Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

Presently he made her go downstairs. “Nothing more can be done now,” said he. “The doctor thinks well of him so far. He and I will stay with him to-night. You must save yourself, Jos. You will be needed to-morrow.”

He left the room with her, and as she would not go to bed he made her lie down on a couch, and covered her with a cloak. He had dropped the tone of patronage, almost of persiflage, which he had used to her of late, and he was kindness itself, behaving to her as a brother; so that she did not know how to be thankful enough for his presence, or for the relief from responsibility which it afforded. Afterwards, looking back on that long, strange night, during which lights burned in the rooms till dawn, and odd meals were served at odd times, and stealthy feet trod the stairs, and scared faces peeped in only to be withdrawn—looking back on that strange night, and its happenings, it seemed to her that without him she could not have lived through the hours.

In truth there was not much sleep for anyone. The village doctor, who lived in top-boots, and went his rounds on horse-back, and by old-fashioned people was called the apothecary, could say nothing for certain; in the morning he might be able to do so. But in the morning—well, perhaps by night, when the patient came to himself, he might be able to form an opinion. To Arthur he was more candid. The eye was beyond hope—it could not be saved, and he feared that the other eye was injured; and there was serious concussion. He played with his fob seals and looked sagely over his gold-rimmed spectacles as he mouthed his phrases. Whether there was a fracture he could not say at present.

He had seen in a long life and a country practice many such cases, and was skilful in treating them. But—no active measures. “Dr. Quiet,” he said, “Dr. Quiet, the best of the faculty, my dear. If he does not always effect a cure, he makes no mistakes. We must leave it to him.”

So morning came, and passed, and noon; and still nothing more could be done. With the afternoon reaction set in; the house resigned itself to rest. Two or three stole away to sleep. Arthur dozed in an arm-chair. The clock struck with abnormal clearness, the cluck of a hen in the yard was heard in the attics. So the hours passed until sunset surprised a yawning house, and in the parlor they pressed one another to eat, and in the kitchen unusual luxuries were consumed with a ghoulish enjoyment, and no fear of the housekeeper. And still Farmer could add nothing. They must wait and hope. Dr. Quiet! He praised him afresh in the same words.

Some hours earlier, and before Josina, after much scolding by Miss Peacock, had retired to her room to lie down, Arthur had told his story.

He did not go into details. “It would only shock you, Jos,” he said. “It was Thomas, of course, and I hope to heaven he’ll swing for it. I suppose he knew that your father was carrying a large sum, and he must have struck him, possibly as he turned to say something, and then thrown him out. We must set the hue and cry after him, but Clement will see to that. It was lucky that he turned up when he did.”

She drew a sharp breath; this was the first she had heard of Clement. And in her surprise “Clement?” she exclaimed. Then, covering her confusion as well as she could, “Mr. Ovington? Do you mean—he was there, Arthur?”

“By good luck he was, just when he was wanted. Poor chap. I can tell you it knocked him fairly down. All the same, I don’t know what might not have happened if he had not come up. I sent him for Farmer, and it saved time.”

“I did not know that he had been there,” she murmured, too self-conscious to ask further questions.