Stanley Weyman - Ovington's Bank

It was Clement, of course, and with a little more wisdom or a little less courage he would not have stopped the old man. He would have seen that the moment was not propitious, and that his business could hardly be done on the highway. But in his intense eagerness to set himself right, and his anxiety lest chance should forestall him, he dared not let the opportunity pass, and his hand was raised before he had well considered what he would say.

The Squire pulled up his horses. "D'you want me?" he asked, civilly enough.

"If I may trouble you, sir," Clement answered as bravely as he could. "It's on important business, or-or I wouldn't detain you." Already, his heart in his mouth, he saw the difficulty in which he had placed himself. How could he speak before the man? Or on the road?

The Squire considered him. "Business, eh?" he said. "With me? Well, I know your face, young gentleman, but I can't put a name to you."

"I am Mr. Ovington's son, Clement Ovington, sir."

All the Squire's civility left him. "The devil you are!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'm going to the bank. I like to do my business across the counter, young sir, to be plain, and not in the road."

"But this is business-of a different sort, sir," Clement stammered, painfully aware of the change in the other's tone, as well as of the servant, who was all a-grin behind his master's shoulder. "If I could have a word with you-apart, sir? Or perhaps-if I called at Garth tomorrow?"

"Why?"

"It is upon private business, Mr. Griffin," Clement replied, his face burning.

"Did your father send you?"

"No."

"Then I don't see," the Squire replied, scowling at him from under his bushy eyebrows, "what business you can have with me. There can be none, young man, that can't be done across the counter. It is only upon business that I know your father, and I don't know you at all. I don't know why you stopped me."

Clement was scarlet with mortification. "If I could see you a few minutes-alone, sir, I think I could explain what it is."

"You will see me at the bank in an hour," the old man retorted. "Anything you have to say you can say there. As it is, I am going to close my account with your father, and after that the less I hear your name the better I shall be pleased. At present you're wasting my time. I don't know why you stopped me. Good morning." And in a lower tone, but one that was perfectly audible to Clement, "D-d young counterskipper," he muttered, as he started the horses. "Business with me, indeed! Confound his impudence!"

He drove off at speed, leaving Clement seated on his horse in the middle of the road, a prey to feelings that may be imagined. He had made a bad beginning, and his humiliation was complete.

"Young counterskipper!" That rankled-yet in time he might smile at that. But the tone, and the manner, the conviction that under no circumstances could there be anything between them, any relations, any equality-this bit deeper and wounded more permanently. The Squire's view, that he addressed one of another class and another grade, one with whom he could have no more in common than with the servant behind him, could not have been made more plain if he had known the object of the lad's application.

If he had known it! Good heavens, if he said so much now, what would he have said in that case? Certainly, the task which love had set this young man was not an easy one. No wonder Josina had been frightened.

He had-he had certainly made a mess of it. His ears burned, as he sat on his horse and recalled the other's words.

Meanwhile the Squire drove on, and with the air and movement he recovered his temper. As he drew near to the town the market-traffic increased, and sitting high on his seat he swept by many a humble gig and plodding farm-cart, and acknowledged with a flicker of his whip-hand many a bared head and hasty obeisance. He was not loved; men who are bent on getting a pennyworth for their penny are not loved. But he was regardful of his own people, and in all companies he was fearless and could hold his own. Men did not love him, but they trusted him, knowing exactly what they might expect from him. And he was Griffin of Garth, one of the few in whose hands were all county power and all county influence. As he drove down the hill toward the West Bridge, seeing with the eye of memory the airy towers and lofty gateways of the older bridge that had once stood there and for centuries had bridled the wild Welsh, his bodily eyes noted the team of the out-going coach which he had a share in horsing. And the coachman, proudly and with respect, named him to the box-seat.

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