“My grandfather put it in when the Scots were at Derby. And, mark ye, no one knows of it but Frederick Welsh—and now you. D’you be careful and keep your mouth shut, lad. You ha’ got the certificate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, go about the business and get it done. And now do you send Jos to me.”
Arthur made a mental note that the old man was changing at last—was losing that hard grip on all about him which he had maintained for half a century; and he was confirmed in this idea by the ease with which the India Stock transaction presently went through. The brokers showed themselves unusually complaisant. They wrote that, as the matter was personal to him, they were anxious that nothing should go wrong; and, as his customer was blind, they were forwarding with the transfer on which the particulars had been inserted a duplicate in blank, in order that if the former were spoiled in the execution delay might be avoided. This was irregular, but if the duplicate were not needed, it could be returned and no harm done.
Arthur thought this polite of them, and was flattered; he felt that he was a client of value. But as it turned out the duplicate was not needed; the Squire made nothing of the formality. His hand once directed to the proper place, he signed his name boldly and plainly—as he did most things; and Arthur and Jos added their signatures as witnesses. Ten days later the money was received, and five-sixths of it was paid over to the bank. The duplicate transfer, overlooked at the moment, lay on the Squire’s bureau until it did not seem worth while to return it. Then Arthur, tired of coming upon it every day, thrust it out of sight in a pigeonhole.
He had other things to think of, indeed, for he was in high feather in these days, while the summer sun climbed slowly to the zenith and began again to sink. He had two-fold interests. After a long day spent in the bank he would ride out of town in the cool of the evening, and passing down the winding streets under the gables of the old black and white houses, he would cross the West Bridge. Bucketing his horse up the rise that led from the river, he would leave the town behind and see before him the road running straight and dusty towards the sunset-glow, which still shone above the Welsh hills. From the fields on either side came the sharp sound of the scythe-stone, the laughter of hay-makers, the call of the wagoner to his team, the creaking of the laden wheels over the turf. Partridges dusting themselves in the road scuttled out of his way and presently took wing; rabbits watched him from the covert-edge. The corncrake’s persistent note spoke rather of the hot hours that were past than of the evening air that cooled his cheek. An aged simpleton in a smocked frock, the clown of the country-side, danced a jig before an ale-house; a stray bullock gazed patiently at him from a pound. The country-side lay quiet about him, and despite himself he owned the charm of peace, the fall of night, the end of labor.
But his thoughts still dwelt on the day’s work. There had been a discussion over Wolley’s account. Wolley had been behaving ill. Ignoring the claim of the bank he had assigned a number of his railway shares to meet a bill discounted elsewhere. The natural course would have been to insist on the lien and to retain the shares. But the consequences, as Ovington saw, might be serious. The step might not only involve the bank in a loss, which he still hoped to avoid, but it might imply taking over the mill—and it is not the business of bankers to run mills. Arthur, on the other hand, who did not like the man, would have cut the knot and sent him to the devil.
In the end Ovington had decided against Arthur. “We must be careful,” the banker had said. “Credit is like a house of cards. You take one card away, you do not know how many may fall.”
“But if we don’t teach him a lesson now?”
“Quite true, lad. But—well, I will see him. If, as Rodd thinks, he is drawing bills on men of straw, whose acceptances are worthless——”