Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXI

  July had passed into August. Who was it who whispered the first wordof doubt? Of misgiving? Where was felt the first shiver of distrust?What lips first let drop the fatal syllables, a fall? Who in thesecrecy of some bank-parlor or some discounter's office, sitting atthe centre of the spider's web of credit, felt a single filament,stretched it may be across half a world, shiver, and relax? And,refusing to draw the unwelcome inference, sceptical of danger, feltperhaps a second shock, ever so slight and ever so distant; and then,reading the message aright, began to narrow his commitments, to drawin his resources, to call in his money, to turn into gold his paperwealth? And so from that dark office or parlor in Fenchurch Street orChange Alley, set in motion, obscurely, imperceptibly at first, themighty impetus that was to reach to such tremendous ends?

  Who? Probably no one knew then, and certainly no one can say now. Butit is certain that in the late summer of that year, while the Squiresat blinded in his drab-hued room at Garth, and Ovington's hummed withbusiness, and Arthur rode gaily to and fro between the two, the thinghappened. Some one, some bank, perhaps some great speculator withirons in many fires and many lands, took fright and acted on hisfears--but silently, stealthily, as is the manner of such. Or it mayhave been a manufacturer on a great scale who looked abroad andfancied that he saw, though still a long way off, that bugbear ofmanufacturers, a glut.

  At any rate there came a check, unmarked by the vast majority, but ofwhich a whisper began to pass round the inner recesses of LombardStreet--a fall, such as there had been a few months earlier, but whichthen had been speedily made good. Aldersbury lay far beyond thewarning, or if a hint of it reached Ovington, it did not go beyondhim. He did not pass it on, even to Arthur, much less did it reachothers. Sir Charles, secluded within his park walls, was not in theway of hearing such things, and Acherley and his like were busy withpreparations for autumn sport, getting out their guns and seeing thattheir pink coats were aired and their mahogany tops were brought tothe right color. Wolley had his own troubles, and dealt with themafter his own reckless fashion, which was to retire one bill byanother; he found it all he could do to provide for to-day, withoutthinking what to-morrow might bring forth, should his woollen goodsbecome unsaleable, or his bills fail to find discounters. And themultitude, Grounds and Purslow and their followers, were happy, securein their ignorance, foreseeing no evil.

  This was the state of things at Aldersbury, as summer passed intoautumn. Men still added up their investments, and reckoned the amountof their fortunes and chuckled over what they had made, and added tothe sum what they were sure of making, when the shares of this mine orthat canal company rose another five or ten points. Their wealth onpaper was still, to them, solid, abiding wealth, to be garnered andlaid by and enjoyed when it pleased them. And trade seemed still toflourish, though not quite so briskly. There was still a demand forgoods though not quite so urgent a demand--and the price stuck alittle. The railway shares still stood at the high premium to whichthey had risen, though for the moment they did not seem to be inclinedto go higher.

  But about the end of September--perhaps some one in London orBirmingham or Liverpool had twitched the filament which connected itwith Aldersbury--Ovington called Arthur back as he was leaving theparlor at the close of the day's business. "Wait a moment," he said,"I want you. I have been thinking things over, lad, and I am not quitecomfortable about them."

  "Is it Wolley?" Wolley's case had been before them that morning andsharp things had been said about his trading methods.

  "No, it's not Wolley." Having got so far Ovington paused, and Arthurnoticed that his face was grave. "No, though Wolley is a part of it. Iam always uneasy about him. But----"

  "What is it, sir?"

  "It is the general situation, lad. I don't like it. I've an impressionthat things have gone farther than they should. There is an amount ofinflation that, if things go smoothly, will be gradually reduced andno harm done. But we have a large sum of money out"--he touched thepile of papers before him--"and I should like to see it lessened. Ihardly know why, but I do not feel that the position is healthy."

  "But our money is well covered."

  "As things are."

  "And we are as solvent, sir, as----"

  "As need be, with the ordinary time to meet the calls that may be madeupon us. But in the event of a sudden fall, of one big failure leadingto another--in the event of a sudden rush to present our notes?"

  "Even then, sir, we are well secured. We should have no difficulty infinding accommodation."

  "In ordinary circumstances, no--and if we alone needed it. We could goto A. or B. or C, and there would be no difficulty. We have themoney's worth and a good margin. But if A. and B. and C. were alsoshort, what then, lad?"

  Arthur felt something approaching contempt. The banker was inventingbogies, imagining dangers, dreaming of difficulties where noneexisted. He saw him in a new light, and discovered him to be timorous."But that state of things is not likely to occur," he objected.

  "Perhaps not, but if it did?"

  "Have you had any hint?"

  "No. But I see that iron is down--since Saturday. And the Manchestermarket was flat yesterday."

  "Things that have happened before," Arthur said. "I think, sir, it isreally Wolley's affair that is troubling you."

  "If it ended with Wolley it would be a small matter. No, I am notthinking of that." He looked before him and drummed upon the tablewith his fingers. "But the positions calls for--caution. We must go nofarther. We must be careful how we grant accommodation no matter whoapplies for it. We must raise our reserve. See, if you please, that wedo not discount a single bill without recourse to me--though, ofcourse, you will let nothing be noticed on the other side of thecounter."

  "Very good," Arthur said. But he thought that the other's caution wasrunning away with him. The sky seemed clear to him--he could discernno sign of a storm, and he did not reflect that, as he had never beenpresent at a storm, the signs might escape him. "Very good," he said,"I'll tell Rodd. I am sure it will please him," and with that tinysting, he went out.

  The conversation had been held behind closed doors, yet it had itseffect. A chill seemed to fall upon the bank. The air became lessgenial. Ovington's face grew both keen and watchful. Arthur, perplexedand puzzled, was more brusque, his speech shorter. Rodd's facereflected his superiors' gravity. Only Clement, going about his branchof the work with his usual stolid indifference, perceived no change inthe temperature, and, depressed before, was only a degree nearer tothe mean level.

  Poor Clement! There are situations in which it is hard to play thehero, and he found himself in one of them. He had vowed that thereshould be no more meetings and no more love-making until he had facedand conquered his dragon. But meanwhile the dragon lay sick and blindat the bottom of its den, guarded by its very weakness from attack,while every hour and every day that saw nothing done seemed to removeClement farther from his mistress, seemed to set a greater distancebetween them, seemed to blacken his face in her eyes.

  Yet what could he do? How could he wrest himself from the inaction--itmust seem to her the ignoble inaction--which pressed upon him? Shewatched--he pictured her watching from her tower, or more preciselyfrom the terraced garden at Garth, for the deliverance which did notcome, for the knight whose trumpet never sounded! She watched, whilehe, weak and shiftless, hung back in uncertainty, the inefficient hehad ever been!

  Ay, that he had ever been! It was that which hurt him. It was thesense of that which wasted his spirits as sorely as the impatience,the fever, of thwarted love. The spell of vigor which had for a fewdays lifted him out of himself, and given him the force to meet and toimpress his fellows, had not only failed to win any real advantage,but failing, it had left him less self-reliant than before. For he sawnow where he had failed. He saw that with the winning-card in his handhe had allowed himself to be defeated by Arthur, and to be jockeyedout of all the fruits of his labor, simply because he had lacke
d themoral courage, the hardness of fibre, the stiffness to stand by hisown!

  And he feared that it would ever be so. Arthur had got the better ofhim, and the knowledge depressed him to the ground. He was not a man.He was a weakling, a dreamer, good for neither one thing nor another!As useless outside the bank as at his desk, below and not above thedaily tasks that he secretly despised.

  Yet what could he do? What was it in his power to do? He asked himselfthat question a hundred times. He could not force himself on theSquire, ill and confined to his bed as he was--and be sure, Arthur didnot make the best of his uncle's condition. He could only wait, thoughto wait was intolerable. He could only wait, while poor Josina firstdoubted, then despaired! Wait while first hope, and then faith, and inthe end love died in her breast! Wait, till she thought herselfabandoned!

  Of course in his impatience and his humility Clement exaggerated boththe delay and its results. The days seemed weeks to him, the weeksmonths. He fancied it a year since he had seen Josina. He did notconsider that she was no stranger to his difficulties, nor reflectthat though his silence might try her, and his absence cause herunhappiness, she might still approve both the one and the other. As afact, the lesson which he had taught her at their last meeting hadbeen driven home by the remorse that had tortured her on that dreadfulnight; and lonely hours in the sick room, much watching, and many athought of what might have been, had strengthened the impression.

  But Clement did not know this. He pictured the girl as losing allfaith in him, and as the weeks ran on, the time came when he couldbear the delay no longer, when he felt that he must either dosomething, or write himself down a coward. So one day, after hearingin the town that the Squire was able to leave his room, he wrote toJosina. He told her that he should call on the morrow and see herfather.

  And on the morrow he rode over, blind for once to the changes ofnature, of landscape and cloudscape that surrounded him. But he neverreached the house, for at the little bridge at the foot of the driveJosina met him, and eager as he had been to see his sweetheart and tohear her voice, he was checked by the change in her. It was a changewhich went deeper than mere physical alteration, though that, too, wasthere. The girl was paler, finer, more spiritual. Trouble and anxietyhad laid their mark on her. He had left her girl, he found her woman.A new look, a look of purpose, of decision, gave another cast to herfeatures.

  She was the first to speak, and her words bore out the change in her."You must come no farther, Clement," she said. And then as their handsmet and their eyes, the color flamed in her cheeks, her head droopedflowerlike, she was for an instant the old Josina, the girl he hadwooed by the brook, who had many a time fallen on his breast. But fora moment only. Then, "You cannot see him yet," she announced. "Notyet, for a long time, Clem. I met you here that I might stop you, andthat there might be no misunderstanding--and no more secrets."

  And this she had certainly secured, for the place which she had chosenfor their meeting was overlooked, though at a distance, by the doorwayof the house, and by all the walks about it.

  But he was not to be so put off. "I must see him," he said, and hetold himself that he must not be moved by her pleadings. It wasnatural that she should fear, but he must not fear--and indeed he hadpassed beyond fear. "No, dear," as she began to protest, "you must letme judge of this." He held her hands firmly as he looked down at her."I have suffered enough, I have suffered as much as I can bear. I havehad no sight of you and no word of you for months, and I cannot endurethis longer. Every hour of every day I have felt myself a coward, adeserter, a do-nothing! I have had to bear this, and I have borne it.But now--now that your father is downstairs----"

  "You can still do nothing," she said. "Believe, believe me,"earnestly, "you can do nothing. Dear Clement," and the tendernesswhich she strove to suppress betrayed itself in her tone, "you must beguided by me, you must indeed. I am with my father, and I know, I knowthat he cannot bear it now. I know that it would be cruel to tell himnow. He is blind. Blind, Clement! And he trusts me, he has to trustme. To tell him now would be to destroy his faith in me, to shock himand to frighten him--irreparably. You must go back now--now at once."

  "What?" he cried. "And do nothing? And lose you?" The pathos of herappeal had passed him by, and only his love and his jealousy spoke.

  "No," she answered soberly, "you will not lose me, if you havepatience."

  "But have you patience?"

  "I must have."

  "And I am to do nothing?" He spoke with energy, almost with anger."To go on doing nothing? I am to stand by and--and play the cowardstill--go on playing it?"

  Her face quivered, for he hurt her. He was selfish, he was cruel; yetshe understood, and loved him for his cruelty. But she answered himfirmly. "Nothing until I send for you," she said. "You do not think,Clem. He is blind! He is dependent on me for everything. If I tell himin his weakness that I have deceived him, he will lose faith in me, hewill distrust me, he will distrust everyone. He will be alone in hisdarkness."

  It began to come home to him. "Blind?" he repeated.

  "Yes."

  "But for good? Do you mean--quite blind?"

  "Ah, I don't know!" she cried, unable to control her voice. "I don'tknow. Dr. Farmer does not know, the physician who came from Birminghamto see him does not know. They say that they have hopes--and I don'tknow! But I fear."

  He was silent then, touched with pity, feeling at length the pathos ofit, feeling it almost as she felt it. But after a pause, during whichshe stood watching his face, "And if he does not recover his sight?"

  "God forbid!"

  "I say God forbid too, with all my heart. Still, if he does not--whatthen? When may I----"

  "When the time comes," she answered, "and of that I must be the judge.Yes, Clement," with resolution. "I must be the judge, for I alone knowhow he is, and I alone can choose the occasion."

  The delay was very bitter to him. He had ridden out determined to put.his fate to the test, to let nothing stand between him and his love,to over-ride excuses; and he could not in a moment make up his mind tobe thwarted.

  "And I must wait? I must go on waiting? Eating my heart out--doingnothing?"

  "There is no other way. Indeed, indeed there is not."

  "But it is too much. It is too much, Jos, that you ask!"

  "Then, Clement----"

  "Well?"

  "You must give me up." She spoke firmly but her lips quivered, andthere were tears in her eyes.

  He was silent. At last, "Do you wish me to do that?" he said.

  She looked at him for answer, and his doubts, if he had doubted her,his distrust, if it had been possible for him to distrust her,vanished. His heart melted. They were a very simple pair of lovers,moved by simple impulses.

  "Forgive me, oh, forgive me, dear!" he cried. "But mine is a hardtask, a hard task. You do not know what it is to wait, to wait and todo nothing!"

  "Do I not?" Her eyes were swimming. "Is it not that which I am doingevery day, Clem? But I have faith in you, and I believe in you. Ibelieve that all will come right in the end. If you trust me, as Itrust you, and have to trust you----"

  "I will, I will," he cried, repentant, remorseful, recognizing in hera new decision, a new sweetheart, and doing homage to the strengththat trial and suffering had given her. "I will trust you, trustyou--and wait!"

  Her eyes thanked him, and her hands; and after this there was littlemore to be said. She was anxious that he should go, and they parted.He rode back to Aldersbury, thinking less of himself and more of her,and something too of the old man, who, blind and shorn of hisstrength, had now to lean on women, and suspicious by habit must nowtrust others, whether he would or no. Clement had imagination, and byits light he saw the pathos of the Squire's position; of hishelplessness in the midst of the great possessions he had gathered,and the acres that he had added, acre to acre. He who had loved tolook on hill and covert and know them his own, to whom every copse andhedgerow was a friend, who had watched his marches so jealously andknown the rotati
on of every field, must now fume and fret, thinkingthem neglected, suspecting waste, doubting everyone, lacking but alittle of doubting even his daughter.

  "Poor chap!" he muttered, "poor old chap!" He was sorry for theSquire, but he was even more sorry for himself. Any other, he felt,would have surmounted the obstacles that stopped him, or by oneroad or another would have gone round them. But he was no good,he was useless. Even his sweetheart--this in a little spirit ofbitterness--took the upper hand and guided him and imposed her will onhim. He was nothing.

  In the bank he grew more taciturn, doing his business with less spiritthan before, suspecting Arthur and avoiding speech with him, meetinghis careless smile with a stolid face. His father, Rodd too, deemedhim jealous of the new partner, and his father, growing in these daysa little sharp in temper, spoke to him about it.

  "You took no interest in the business," he said, "and I had to findsome one who would take an interest and be of use to me. Now you aremaking difficulties and causing unpleasantness. You are behaving ill,Clement."

  But Clement only shrugged his shoulders. He had become indifferent. Hehad his own burden to bear.