Ovington's Bank. Weyman Stanley John

at that point.

      Not that Arthur saw them as beacons, for at no time was he much given to sentiment. His outlook on life was too direct and vivid for that, and to-day in particular his mind was teeming with more practical thoughts, with hopes and plans and calculations. But the lights meant that a dull ride over a rough road was at an end, and so far they gave him pleasure. He opened the gate and rode round to the stable, gave up the horse to Pugh, the man-of-all-work, and made his way into the house.

      He entered upon a scene as cheerful as any lights shining on weary traveller could promise. In a fair-sized room a clear grate held a coal fire, the flames of which danced on the red-papered walls. A kettle bubbled on the hob, a tea-tray gleamed on the table, and between the two a lady and gentleman sat, eating crumpets; the lady with much elegance and a napkin spread over her lavender silk dress, the gentleman in a green cutaway coat with basket buttons-a coat that ill concealed the splashed gaiters for which he had more than once asked pardon.

      But fair as things looked on the surface, all was not perfect even in this pleasant interior. The lady held herself stiffly, and her eyes rested rather more often than was courteous on the spatter-dashes. Secretly she thought her company not good enough for her, while the gentleman was frankly bored. Neither was finding the other as congenial as a first glance suggested, and it would have been hard to say which found Arthur's entrance the more welcome interruption.

      "Hallo, mother!" he said, stooping carelessly to kiss her. "Hallo, Clement."

      "My dear Arthur!" the lady cried, the lappets of her cap shaking as she embraced him. "How late you are! That horrid bank! I am sure that some day you will be robbed and murdered on your way home!"

      "I! No, mother. I don't bring the money, more's the pity! I am late, am I? The worse for Clement, who has to ride home. But I have been doing your work, my lad, so you mustn't grumble. What did you get?"

      "A brace and a wood-pigeon. Has my father come?"

      "Yes, he has come, and I am afraid has a wigging in store for you. But-a brace and a wood-pigeon? Lord, man," with a little contempt in his tone, "what do you do with your gun all day? Why, Acherley told me that in that rough between the two fallows above the brook-"

      "Oh, Arthur," Mrs. Bourdillon interposed, "never mind that!" She had condescended sufficiently, she thought, and wished to hear no more of Clement Ovington's doings. "I've something more important to tell you, much more important. I've had a shock, a dreadful shock to-day."

      She was a faded lady, rather foolish than wise, and very elegant: one who made the most of such troubles as she had, and the opening her son now heard was one which he had heard often before.

      "What's the matter now, mother?" he asked, stooping to warm his hands.

      "Your uncle has been here."

      "Well, that's no new thing."

      "But he has behaved dreadfully, perfectly dreadfully to me."

      "I don't know that that is new, either."

      "He began again about your refusal to take Orders, and your going into that dreadful bank instead."

      Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "That's one for you, Clement."

      "Oh, that wasn't the half," the lady continued, unbending. "He said, there was the living, three hundred and fifty a year, and old Mr. Trubshaw seventy-eight. And he'd have to sell it and put in a stranger and have quarrels about tithes. He stood there with his great stick in his hand and his eyes glaring at me like an angry cat's, and scolded me till I didn't know whether I stood on my head or my heels. He wanted to know where you got your low tastes from."

      "There you are again, Clement!"

      "And your wish to go into trade, and I answered him quite sharp that you didn't get them from me; as for Mr. Bourdillon's grandfather, who had the plantations in Jamaica, it wasn't the same at all, as everybody knows and agrees that nothing is genteeler than the West Indies with black men to do the work!"

      "You confounded him there, mother, I'm sure. But as we have heard something like this before, and Clement is not much interested, if that is all-"

      "Oh, but it is not all! Very far from it!" Mrs. Bourdillon's head shook till the lappets swung again. "The worst is to come. He said that we had had the Cottage rent-free for four years-and I'm sure I don't know who has a better right to it-but that that was while he still hoped that you were going to live like a gentleman, like the Griffins before you-and I am sure the Bourdillons were gentry, or I should have been the last to marry your father! But as you seemed to be set on going your own way and into the bank for good-and I must say I told him it wasn't any wish of mine and I'd said all I could against it, as you know, and Mr. Clement knows the same-why, it was but right that we should pay rent like other people! And it would be thirty pounds a year from Lady Day!"

      "The d-d old hunks!" Arthur cried. He had listened unmoved to his mother's tirade, but this touched him. "Well, he is a curmudgeon! Thirty pounds a year? Well, I'm d-d! And all because I won't starve as a parson!"

      But his mother rose in arms at that. "Starve as a parson!" she cried. "Why, I think you are as bad, one as the other. I'm sure your father never starved!"

      "No, I know, mother. He was passing rich on four hundred pounds a year. But that is not going to do for me."

      "Well, I don't know what you want!"

      "My dear mother, I've told you before what I want." Arthur was fast regaining the good temper that he seldom lost. "If I were a bishop's son and could look to be a bishop, or if I were an archdeacon's son with the prospect of a fat prebend and a rectory or two with it, I'd take Orders. But with no prospect except the Garthmyle living, and with tithes falling-"

      "But haven't I told you over and over again that you have only to make-up to-but there, I haven't told you that Jos was with him, and I will say this for her, that she looked as ashamed for him as I am sure I was! I declare I was sorry for the girl and she not daring to put in a word-such an old bear as he is to her!"

      "Poor Jos!" Arthur said. "She has not a very bright life of it. But this does not interest Clement, and we're keeping him."

      The young man had indeed made more than one attempt to take leave, but every time he had moved Mrs. Bourdillon had either ignored him, or by a stately gesture had claimed his silence. He rose now.

      "I dare say you know my cousin?" Arthur said.

      "I've seen her," Clement answered; and his mind went back to the only occasion on which he had remarked Miss Griffin. It had been at the last Race Ball at Aldersbury that he had noticed her-a gentle, sweet-faced girl, plainly and even dowdily dressed, and so closely guarded by her proud old dragon of a father that, warned by the fate of others and aware that his name was not likely to find favor with the Squire, he had shrunk from seeking an introduction. But he had noticed that she sat out more than she danced; sat, indeed, in a kind of isolation, fenced in by the old man, and regarded with glances of half-scornful pity by girls more smartly dressed. He had had time to watch her, for he also, though for different reasons, had been a little without the pale, and he had found her face attractive. He had imagined how differently she would look were she suitably dressed. "Yes," he continued, recalling it, "she was at the last Race Ball, I think."

      "And a mighty poor time she had of it," Arthur answered, half carelessly, half contemptuously. "Poor Jos! She hasn't at any time much of a life with my beauty of an uncle. Twopence to get and a penny to spend!"

      Mrs. Bourdillon protested. "I do wish you would not talk of your cousin like that," she said. "You know that she's your uncle's heiress, and if you only-"

      Arthur cut her short. "There! There! You don't remember, mother, that Clement has seven miles to ride before his supper. Let him go now! He'll be late enough."

      That was the end, and the two young men went out together. When Arthur returned, the tea had been removed and his mother was seated at her tambour work. He took his stand before the fire. "Confounded old screw!" he fumed. "Thirty pounds a year? And he's three thousand, if he's a penny! And more likely four!"

      "Well, it may be yours some day," with a sniff. "I'm sure Jos is ready enough."

      "She'll have to