There was an embarrassing silence. Ovington turned. “Well, Betty,” he said, attempting a lighter tone. “I thought that you were going to thank—Mr. Walker of Wolverhampton?”
But Betty, murmuring something about an order for the servants, had already hurried from the room.
CHAPTER XXXVII
That the Squire suffered was certain; whether he suffered more deeply in pocket or in pride, whether he felt more poignantly the loss of his hoarded thousands or the dishonor that Arthur had done to his name, even Josina could not say. His ruling passions through life had been pride of race and the desire to hoard, and it is certain that sorely wounded in both points he suffered as acutely as age with its indurated feelings can suffer. But after the first outburst, after the irrepressible cry of anguish which the discovery of his nephew’s treachery had wrung from him, he buried himself in silence. He sat morose and unheeding, his hands clasping his stick, his sightless eyes staring at the fire. He gave no sign, and sought no sympathy. He was impenetrable. Even Josina would not guess what were his thoughts.
Nor did she try to learn. The misfortune was too great, the injury on one side beyond remedy, and the girl had the sense to see this. She hung over him, striving to anticipate his wishes and by mute signs of affection to give him what comfort she might. But she was too wise to trouble him with words or to attempt to administer directly to a mind which to her was a mystery, darkened by the veil of years that separated them.
She was sure of one thing, however, that he would not wish anything to be said in the house; and she said nothing. But she soon found that she must set a guard also on her looks. On the Tuesday Mrs. Bourdillon “looked in,” as it was her habit to look in three or four times a week. She had usually some errand to put forward, and her pretext on this occasion was the Squire’s Christmas list. Near as he was, he thought much of old customs, and he would not for anything have omitted to brew a cask of October for his servants’ Christmas drinking, or to issue the doles of beef to the men and of blankets to the women which had gone forth from the Great House since the reign of Queen Anne. Mrs. Bourdillon was never unwilling to gain a little reflected credit, or to pay in that way for an hour’s job-work, so that there were few years in which she did not contrive to graft a name or two on the list.
That was apparently her business this afternoon. But Josina, whose faculties were quickened by the pity which she felt for the unconscious mother, soon perceived that this was not her only or, indeed, her real motive. The visitor was not herself. She was nervous, the current of her small talk did not run with its usual freedom, she let her eyes wander, she broke off and began again. By and by as the strain increased she let her anxiety appear, and at last, “I wish you would tell me,” she said, “what is the matter with Arthur. He is not open with me,” raising her eyes with a piteous look to Josina’s face. “And—and he’s something on his mind, I’m sure. I noticed it on Sunday, and I am sure you know. Is there”—and Josina saw with compassion that her mittened hands were trembling—“is there anything—wrong?”
The girl had her answer ready, for she had already decided what she would say. “I am afraid that they are anxious about the bank,” she said. “There is what they call a ‘run’ upon it.”
The explanation was serious enough, but, strange to say, Mrs. Bourdillon looked relieved. “Oh! And I suppose that they all have to be there?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”