Читать книгу: «Ovington's Bank», страница 29

The other, a kindly man, was seriously concerned. "Oh. come, Squire," he said; and he took the old man affectionately by the arm again. "It's no such matter as all that. You make too much of it. He's young, and the younger generation look at these things differently. After all, there's more to be said for him than for me."

The Squire groaned.

"And, anyway, my old friend," Woosenham continued gently, "advise me. Time presses." He looked at his watch. "What shall I do? What had I better do? I know I am safe in your hands."

The Squire sighed, but the other's confidence was soothing, and with the sigh he put off his own trouble. He reflected, his face turned to the ground at his feet. "Do you think him honest?" he asked, after a pause.

"Who? Ovington?"

"Ay," gloomily. "Ovington? The banker there."

"Well, I do think he is. Yes, I do think so. I've no reason to think otherwise."

"He's a director, ain't he?"

"Of the Railroad? Yes."

"Responsible as you are?"

"Yes, I suppose he is!"

"A kind of trustee, then, ain't he-for the shareholders."

Sir Charles had not seen it in that light before. He looked at his adviser with growing respect. "Well, I take it he is-now you mention it, Griffin," he said.

"Then" – this, it was plain, was the verdict, and the other listened with all his ears-"if he is honest, he'll not have mixed the money with his own. He'll not have put it to an ordinary account, but to a Trust account-so that it will remain the property of the Company, and not be liable to calls on him. That's what he should have done, anyway. Whether he has done it or not is another matter. He's pressed, hard pressed, I hear, and I don't know that we can expect the last spit of honesty from such as him. It's not what I've been brought up to expect. But," with a return of his former bitterness, "we may be changing places with 'em even in that! God knows! And I do know something that gives me to believe that he may behave as he should."

"You do?" Sir Charles exclaimed, his spirits rising. "You do think so?"

"Well, I do," reluctantly. "I'll speak as I know. But if I were you I should go to him now and tell him, as one man to another, that that's what you expect; and if he hangs back, tell him plain that if that money's not put aside he'll have to answer to the law for it. Whether that will frighten him or not," the Squire concluded, "I'm not lawyer enough to say. But you'll learn his mind."

"I'll go in at once," Sir Charles replied, thankfully.

"I'm going in myself. If you'll take me in-you've four horses-it will save time, and my people shall fetch me out in an hour or so."

Sir Charles assented with gratitude, thankful for his support; and Calamy was summoned. Two minutes later they got away from the door in a splutter of flying gravel and dead beech leaves. They clattered down the stony avenue, over the bridge, and into the high road.

Probably of all those-and they were many-who travelled that day with their faces set towards the bank, they were the last to start. If Tuesday had been the town's day, this was certainly the country's day. For one thing, there was a market; for another, the news of something amiss, of something that threatened the little hoard of each-the slowly-garnered deposit or the hardly-won note-had journeyed by this time far and wide. It had reached alike the remote flannel-mill lapped in the folds of the border-hills, and the secluded hamlet buried amid orchards, and traceable on the landscape only by the grey tower of its church. On foot and on horse-back, riding and tying, in gigs and ass-carts, in market vans and carriers' carts, the countryside came in-all who had anything to lose, and many who had nothing at stake, but were moved by a vague alarm. Even before daybreak the roads had begun to echo the sound of their marching. They came by the East Bridge, laboring up the steep, winding Cop; by the West Bridge and under the gabled fronts of Maerdol, along the river bank, before the house of the old sea-dog whose name was a household word, and whose portrait hung behind the mayor's chair, and so up the Foregate-from every quarter they came. Before ten the streets were teeming with country-folk, whose fears were not allayed by the news that all through the previous day the townsfolk had been drawing their money. Sullen tradesmen, victims of the general depression, eyed the march from their shop doors, and some, fearing trouble, put up half their shutters. More took a malicious amusement in telling the rustics that they were too late, and that the bank would not open.

The alarm was heightened by a chance word which had fallen from Frederick Welsh. The lawyer's last thought had been to do harm, for his interest in common with all substantial men lay the other way. But that morning, before he had dressed, or so much as shaved, his office and even his dining-room had been invaded. Scared clients had overwhelmed him with questions-some that he could answer and more that he could not. He could tell them the law as to their securities, whether they were lodged for safety, or pawned for loans, or mortgaged on general account. But he could not tell them whether Ovington was solvent, or whether the bank would open, or whether Dean's was affected; and it was for answers to these questions that they clamored. In the end, badgered out of all patience, he had delivered a curt lecture on banking.

"Look here, gentlemen," he had said, imposing silence from his hearth-rug and pressing his points with wagging forefinger, "do you know what happens when you pay a thousand pounds into a bank? No, you don't? Well, I'll tell you. They put a hundred pounds into the till, and they lend out four thousand pounds on the strength of the other nine hundred. If they lend more than that, or lend that without security, they go beyond legitimate banking. Now you know as much as I do. A banker's money is out on bills payable in two months or four, it's out on the security of shares and farms and shop-stock, it's lent on securities that cannot be realized in five minutes. But it's all there, mark me, somewhere, in something, gentlemen; and I tell you candidly that it's my opinion that if you would all go home and wait for your money till you need it, you'd all get it in full, twenty shillings in the pound."

He meant no harm, but unfortunately the men who heard the lecture paid no heed to the latter part, but went out, impressed with the former, and spread it broad-cast. On which some cried, "That's banking, is it! Shameful, I call it!" while others said, "Well, I call it robbery! The old tea-pot for me after this!" A few were for moving off at once and breaking Ovington's windows, and going on to Dean's and serving them the same. But they were restrained, things had not quite come to that; and it was an orderly if excited throng that once more waited on Bride Hill and in the Market Place for the opening of the doors.

Not all who gathered there had anything to lose. Many were mere onlookers. But here and there were to be seen compressed lips, pale faces, anxious eyes. Here and there women gripped books in feverish fingers or squeezed handkerchiefs into tight balls; and now and again a man broke into bad words and muttered what he would do if they robbed him. There were country shopkeepers who had lodged the money to meet the traveller's account, and trembled for its safety. There were girls who saw their hard-earned portions at stake, and parsons whose hearts ached as they thought of the invalid wife or the boy's school-bill; and there were at least a score who knew that if the blow fell the bailiff, never far from the threshold, would be in the house. Before the eyes of not a few rose the spectres of the poorhouse and a pauper funeral.

Standing in groups or dotted amid the crowd were bigger men-wool-brokers and cattle-dealers-men loud in bar-parlors and great among their fellows, whose rubicund faces showed flabby and mottled, and whose fleshy lips moved in endless calculations. How was this bill to be met, and who would renew that one? Too often the end of their calculations spelled ruin-if the bank failed. Ruin-and many were they who depended on these big men: wage-earners, clerks, creditors, poor relations! One man walking up and down under the arcade of the Market House was the centre for many eyes. He was an auctioneer from a neighboring town, a man of wide dealings, who, it was whispered, had lodged with Ovington's the proceeds of his last great sale-a sum running into thousands and due every penny to the vendor.

His case and other hard cases were whispered by one to another, and, bruited about, they roused the passions even of those who were not involved. Yet when the bank at length opened on the stroke of ten an odd thing happened. A sigh, swelling to a murmur, rose from the dense crowd, but no one moved. The expected came as the unexpected, there was a moment of suspense, of waiting. No one advanced. Then some one raised a shout and there was a rush for the entrance; men struggled and women were thrust aside, smaller men were borne in on the arms of their fellows. A wail rose from the unsuccessful, but no man heeded it, or waited for his neighbor, or looked aside to see who it was who strove and thrust and struggled at his elbow. They pushed in tumultuously, their country boots drumming on the boards. Their entrance was like the inrush of an invading army.

The clerks, the cashier, Ovington himself, stood at the counter waiting motionless to receive them, confronting them with what courage they might. But the strain of the preceding day had told. The clerks could not conceal their misgivings, and even Rodd failed to bear himself with the chilling air which had yesterday abashed the modest. He shot vindictive glances across the counter, his will was still good to wither, but the crowd was to-day made up of rougher material, was more brusque and less subservient. They cared nothing for him, and he looked, in spite of his efforts, weary and dispirited. There was no longer any pretence that things were normal or that the bank was not face to face with a crisis. The gloves were off. They were no longer banker and customers. They were enemies.

It was Ovington himself who this morning stood forward, and in a few cold words informed his friends that they would all be paid, requesting them at the same time to be good enough to keep order and await their turns, otherwise it would be impossible to proceed with the business. He added a single sentence, in which he expressed his regret that those who had known him so long should doubt, as he could only suppose that they did doubt, his ability to meet his engagements.

It was well done, with calmness and dignity, but as he ceased to speak-his appearance had for the moment imposed silence-a disturbance broke out near the door. A man thrust himself in. Ovington, already in the act of turning, recognized the newcomer, and a keen observer might have noted that his face, grave before, turned a shade paler. But he met the blow. "Is that Mr. Yapp?" he asked.

It was the auctioneer from Iron Ferry. "Ay, Mr. Ovington, it is," he said, the perspiration on his face, "and you know my position."

Ovington nodded. Yapp was one of five depositors-big men-whose claims had been, for the last twenty-four hours, a nightmare to him. But he let nothing be seen, and "Kindly let Mr. Yapp pass," he said; "I will deal with him myself." Then, as one or two murmured and protested, "Gentlemen," he said sternly, "you must let me conduct my business in my own way, or I close my doors. Let Mr. Yapp pass, if you please."

They let him through then, some grumbling, others patting him on the back-"Good luck to you, Jimmy!" cried one well-wisher. The counter was raised, and resettling his clothes about him, the auctioneer followed Mr. Ovington into the parlor. The banker closed the door upon them.

"How much is it, Mr. Yapp?" he asked.

The man's hand shook as he drew out the receipt. "Two thousand, seven hundred and forty," he said. "I hope to God it's all right, sir?" His voice shook. "It's not my money, and to lose it would three parts ruin me."

"You need not fear," the banker assured him. "The money is here." But for a moment he did not continue. He stood, his eyes on the man's face, lost in thought. Then, "The money is here, and you can have it, Yapp," he said. "But I am going to be plain with you. You will do me the greatest possible favor if you will leave it for a few days. The bank is solvent-I give you my honor it is. No one will lose a penny by it in the end. But if this and other large sums are drawn to-day I may have to close for a time, and the injury to me will be very great. If you wish to make a friend who may be able to return the favor ten-fold-"

But Yapp shook his head. "I daren't do it!" he declared, the sweat springing out anew on his face. "It isn't my money and I can't leave it! I daren't do it, sir!"

Ovington saw that it was of no use to plead farther, and he changed his tone. "Very good," he said, and he forced himself to speak equably. "I quite understand. You shall have the money." Sitting down at the table he wrote the amount on a slip, and struck the bell that stood beside his desk. The younger clerk came in. He handed him the slip.

Yapp did not waver, but he remembered that good turns had been done to him in that room, and he was troubled. "If it was my money," he said awkwardly, "or if there was anything else I could do, Mr. Ovington?"

"You can," Ovington replied. He had got himself in hand, and he spoke cheerfully.

"Well-"

"You can hold your tongue, Yapp," smiling.

"It's done, sir. I won't have a tongue except to say that the money's paid. You may depend upon me."

"Thank you. I shall not forget it." The clerk brought in the money, and stayed until the sum was counted and checked and the receipt given. Then, "That's right, Mr. Yapp," the banker said, and sat back in his chair. "Show Mr. Yapp out, Williams."

Yapp followed the clerk. His appearance in the bank was greeted by half a dozen voices. "Ha' you got it?" they cried.

He was a man of his word, and he slapped his pocket briskly. "Every penny!" he said, and something like a cheer went up. "I'd not have worried, but it wasn't my money."

Ovington's appeal to him had been a forlorn hope, and much, now it had failed, did the banker regret it. But he had calculated that that twenty-seven hundred pounds might just make the difference, and he had been tempted. Left to himself he sat, turning it over, and wondering if the auctioneer would be silent; and his face, now that the mask was off, was haggard and careworn. He had slept little the night before, and things were working out as he had feared that they would.

Presently he heard a disturbance in the bank. Something had occurred to break the orderly course of paying out. He rose and went out, a frown on his face. He was prepared for trouble, but he found to his relief that the interruption was caused by nothing worse than his son's return.

Having given his word to Arthur to carry the money through the bank, Clement had sunk whatever scruples he felt, and had made up his mind to do it handsomely. He had driven up to the door with a flourish, had taken the gold from the chaise under the public eye, and now, with all the parade he could, he was bringing it into the bank. His brisk entrance and cheery presence, and the careless words he flung on this side and that as he pushed through the crowd, seemed in a trice to clear the air and lift the depression. Not even Arthur could have carried the thing through more easily or more flamboyantly. And that was saying much.

"Make way! Make way, if you please, gentlemen!" he cried, his face ruddy with the sharp, wintry air. "Let me in, please! Now, if you want to be paid, you must let the money come through! Plenty of money! Plenty for all of you, gentlemen, and more where this comes from! But you must let me get by! Hallo, Rawlins, is that you? You're good at dead weights. Here, lift it! What do you make of it?" And he thrust the bag he carried into a stout farmer's hands.

"Well, it be pretty near fifty pund, I'd say," Rawlins replied. "Though, by gum, it don't look within a third of it, Mr. Clement."

Clement laughed. "Well done!" he said. "You're just about right. And you can say after this, Rawlins, that you've lifted fifty pound weight of gold! Now, make way, gentlemen, make way, if you please. There's more to come in! Plenty more."

He bustled through with the bag, greeted his father gaily, and placed his burden on the floor beside him. Then he went back for the other bag. He made a second countryman weigh this, grinned at his face of astonishment, then taking up the two bags he went through with his father to the parlor.

His arrival did good. The clerks perked up, smiled at one another, went to and fro more briskly. Rodd braced himself and, though he knew the truth, began to put on airs, bandied words with a client, and called contemptuously for order. And the customers looked sheepish. Gold! Gold coming in like that in bags as if 'twere common stuff. It made them think twice. A few, balancing in their minds a small possible loss against the banker's certain favor, hesitated and hung back. Two or three even went out without cashing their notes and shrugged their shoulders in the street, declaring that the whole thing was nonsense. They had been bamboozled. They had been hoaxed. The bank was sound enough.

But behind the parlor door things wore a different aspect.

CHAPTER XL

The banker looked at the money lying at his feet. Clement looked at his father. He noted the elder man's despondent attitude, he read the lines which anxiety had deepened on his brow, and his assumed gaiety fell from him. He longed to say something that might comfort the other, but mauvaise honte and the reserve of years were too much for him, and instead he rapidly and succinctly told his tale, running over what had happened in London and on the road. He accounted for what he had brought, and explained why he had brought it and at whose request. Then, as the banker, lost in troubled thought, his eyes on the money, did not speak, "It goes badly then, sir, does it?" he said. "I see that the place is full."

Ovington's eyes were still on the bags, and though he forced himself to speak, his tone was dull and mechanical. "Yes," he said. "We paid out fifteen thousand and odd yesterday. About six thousand in odd sums to-day. I have just settled with Yapp-two thousand seven hundred. Mills and Blakeway have drawn at the counter-three thousand and fifty between them. A packet of notes from Birmingham, eleven hundred. Jenkins sent his cheque for twelve hundred by his son, but he omitted to fill in the date."

"And you didn't pay it?"

"No, I didn't pay it. Why should I? But he will be in himself by the two o'clock coach. The only other account-large account outstanding-is Owen's for eighteen hundred. Probably he will come in by the same coach. In the meantime-" he took a slip of paper from the table-"we have notes for rather more than two thousand still out; half of these may not, for one reason or another, be presented. And payable on demand we still owe something like two or three thousand."

"You may be called upon for another six thousand, then, sir?"

"Six at best, seven thousand or a little more at worst. And we had in the till to meet it, a quarter of an hour ago, about three thousand. We should not have had as much if Rodd had not paid in four hundred and fifty."

"Rodd?" Clement eyes sparkled. "God bless him! He's a Trojan, and I shan't forget it! Bravo, Rodd!"

The banker nodded, but in a perfunctory way. "That's the position," he said. "If Owen and Jenkins hold off-but there's no hope of that-we may go on till four o'clock. But if either comes in we must close. Close," bitterly, "for the lack of three thousand or four thousand pounds!"

Clement sighed. Young as he was he was beginning to feel the effect of his exertions, of his double journey, and his two sleepless nights. At last, "No one will lose, sir?" he said.

"No, no one, ultimately and directly, by us. And if we were an old bank, if we were Dean's even-" there was venom in the tone in which he uttered his rival's name " – we might resume in a week or a fortnight. We might reopen and go on. But," shrugging his shoulders, "we are not Dean's, and no one would trust us after this. It would be useless to resume. And, of course, the sacrifices that we have made have been very costly. We have had to rediscount bills at fifteen per cent., and sell a long line of securities at a loss, and what is left on our hands may be worth money some day, but it is worthless at present."

"Wolley's Mill?"

"Ay, and other things. Other things."

Clement looked at the floor, and again the longing to say something or do something that might comfort his father pressed upon him. To himself the catastrophe, save so far as it separated him from Josina, was a small thing. He had had no experience of poverty, he was young, and to begin the world at the bottom had no terrors for him. But with his father it was different, and he knew that it was different. His father had built up from nothing the edifice that now cracked and crumbled about them. He had planned it, he had seen it rise and grow, he had rejoiced in it and been proud of it. On it he had spent the force and the energy of the best twenty years of his life, and he had not now, he had no longer, the vigor or the strength to set about rebuilding.

It was a tragedy, and Clement saw that it was a tragedy. And all for the lack-pity rose strong within him-all for the lack of-four thousand pounds. To him, conversant with the bank's transactions, it seemed a small sum. It was a small sum.

"Ay, four thousand!" his father repeated. His eyes returned mechanically to the money at his feet, returned and fixed themselves upon it. "Though in a month we may be able to raise twice as much again! And here-here" – touching it with his foot-"is the money! All, and more than all that we need, Clement."

Then at last Clement perceived the direction of his father's gaze, and he took the alarm. He put aside his reserve, he laid his hand gently on the elder man's shoulder, and by the pressure of his silent caress he strove to recall him to himself, he strove to prove to him that whatever happened, whatever befell, they were one-father and son, united inseparably by fortune. But aloud, "No!" he said firmly. "Not that, sir! I have given my word. And besides-"

"He would be no loser."

"No, we should be the losers."

"But-but it was not we, it was Bourdillon, lad!"

"Ay, it was Bourdillon. And we are not Bourdillon! Not yet! Nor ever, sir!"

Ovington turned away. His hand shook, the papers that he affected to put together on his desk rustled in his grasp. He knew-knew well that his son was right. But how great was the temptation! There lay the money at his feet, and he was sure that he could not be called to account for it. There lay the money that would gain the necessary time, that would meet all claims, that would save the bank!

True, it was not his, but how great was the temptation. It was so great that what might have happened had Clement not been there, had he stood there alone and unfettered, it is impossible to say-though the man was honest. For it was easy, nothing was more easy, than to argue that the bank would be saved and no man, not even the Squire, would lose. It was so great a temptation, and the lower course appeared so plausible that four men out of five, men of average honesty and good faith, might have fallen.

Fortunately the habit of business integrity came to the rescue, and reinforced and supported the son's argument-and the battle was won. "You are right," the banker said huskily, his face still averted, his hands trembling among the papers. "But take it away! For God's sake, boy, take it away! Take it out of my sight, or I do not know what I may do!"

"You'll do the right thing, sir, never fear!" the son answered confidently. And with an effort he lifted the two heavy bags and moved towards the door. But on the threshold and as the door closed behind him, "Thank God!" he whispered to himself, "Thank God!" And to Betty, who met him in the hall and flung her arms about his neck-the girl was in tears, for the shadow of anxiety hung over the whole house, and even the panic-stricken maids were listening on the stairs or peering from the windows-"Take care of him, Betty," he said, his eyes shining. "Take care of him, girl. I shall be back by one o'clock. If I could stay with him now I would, but I cannot. I cannot! And don't fret. It will come right yet!"

"Oh, poor father!" she cried. "Is there no hope, Clement?"

"Very little. But worse things have happened. And we may be proud of him, Betty. We've good cause to be proud of him. I say it that know! Cheer up!"

She watched him go with his heavy burden and his blunt common-sense down the garden walk; and when he had disappeared behind the pear-tree espaliers she went back to listen outside the parlor door. She had been her father's pet. He had treated her with an indulgence and a familiarity rare in those days of parental strictness, and she understood him well, better than others, better even than Clement. She knew what failure would mean to him. It was not the loss of wealth which would wound him most sorely, though he would feel that; but the loss of the position which success had gained for him in the little world in which he lived, and lived somewhat aloof. He had been thought, and he had thought himself, cleverer than his neighbors. He had borne himself as one belonging to, and destined for, a wider sphere. He had met the pride of the better-born and the older-established with a greater pride; and believing in his star, he had allowed his contempt for others and his superiority to be a little too clearly seen.

For all this he would now pay, and his pride would suffer. Betty, lingering in the darker part of the hall, where the servants could not spy on her, listened and longed to go in to him and comfort him. But all the rules forbade this, she might not distract him at such a time. Yet, had she known how deep was his depression as he sat sunk in his chair, had she known how the past mocked him, and the long chain of his successes rose and derided him, how the mirage of long-cherished hopes melted and left all cold before him-had she guessed the full bitterness of his spirit, she had broken through every rule and gone in to him.

The self-made man! Proudly, disdainfully he had flung the taunt back in men's faces. Could they make, could they have made themselves, as he had? And now the self-ruined man! He sat thinking of it, and the minutes went by. Twice one of the clerks came in and silently placed a slip beside him and went softly out. He looked at the slip, but without taking in its meaning. What did it matter whether a few more or a few less pounds had been drawn out, whether the drain had waxed or waned in the last quarter of an hour? The end was certain, and it would come when the two men arrived on the Chester coach. Then he would have to bestir himself. Then he would have to resume the lead and play the man, give back hardness for hardness and scorn for scorn, and bear himself so in defeat that no man should pity him. And he knew that he could do it. He knew that when the time came his voice would be firm and his face would be granite, and that he would pronounce his own sentence and declare the bank closed with a high head. He knew that even in defeat he could so clothe himself with power that no man should browbeat him.

But in the meantime he paid his debt to weakness, and sat brooding on the past, rather than preparing for the future; and time passed, the relentless hand moved round the clock. Twice the clerk came in with his doom-bearing slips, and presently Rodd appeared. But the cashier had nothing to say that the banker did not know. Ovington took the paper and looked at the figures and at the total, but all he said was, "Let me know when Owen and Jenkins come."

"Very good, sir." Rodd lingered a moment as if he would gladly have added something, would have ventured, perhaps, some word of sympathy. But his courage failed him and he went out.

Nor when Clement, half an hour afterwards, returned from his mission to Garth did he give any sign. Clement laid his hand on his shoulder and said a cheery word, but, getting no answer, or as good as none, he went through to his desk. A moment later his voice could be heard rallying a too conscious customer, greeting another with contemptuous good humor, bringing into the close, heated atmosphere of the bank, where men breathed heavily, snapped at one another, and shuffled their feet, a gust of freer brisker air.

Another half-hour passed. A clerk brought in a slip. The banker looked at it. No more than seven hundred pounds remained in the till. "Very good," he said. "Let me know when Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins come." And as the door closed behind the lad he fell back into his old posture of depression. There was nothing to be done.

But five minutes later Clement looked in, his face concerned. "Sir Charles Woosenham is here," he said in a low voice. "He is asking for you."

The banker roused himself. The call was not unexpected nor quite unwelcome. "Show him in," he said; and he took up a pen and drew a sheet of paper towards him that he might appear to be employing himself.

Sir Charles came in, tall, stooping a little, his curly-brimmed hat in his hand; the dignified bearing with which he was wont to fence himself against the roughness of the outer world a little less noticeable than usual. He was a gentleman, and he did not like his errand.

Ovington rose. "Good morning, Sir Charles," he said, "you wanted to see me? I am unfortunately busy this morning, but I can give you ten minutes. What is it, may I ask?" He pushed a chair toward his visitor.

But Woosenham would not sit down. If the man was down he hated to-but, there, he had come to do it. "I am sure it is all right, Mr. Ovington," he said awkwardly, "but I am concerned about the-about the Railway money, in fact. The sum is large, and-and-" stammering a little-"but I think you will understand my position?"