afraid of you. And I said you wouldn't be pleased, too. But----"
"Eh?"
"I said you'd come to it, father, by and by. In good time."
"Well, I'm----" But what the banker was, was lost in the peal110 of laughter that Clement could no longer restrain.
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1
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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2
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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9
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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10
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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12
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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13
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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14
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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15
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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16
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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17
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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18
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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19
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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20
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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21
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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22
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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24
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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25
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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26
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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27
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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28
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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29
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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30
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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31
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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33
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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34
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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35
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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36
browbeat
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| v.欺侮；吓唬 | |
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37
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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38
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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39
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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40
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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41
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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42
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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43
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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44
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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45
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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46
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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47
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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48
affix
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| n.附件，附录 vt.附贴，盖(章)，签署 | |
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49
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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50
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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51
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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52
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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53
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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54
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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55
propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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56
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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57
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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58
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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59
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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60
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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61
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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62
hollies
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| n.冬青（常绿灌木，叶尖而硬，有光泽，冬季结红色浆果）( holly的名词复数 )；（用作圣诞节饰物的）冬青树枝 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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65
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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67
truculently
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68
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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69
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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71
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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72
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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73
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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74
pouched
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| adj.袋形的，有袋的 | |
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75
quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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76
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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77
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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78
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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80
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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81
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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82
hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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84
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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85
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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86
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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87
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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88
bantered
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| v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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89
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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90
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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91
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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92
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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93
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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95
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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96
buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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99
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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100
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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101
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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102
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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103
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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105
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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106
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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107
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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108
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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109
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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