CHAPTER I

It was market day at Aldersbury, the old county town of Aldshire, and the busiest hour of the day. The clock of St. Juliana's was on the point of striking three, and the streets below it were thronged. The gentry, indeed, were beginning to take themselves homeward; a carriage and four, with postillions in yellow jackets, awaited its letters before the Post Office, and near at hand a red-wheeled tandem-cart, the horses tossing their small, keen heads, hung on the movements of its master, who was gossipping on the steps of Ovington's Bank, on Bride Hill. But only the vans bound to the more distant valleys had yet started on their lagging journey; the farmers' gigs, the hucksters' carts, the pack-asses still lingered, filling the streets with a chattering, moving multitude. White-coated yeomen and their wives jostled their betters-but with humble apologies-in the low-browed shops, or hardily pushed smocked-frocks from the narrow pavements, or clung together in obstinate groups in the roadway. Loud was the babel about the yards of the inns, loudest where the taprooms poured forth those who, having dined well, had also drunk deep, after the fashion of our great-grandsires.

Through all this medley and hubbub a young man threaded his way. He wore a blue coat with gilt buttons, a waistcoat to match, and drab trousers, and as he hurried along, his hat tilted back, he greeted gentle and simple with the same laughing nod. He had the carriage of one who had a fixed position in the world and knew his worth; and so attractive was his smile, so gallant his confidence, that liking ran before him, and two out of three of the faces that he encountered mirrored his good humor. As he passed along the High Street, and skirted the Market Place, where the quaint stone figure of an ancient Prince, great in his day, looked down on the turmoil from the front of the Market House, he glanced up at the clock, noted the imminence of the hour, and quickened his pace.

A man touched him on the sleeve. "Mr. Bourdillon, sir," he said, trying to stop him, "by your leave! I want to-"

"Not now. Not now, Broadway," the young man answered quickly. "I'm meeting the mail." And before the other had fairly taken in his words he was a dozen paces away, now slipping deftly between two lurching farmers, now coasting about the more obstinate groups.

A moment later St. Juliana's clock, hard put to it to raise its wheezy voice above the noise, struck the hour. The young man slackened his pace. He was in time, but only barely in time, for as he paused, the distant notes of the guard's bugle sprang like fairy music above the turbid current of sound and gave notice that the coach was at hand. Hurriedly gigs and carts drew aside, the crowd sought the pavements, the more sober drew the heedless out of danger, half a dozen voices cried "Look out! Have a care!" and with a last shrill Tantivy! Tantivy! Tantivy! the four sweating bays, the leaders cantering, the wheelers trotting, the bars all taut, emerged from the crest of the steep Cop, and the Holyhead Mail, within a minute of its time, drew up before the door of the Lion, the Royal Arms shining bravely from its red panels.

Shop-keepers ran to their doors, the crowd closed up about it, the yokels gaped-for who in those days felt no interest in its advent! By that coach had come, eleven years before, the news of the abdication of the Corsican and the close of the Great War. Laurelled and flagged, it had thrilled the town a year afterwards with the tidings of Waterloo. Later it had signalled the death of the old blind king, and later still, the acquittal-as all the world regarded it-of Queen Caroline. Ah, how the crowd had cheered then! And how lustily old Squire Griffin of Garth, the great-uncle of this young man, now come to meet the mail, had longed to lay his cane about their disloyal shoulders!

The coachman, who had driven the eleven-mile stage from Haygate in fifty-eight minutes, unbuckled and flung down the reins. The guard thrust his bugle into its case, tossed a bundle of journals to the waiting boys, and stepped nimbly to the ground. The passengers followed more slowly, stamping their chilled feet, and stretching their cramped limbs. Some, who were strangers, looked about them with a travelled air, or hastened to the blazing fires that shone from the Lion windows, while two or three who were at their journey's end bustled about, rescuing shawls and portmanteaux, or dived into inner pockets for the coachman's fee.

The last to appear, a man, rather below the middle height, in a handsome caped travelling-coat, was in no hurry. He stepped out at his ease and found the young man who has been described at his side. "That you, Arthur?" he said, his face lighting up. "All well?"

"All well, sir. Let me take that!"

"Isn't Rodd here? Ah!" to a second young man, plainer, darker, and more soberly garbed, who had silently appeared at his forerunner's elbow. "Take this, Rodd, will you?" handing him a small leather case. "Don't let it go, until it is on my table. All well?"

"All well, sir, thank you."

"Then go on at once, will you? I will follow with Mr. Bourdillon. Give me your arm, Arthur." He looked about him as he spoke. One or two hats were lifted, he acknowledged the courtesy with a smile. "Betty well?"

"You'll find her at the window looking out. All gone swimmingly, I hope, sir?"

"Swimmingly?" The traveller paused on the word, perhaps questioning its propriety; and he did not continue until they had disengaged themselves from the group round the coach. He and the young man came, though there was nothing to show this, from different grades of society, and the one was thirty years older than the other and some inches shorter. Yet there was a likeness. The lower part of the face in each was strong, and a certain brightness in the eyes, that was alertness in the younger man and keenness in the elder, told of a sanguine temperament; and they were both good-looking. "Swimmingly?" the traveller repeated when they had freed themselves from their immediate neighbors. "Well, if you choose to put it that way, yes. But, it's wonderful, wonderful," in a lower tone, as he paused an instant to acknowledge an acquaintance, "the state of things up there, my boy."

"Still rising?"

"Rising as if things would never fall. And upon my word I don't know why, with the marvellous progress everything is making-but I'll tell you all that later. It's a full market. Is Acherley at the bank?"

"Yes, and Sir Charles. They came a little before time."

"Clement is with them, I suppose?"

"Well, no, sir."

"Don't say he's away to-day!" in a tone of vexation.

"I'm afraid he is," Arthur admitted. "But they are all right. I offered Sir Charles the paper, but they preferred to wait outside."

"D-n!" muttered the other, nodding right and left. "Too bad of the boy! Too bad! No," to the person who had lain in wait for Bourdillon and now put himself in their way, "I can't stop now, Mr. Broadway."

"But, Mr. Ovington! Just a-"

"Not now!" Ovington answered curtly. "Call to-morrow." And when they had left the man behind, "What does he want?"

"What they all want," Arthur answered, smiling. "A good thing, sir."

"But he isn't a customer."

"No, but he will be to-morrow," the young man rejoined. "They are all agog. They've got it that you can make a man's fortune by a word, and of course they want their fortunes made."

"Ah!" the other ejaculated drily. "But seriously, look about you, Arthur. Did you ever see a greater change in men's faces-from what they were this time two years? Even the farmers!"

"Well, they are doing well."

"Better, at any rate. Better, even they. Yes, Mr. Wolley," to a stout man, much wrapped up, who put himself in the way, "follow us, please. Sir Charles is waiting. Better," Ovington continued to his companion, as the man fell behind, "and prices rising, and demand-demand spreading in everything."

"Including Stocks?"

"Including Stocks. I've some news for Sir Charles, that, if he has any doubts about joining us, will fix him. Well, here we are, and I'm glad to be at home. We'll go in by the house door, Arthur, or Betty will be disappointed."

The bank stood on Bride Hill, looking along the High Street. The position was excellent and the house good. Still, it was no more than a house, for in 1825 banks were not the institutions that they have since become; they had still for rivals the old stocking and the cracked teapot, and among banks, Ovington's at Aldersbury was neither of long standing nor of more than local repute.

Mr. Ovington led the way into the house, and had barely removed his hat when a girl flew down the wide oak staircase and flung herself upon him. "Oh, father!" she cried. "Here at last! Aren't you cold? Aren't you starving?"

"Pretty well for that," he replied, stroking her hair in a way that proved that, whatever he was to others, he had a soft spot for his daughter. "Pretty well for that, Betty."

"Well, there's a good fire! Come and warm yourself!"

"That's what I can't do, my dear," he said, taking off his great coat. "Business first."

"But I thought you had done all that in London?" pouting.

"Not all, but some. I shall be an hour, perhaps more."

She shot a mutinous glance at Arthur. "Why can't he do it? And Mr. Rodd?"

"You think we are old enough, Betty?"

"Apprentices should be seen, and not heard!" she snapped.

Arthur's position at the bank had been hardly understood at first, and in some fit of mischief, Betty, determined not to bow down to his pretensions, had christened him the "Apprentice."

"I thought that that proverb applied to children," he retorted.

The girl was a beauty, dark and vivid, but small, and young enough to feel the gibe. Before she could retaliate, however, her father intervened. "Where's Clement?" he asked. "I know that he is not here."

"Tell-tale!" she flung at Arthur. "If you must know, father," mildly, "I think that he's-"

"Mooning somewhere, I suppose, instead of being in the bank, as he should be. And market day of all days! There, come, Bourdillon, I mustn't keep Sir Charles and Acherley waiting." He led the way to the rear of the hall, where a door on the left led into the bank parlor. Betty made a face after them.

In the parlor which lay behind the public office were two men. One, seated in an arm-chair by the fire, was reading the Morning Post. The other stood at the window, his very shoulders expressing his impatience. But it was to the former, a tall, middle-aged man, stiff and pompous, with thin sandy hair but kindly eyes, that Ovington made the first advance. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir Charles," he said. "Very sorry. But I assure you I have not wasted a minute. Mr. Acherley," to the other, "pardon me, will you? Just a word with Sir Charles before we begin."

And leaving Bourdillon to make himself agreeable to the impatient Acherley, Ovington drew Sir Charles Woosenham aside. "I have gone a little beyond my instructions," he said in a low tone, "and sold your Monte Reales."

The Baronet's face fell. "Sold!" he ejaculated. "Parted with them? But I never-my dear sir, I never-"

"Authorized a sale?" the banker agreed suavely. "No, perfectly right, Sir Charles. But I was on the spot and I felt myself responsible. There was a favorable turn and-" forestalling the other as he would have interrupted-"my rule is little and sure-little and sure, and sell on a fair rise. I don't think you will be dissatisfied with the transaction."

But Sir Charles's displeasure showed itself in his face. He was a man of family and influence, honorable and straightforward, but his abilities were hardly on a par with his position, and though he had at times an inkling of the fact it only made him the more jealous of interference. "But I never contemplated," he said, the blood rising to his face, "never for a moment, that you would part with the stocks without reference to me, Mr. Ovington."

"Precisely, precisely-without your authority, Sir Charles-except at a really good profit. I think that four or five hundred was mentioned? Just so. Well, if you will look at this draft, which of course includes the price of the stocks-they cost, if I remember, fourteen hundred or thereabouts-you will, I hope-I really hope-approve of what I did."

Sir Charles adjusted his glasses, and frowned at the paper. He was prepared to be displeased and to show it. "Two thousand six hundred," he muttered, "two thousand six hundred and twenty-seven!" his jaw dropping in his surprise. "Two thousand six-really! Ah, well, I certainly think-" with a quick change to cordiality that would have amused an onlooker-"that you acted for the best. I am obliged to you, much obliged, Mr. Ovington. A handsome profit."

"I felt sure that you would approve," the banker assented gravely. "Shall Bourdillon put the draft-Arthur, be good enough to place this draft to Sir Charles Woosenham's account. And tell Mr. Wolley and Mr. Grounds-I think they are waiting-to come in. I ask your pardon, Mr. Acherley," approaching him in turn.

"No plum for me, I suppose?" growled that gentleman, whom the gist of the interview with Sir Charles had not escaped. He was a tall, hatchet-faced, dissipated-looking man, of an old family, Acherley of Acherley. He had been a dandy with Brummell, had shaken his elbow at Watier's when Crockford managed it, had dined at the Pavilion; now he vegetated in the country on a mortgaged estate, and on Sundays attended cock-fights behind the village public-house.

"Well, not to-day," Ovington answered pleasantly. "But when we have shaken the tree a little-"

"One may fall, you think?"

"I hope so. You will be unlucky if one does not."

The two men who had been summoned came in, each after his fashion. Wolley entered first, endeavoring to mask under a swaggering manner his consciousness that he stood in the presence of his betters. A clothier from the Valleys and one of Ovington's earliest customers, he had raised himself, as the banker had, and from the same stratum; but by enlarging instead of selling his mill. During the war he had made much money and had come to attribute his success a little more to his abilities and a little less to circumstances than was the fact. Of late there were whispers that in the financial storm of '16, which had followed the close of the war, he had come near the rocks; but if so he had put a bold face on the crisis, and by steadily putting himself forward he had impressed most men with a belief in his wealth. "Afternoon, Sir Charles," he grunted with as much ease as he could compass. "Afternoon," to Acherley. He took a seat at the table and slapped down his hat. He was here on business and he meant to show that he knew what business was.

Grounds, who followed, was a man of a different type. He was a maltster and had been a dairyman; a leading tradesman in the town, cautious, penurious, timid, putting pound to pound without saying much about it, and owning that respect for his superiors which became one in his position. Until lately he had hoarded his savings, or put them into the five per cents.; he had distrusted even the oldest bank. But progress was in the air, new enterprises, new discoveries were the talk of the town, the interest on the five per cents. had been reduced to four, and in a rare moment of rashness, he had taken a hint dropped by Ovington, had ventured, and won. He still trembled at his temerity, he still vowed in wakeful moments that he would return to the old safe road, but in the meantime easy gains tempted him and he was now fairly embarked on modern courses. He was a byword in Aldersbury for caution and shrewdness, and his adhesion to any scheme would, as Ovington well knew, commend it to the town.