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."

"And that's all?"

"I am afraid that that is enough."

"But--but you don't mean that there may be a--a failure?"

"I hope not. Indeed, I hope not. But people are so silly! They think that they can all have their money out at once. And of course," Josina continued, speaking from a height of late-acquired knowledge, "a bank lends its money out and cannot get it in again in a minute. But I've no doubt that it will be all right. Mr. Ovington is very clever."

Mrs. Bourdillon sighed. "That's bad," she said. And she seemed to think it over. "You know that all our money is in the bank now, Josina! I don't know what we should do if it were lost! I don't know what we should do!" But, all the same, Josina was clear that this was not the fear that her visitor had had in her mind when she entered the room. "Nor why Arthur was so set upon putting it in," the good lady continued. "For goodness knows," bridling, "we were never in trade. Mr. Bourdillon's grandfather--but that was in the West Indies and quite different. I never heard anyone say it wasn't. So where Arthur got it from I am sure I don't know. And, oh dear, your father was so angry about it, he will never forgive us if it is lost."

"I don't think that you need be afraid," Josina said, as lightly as she could. "It's not lost yet, you know. And of course we must not say a word to anyone. If people thought that we were afraid----"

"We? But I can't see"--Mrs. Bourdillon spoke with sudden sharpness, "what you have to do with it?"

Josina blushed. "Of course we are all interested," she said.

Mrs. Bourdillon saw the blush. "You haven't--you and Arthur--made it up?" she ventured.

Josina shook her head.

"But why not? Now--now that he's in trouble, Josina?"

"I couldn't! I couldn't, indeed."

The mother's face fell, and she sighed. She stared for awhile at the faded carpet. When she looked up again, the old anxiety peeped from her eyes. "And you don't think that--there's anything else?" she asked, as she prepared to rise.

"I am afraid that that is enough--to make them all anxious!"

But later, when the other was gone, Josina wondered. What had aroused the mother's misgivings? What had brought that look of alarm to her eyes? Arthur's sudden departure might have vexed her, but it could hardly have done more, unless he had dropped some hint, or she had other grounds for suspicion? But that was impossible, Josina decided. And she dismissed the thought.

She went slowly upstairs. After all she had troubles enough of her own. She had her father to think of--and Clement. They were her world, hemispheres which, though her whole happiness depended upon it, she could hardly hope to bring together, divided as they were by an ocean of prejudice. How her father now regarded Clement, whether his hatred of the name were in the slightest degree softened, whether under the blow which had stunned him, he thought of her lover at all, or remembered that it was he, and not Arthur, who had saved his life, she had no notion.

Alas! it would be but natural if the name of Ovington were more hateful to him than ever. He would attribute--she felt that he did attribute Arthur's fall to them. He had said that it was the poison of trade, their trade, their cursed trade, which had entered his veins, and, contaminating the honest Griffin blood, had destroyed him. It was they who had ruined him!

And then, as if the stain were not enough, it was from them again that it could not be hid. They knew of it, they must know of it. There must be interviews about it, dealings about it, dealings with them. They might feign horror of it, they who in the Squire's eyes were the real ............