His deeds now went in front, and his prudent thoughts lagged slowly behind. After the long Lent of fasting and humiliation—of poverty and strict abstinence from all extravagance—from all worldly pleasures—all social amusements—there suddenly dawned an Easter morning on his life, full of brightness and pleasure—a morning when the old traditions were forgotten, and a new era was begun.
Mr. Stewart’s visit was the first occurrence which cast an actual shadow over all this radiancy. Previously, light clouds might have swept across the sky—a few misgivings through his heart—so far, he had neither seen nor heard anything of the money, some portion of which he knew, for certain, Mr. Black must have received. Neither had letters from that gentleman arrived with quite their accustomed punctuality at Berrie Down. “Christmastime,” the promoter stated, threw everything, for a short period, out of gear, and then ensued silence, until on the morning of Mr. Stewart’s visit came a communication ending with these ominous words,—
“I am right for the bill due on Saturday, but should like to see you about the others.”
About the others! Good Heavens, what concern were they of Squire Dudley’s? Mr. Black, or the bank, or the Company, or somebody, was to take them up; certainly not Arthur.
The herds and flocks, the crops and Nellie, had represented to Squire Dudley tangible property advanced into the “Protector Bread and Flour Company, Limited,” but his name seemed the very vaguest valuable possible, and he had stared at first, when Mr. Black suggested using it.
Now, however, the very vagueness of the threatened peril filled his mind with alarm. What could Mr. Black want with him? and what did he mean by being “right for that on Saturday?” Was he not right for all? and if he were not, how did he expect the sight of Squire Dudley to put him so?
There was a terrible uncertainty about the matter which seemed very frightful to Arthur; and then, on the top of this letter—following it almost as swiftly as the thunderclap does lightning—came Mr. Stewart, and the interview already detailed.
Altogether, the second day in the new year was not one marked with a white stone in Squire Dudley’s memory, yet it brought, in due time, its consolation, for pondering over the matter, Arthur discovered two tangible pieces of comfort on which to hang his hopes: one, the offer of the secretaryship; the other, Mr. Stewart’s own evident belief in the ultimate success of the Company.
“So I will run up to town to-morrow and see Black,” decided Squire Dudley—who had vainly striven to catch a glimpse of that gentleman on Boxing Day, when he went to inform Mr. Ormson of his daughter’s misdemeanor—“and I will tell him frankly about the secretaryship, so that there may be no underhand dealing in the matter, and I can see how the place in Lincoln’s Inn would suit for a residence, and then give Mr. Stewart a decided answer.”
Already his opera-box and horses and carriages, his grand town residence, his hunters, his hacks, his fashionable friends, were dwindling down to a thousand a year and a free house—to work which, slight though it might be, was more than he had ever thought of previously attempting. Already the dream-castle was beginning to fade away, and the sober stone-and-mortar building of reality taking its place; but Arthur Dudley resolutely refused to see the inevitable change which had commenced being wrought.