‘Oh, Arthur!’ Mrs Oxley burst out. ‘You can’t mean that it’s gone.’
‘I’m afraid I do,’ her husband answered. ‘It’s awful to think about, but there were only some five hundred pounds in the bank. The rest was in Mr Averill’s safe in notes and gold. The nineteen hundred odd pounds in gold are there all right, but the whole of the paper money has been destroyed.’
‘Oh, how perfectly dreadful! But surely it can be replaced? Surely something can be done by the bank?’
Mr Oxley shook his head.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. I talked it over with Tarkington. The money is a total loss.’
Mrs Oxley took Ruth into her arms.
‘You poor child,’ she commiserated. ‘I just can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
But Ruth took the news coolly.
‘Dear Mrs Oxley,’ she answered. ‘How kind you are! But indeed I look upon this as a comparatively little thing. I shall have far, far more than I ever expected. I want to get some work, and I shall have plenty to support me while I am training and perhaps even a little after that. I am more than content.’
Mrs Oxley kissed her and commended her spirit, though she felt the girl’s attitude was due more to her unworldliness and ignorance of life than to courage under disappointment. She wished to change the subject, but Ruth asked to have her position made clear to her and begged the others’ advice as to her future. The Oxleys, delighted by her common sense, willingly agreed to discuss the situation, and after a long talk a proposal of Mr Oxley’s was provisionally agreed to.
It appeared that, assuming the old man’s money had really been lost, Ruth’s capital would amount to about £2400. Of this Mr Oxley was to invest all but £100, so as to bring Ruth about £130 per annum. The remaining £100 was to be spent in taking a secretarial course at one of the London training colleges. With the backing of the £130 a year and what she could earn for herself she ought, Mr Oxley believed, to be quite comfortably off. ‘But you must,’ Mr Oxley went on, ‘stay here for as long as you like, until you have rested and got over the shock of this terrible affair.’
Mrs Oxley warmly seconded this invitation, and Ruth thankfully accepted it. It was true that she was anxious to start work as soon as possible, and life in London and the undergoing of the course of training appeared to her as a glorious and thrilling adventure. But even more anxious still was she to meet Pierce Whymper and find out if there really was a change in his feelings towards her. At the time she had imagined that there was, but now she thought that perhaps she had been mistaken and that after the inquest he had simply been suffering from a headache or some other trifling indisposition. That he loved her she had not the slightest doubt, and she could not bring herself to go away until she was sure that no stupid, unnecessary misunderstanding should have been allowed to come between them.
Two days later she met him in the main street of the little town. She stopped to chat and he turned about and walked with her, and presently they had tea at the local confectioner’s. But the interview left her more puzzled than ever. Her belief that Whymper loved her was confirmed beyond any doubt by his manner, by the way he looked at her, by the tones of his voice. But it was evident to her that something was weighing on his mind which prevented him making the proposal which, if the truth must be admitted, she had been expecting. He gave her the impression that he would speak if he could, but that he was being held back by matters outside his own control. And the same state of mind was evident at their subsequent encounters, until Ruth’s pride asserted itself and she grew colder and more distant and their intimacy bade fair to come gradually to an end.
She would have made a move for the metropolis to begin her course of training had not Mrs Oxley, from what was probably a quite mistaken sense of kindliness, suggested that a rest would be good for her after the shocks she had experienced. On the excuse of desiring the girl’s assistance in the remodelling of her garden, which, owing to the difficulty of obtaining labour, she was doing with her own hands, the good lady invited her to stay on for a few weeks. Ruth did not like to refuse, and she settled down with the intention of remaining at Thirsby for at least another month.
During the month the little town also settled down again after its excitements and alarms, and events once more began to pursue the even tenor of their ways. The Starvel Hollow Tragedy ceased to be a nine days’ wonder and was gradually banished from the minds of the townspeople, until an event happened which was to bring up the whole matter again, and that in a peculiarly sensational and tragic manner.
One morning in mid-October, some five weeks after the fire, Mr Tarkington called to see his friend Oxley. The bank manager’s thin face wore a serious and mystified expression, which at once informed Mr Oxley that something out of the ordinary had occurred to disturb the other’s usual placid calm.
‘Good morning, Oxley,’ said Mr Tarkington in his thin, measured tones. ‘Are you busy? I should like a word with you.’
‘Come along in, Tarkington,’ the solicitor rejoined heartily. ‘I’m not doing anything that can’t wait. Sit you down and have a spot.’
‘Thanks, no, I’ll not drink, but I’ll take one of these cigarettes if I may.’ He drew the client’s big leather covered chair nearer to Mr Oxley and went on: ‘A really extraordinary thing has just happened, Oxley, and I thought I’d like to consult you about it before taking any action—if I do take action.’
Mr Oxley took a cigarette from the box from which the other had helped himself.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, as he struck a match.
‘It’s about that terrible Starvel affair, the fire, you know. I begin to doubt if the matter is really over, after all.’
‘Not over? What on earth do you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you, and it is really a most disturbing thought. But before you can appreciate my news I must explain to you how Averill carried on his bank business. The poor fellow was a miser, as you know, a miser of the most primitive kind. He loved money for itself—just to handle and to look at and to count. His safe was just packed full of money. But of course you know all this, and that it was through this dreadful weakness of his that that poor girl lost what should have come to her.’
‘I know,’ Mr Oxley admitted.
‘Averill’s income passed through the bank, and that’s how I come to be aware of the figures. He had between sixteen and seventeen hundred a year and it came from three sources. First he had a pension; he had held a good job with some company in London. That amounted to about three hundred pounds. Next he had an annuity which brought him in £150. But the major portion came from land—land on the outskirts of Leeds which had been built over and which had become a very valuable property. In this he had only a life interest—not that that affects my story, though it explains why that poor girl didn’t get it.’
‘I know about that property,’ Mr Oxley interjected. ‘I’ve had a deal to do with it one way and another. The old man got it through his wife and it went back to her family at his death.’
‘I imagined it must be something of the kind. Well, to continue. Averill’s income, as I said, was passed through the bank. He received it all in cheques or drafts and these he would endorse and send to me for payment. He had a current account, and my instructions were that when any cheque came I was to pay in to this account