Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXVI

  A week and a day went by after the banker's return and there was norun upon the bank. But afar off, in London and Manchester andLiverpool, and even in Birmingham, there were shocks and upheavals,failures and talk of failures, fear in high places, ruin in low. Forthere was no doubt about the crisis now. The wheels of trade, whichhad for some time been running sluggishly, stopped. It was impossibleto sell goods, for the prudent and foreseeing had already flung theirproducts upon the market, and glutted it, and later, others had comein and, forced to find money, had sold down and down, procuring cashat any sacrifice. Now it was impossible to sell at all. Men with theshelves of their warehouses loaded with goods, men whose names inordinary times were good for thousands, could not find money to meettheir trade bills, to pay their wages, to discharge their householdaccounts.

  And it was still less possible to sell shares, for shares, even soundshares, had on a sudden become waste paper. The bubble companies,created during the frenzy of the past two years, were bursting onevery side, and the public, unable to discriminate, no longer putfaith in anything. Rudely awakened, they opened their eyes to reality.They saw that they had dreamed, and been helped to dream. Theydiscovered that skates and warming pans were in no great request inthe tropics, and could not be exported thither at a profit of fivehundred per cent. They saw that churns and milkmaids, freighted tolands where the cattle ran wild on the pampas and oil was preferred tobutter, were no certain basis on which to build a fortune. Theirvisions of South American argosies melted into thin air. The silverfrom La Plata which they had pictured as entering the mouth of theThames, or at worst as within sight from the Lizard, was discovered tobe reposing in the darkness of unopened seams. The pearling ships wereyet to build, the divers to teach, and, for the diamonds of theBrazils which this man or that man had seen lying in skin packages atthe door of the Bank of England, they now twinkled in a cold anddistant heaven, as unapproachable as the Seven Stars of Orion. Thecanals existed on paper, the railways were in the air, the harborscould not be found even on the map.

  The shares of companies which had passed from hand to hand at fourfoldand tenfold their face value fell with appalling rapidity. They felland fell until they were in many cases worth no more than the paper onwhich they were printed. And the bursting of these shams, which hadnever owned the smallest chance of success, brought about the fall ofventures better founded. The good suffered with the bad. Presently noman would buy a share, no man would look at a share, no bank advanceon its security. Men saw their fortunes melt day by day as snow meltsunder an April sun. They saw themselves stripped, within a few weeksor even days, of wealth, of a competence, in too many cases of theirall.

  And the ruin was widespread. It reached many a man who had nevergambled or speculated. Business runs on the wheels of credit, andthose wheels are connected by a million unseen cogs. Let one wheelstop and it is impossible to say where the stoppage will cease, or howmany will be affected by it. So it was now. The honest tradesman andthe manufacturer, striving to leave a competence to a family nurturedin comfort, were involved in one common ruin with the spendthrift andthe speculator. The credit of all was suspect; from all alike thesources of accommodation were cut off. Each in his turn involved hisneighbor, and brought him down.

  There was a great panic. The centres of commerce and trade wereconvulsed. The kings of finance feared for themselves and closed theirpockets. The Bank of England would help no one. Men who had neversought aid before, men who had held their heads high, waited, vainpetitioners, at its doors.

  Fortunately for Ovington's, Aldersbury lay at some distance from thecentres of disturbance, and for a time, though the storm grumbled andcrackled on the horizon, the town remained calm. But it was such acalm as holds the tropic seas in a breathless grip, before thetyphoon, breaking from the black canopy overhead, whirls the doomedbark away, as a leaf is swept before our temperate blasts. Throughoutthose six days, though little happened, anything, it was felt, mighthappen. The arrival of every coach was a thing to listen for, theopening of every mail-bag a terror, the presentation of every bill apang, the payment of every note a thing at which to wince; while thesense of danger, borne like some infection on the air, spreadmysteriously from town to village, and village to hamlet, to penetrateat last wherever one man depended on another for profit or forsubsistence. And that was everywhere.

  A storm impended, and no man knew where it would break, or on whom itwould fall. Each looked in his neighbor's face and, seeing his fearreflected, wondered, and perhaps suspected. If so-and-so failed, wouldnot such-an-one be in trouble? And if such-an-one "went," what ofBlank--with whom he himself had business?

  The feeling which prevailed did not in the main go beyond uneasinessand suspicion. But, in quarters where the facts were known and theperil was clearly discerned, these days of waiting were days--nay,every day was a week--of the most poignant anxiety. In banks, wherethose behind the scenes knew that not only their own stability andtheir own fortunes were at stake, but that if they failed there wouldbe lamentation in a score of villages and loss in a hundred homes,endurance was strained to the breaking point. To show a cheerful faceto customers, to chat over the counter with an easy air, to smile on avisitor who might be bringing in the bowstring, to listen unmoved tothe murmur in the street that might presage bad news--these thingsmade demands on nerve and patience which could not be met withoutdistress. And every hour that passed, every post that came in, addedto the strain.

  Under this burden Ovington's bearing was beyond praise. The work ofhis life--and he was over-old to begin it again--was in danger, anddoubtless he thought of his daughter and his son. But he neverfaltered. He had, it is true, to support him the sense, ofresponsibility, which steels the heart of the born leader, even as itturns to water that of the pretender; he knew, and doubtless he wasstrengthened by the knowledge, that all depended on him, on hiscalmness, his judgment, his resources; that all looked to him forguidance and encouragement, watched his face, and marked his demeanor.

  But even so, he was the admiration of those in the secret. Not evenNapoleon, supping amid his marshals, and turning over to sleep besidethe watch-fire on the night before a battle, was more wonderful. Hisson swore fealty to him a dozen times a day. Rodd, who had receivedhis money in silence, and now stood to lose no more than his place,followed him with worshipping eyes and, perhaps, an easier mind. Theclerks, who perforce had gained some inkling of the position, wererelieved by his calmness, and spread abroad the confidence that theydrew from him. Even Arthur, who bore the trial less well, admired hisleader, suspected at times that he had some secret hope or someundisclosed resources, and more than once suffered himself to beplucked from depression by his example.

  The truth was that while financial ability was common to both, theirtraining had been different. The elder man had been always successful,but he had been forced to strive and struggle; he had climbed butslowly at the start, and there had been more than one epoch in hiscareer when he had stood face to face with defeat. He had won through,but he had never shut his eyes to the possibility of failure, or tothe fact that in a business, which in those days witnessed everytwenty years a disastrous upheaval, no man could count on, though withprudence he might anticipate, a lasting success. He had accepted hisprofession with its drawbacks as well as its advantages. He had notclosed his eyes to its risks. He had viewed it whole.

  Arthur, on the other hand, plunging into it with avidity at a timewhen all smiled and the sky was cloudless, had supposed that if hewere once admitted to the bank his fortune was made, and his futuresecured. He knew indeed, and if challenged he would have owned, thatbanking was a precarious enterprise; that banks had broken. He knewthat many had closed their doors in '16, still more on one black dayin '93. He was aware that in the last forty years scores of bankershad failed, that some had taken their own lives, that one at least hadsuffered the last penalty of the law. But he had taken these things tobe exceptions--things which might, ind
eed, recur, but not within hisexperience--just as in our day, though railway accidents are notuncommon, no man for that reason refrains from travelling.

  At any rate the thought of failure had not entered into Arthur's mind,and mainly for this reason he, who in fair weather had been mostconfident and whose ability had shone most brightly, now cut anindifferent figure. It was not that his talent or his judgment failed;in these he still threw Clement and Rodd into the shade. But the risk,suddenly disclosed, was too much for him. It depressed him. He grewcrabbed and soured, his temper flashing out on small provocation. Hesneered at Rodd, he snubbed the clerks. When it was necessary torefuse a request for credit--and the necessity arose a dozen times aday--his manner lacked the suavity that makes the best of a bad thing.

  In very truth they were trying times. Men who had bought sharesthrough Ovington's, and might have sold them at a profit but had not,could not understand why the bank would not now advance money on thesecurity of the shares, would not even pay calls on them, and had onlyadvice, and that unpalatable, at their service. They came to theparlor and argued, pleaded, threatened, stormed. They would closetheir accounts, they would remove them to Dean's, they would publishthe treatment that they had received! Again, there were those who hadbought railway shares, which were now at a considerable discount andlooked like falling farther; the bank had issued them--they looked tothe bank to take them off their hands. More trying still were theapplications of those who, suddenly pressed for money, came, pallidand wiping their foreheads with bandanna handkerchiefs, to pleaddesperately for a small overdraft, for twenty, forty, seventypounds--just enough to pay the weekly wage-bill, or to meet theirhousehold outgoings, or to settle with some pressing creditor. For allcreditors were now pressing. No man gave time, no man trusted another,and for those in the bank the question was, How long would they trustOvington's? For every man who left the doors of the bank after afutile visit, every man who went away with his request declined,became a potential enemy, whose complaint or chance word might breedsuspicion.

  "Still, every day is a day gained," the banker said as he dropped hismask on the Friday afternoon and sank wearily into a chair. It wasclosing time, and the clerks could be heard moving in the outer room,putting away books, counting the cash, locking the drawers. Anotherday had passed without special pressure. "Time is everything."

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "It would be, if it were money."

  "Well, I think that we are doing capitally--capitally so far," saidClement.

  "I am glad you are satisfied," Arthur retorted. "We are four hundreddown on the day! I can't think, sir"--peevishly--"why you let Purslowhave that seventy pounds."

  "Well, he is a very old customer," the banker replied patiently, "andhe's hard hit--he wanted it for wages, and I fear that he's behindhandwith them. And if we withhold all help, my boy, we shall certainlyprecipitate a run. On Monday those bills of Badger's fall due, and Ithink will be met. We shall receive eleven hundred from them. OnTuesday another bill for three hundred and fifty matures, and I thinkis good. If we can go on till Wednesday we shall be a little strongerto meet the crisis than we are to-day. And we can only live from dayto day"--wearily. "If Pole's bank goes"--he glanced doubtfully at thedoor--"I fear that Williams's will follow. And then----"

  "There will be the devil to pay!"

  "Well, we must try to pay him!"

  "Bravo, sir!" Clement cried. "That's the way to talk."

  "Yes, it is no use to dwell on the dark side," his father agreed. "Allthe same"--he was silent a while, reviewing the position and makingcalculations which he had made a hundred times before--"all the same,it would make all the difference if we had that twelve thousand poundsin reserve."

  "By Jove, yes!" Arthur exclaimed. For a moment hope animated his face."Can you think of no way of getting it, sir?"

  The banker shook his head. "I have tried every quarter," he said, "andstrained every resource. I cannot. I'm afraid we must fight our battleas we are."

  Arthur gazed at the floor. The elder man looked at him and thoughtagain of the Squire. But he would not renew his suggestion. Arthurknew better than he what was possible in that quarter, and if he sawno hope, there doubtless was no hope. At best the idea had beenfantastic, in view of the prejudice which the Squire entertainedagainst the bank.

  While they pondered, the door opened, and all three looked sharplyround, the movement betraying the state of their nerves. But it wasonly Betty who entered--a little graver and a little older than theBetty of eight or nine months before, but with the same gleam of humorin her eyes. "What a conclave!" she cried. She looked round on them.

  "Yes," Arthur answered drily. "It wants only Rodd to be complete."

  "Just so." She made a face. "How much you think of him lately!"

  "And unfortunately he's taken his little all and left us."

  The shot told. Her eyes gleamed, and she colored with anger. "What doyou mean? Dad"--brusquely--"what does he mean?"

  "Only that we thought it better," the banker explained, "to make Roddsafe by paying him the little he has with us."

  "And he took it--of course?"

  The banker smiled. "Of course he took it," he said. "He would havebeen foolish if he had not. It was only a deposit, and there was noreason why he should risk it with us--as things are."

  "Oh, I see. Things are as bad as that, are they? Any otherrats?"--with a withering look at Arthur.

  "I am afraid that there is no one else who can leave," her fatheranswered. "The gangway is down now, my dear, and we sink or swimtogether."

  "Ah! Well, I fancy there's one of the rats in the dining-room now.That is what I came to tell you. He wants to see you, dad."

  "Who is it?"

  "Mr. Acherley."

  Ovington shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it is after hours," he said,"but--I'll see him."

  That broke up the meeting. The banker went out to interview hisvisitor, who had been standing for some minutes at one of the windowsof the dining-room, looking out on the slender stream of traffic thatpassed up and down the pavement or slid round the opposite corner intothe Market Place.

  Acherley was not of those who go round about when a direct and morebrutal approach will serve. Broken fortunes had soured rather thantamed him, and though, when there had been something to be gained byit, he had known how to treat the banker with an easy familiarity, thecontempt in which he held men of that class made it more natural tohim to bully than to fawn. Before he had turned to the street foramusement he had surveyed the furniture of the room with a morose eye,had damned the upstart's impudence for setting himself up with suchthings, and consoled himself with the reflection that he would soonsee it under the hammer. "And a d--d good job, too!" he had muttered."What the blazes does he want with a kidney wine-table and aplate-chest! It will serve Bourdillon right for lowering himself tosuch people!"

  When the banker came to him he made no apology for the lateness of hisvisit, but "Hallo!" he said bluntly, "I want a little talk with you.But short's the word. Fact is, I find I've more of those railwayshares than it suits me to keep, Ovington, and I want you to take ahundred off my hands. I hear they're fetching two-ten."

  "One-ten," the banker said. "They are barely that."

  "Two-ten," Acherley repeated, as if the other had not spoken. "That'smy price. I suppose the bank will accommodate me by taking them?"

  Ovington looked steadily at him. "Do you mean the shares you pledgedwith us? If so, I am afraid that in any event we shall have to putthem on the market soon. The margin has nearly run off."

  "Oh, hang those!"--lightly. "You may as well account for them at thesame price--two and a half. I'll consider that settled. But I've ahundred more that I don't want to keep, and it's those I am talkingabout. You'll take them, I suppose--for cash, of course? I'm a littlepressed at present, and want the money."

  "I am afraid that I must say, no," Ovington said. "We are not buyingany more, even at thirty shillings. As to those we hold, if you wishus to sell them at once--and I
am inclined to think that we oughtto----"

  "Steady, steady! Not so fast!" Acherley let the mask fall, and,drawing himself to his full height--and tall and lean, in his longriding coat shaped to the figure, he looked imposing and insolentenough--he tapped his teeth with the handle of his riding whip. "Notso fast, man! Think it over!"--with an ugly smile. "I've been of useto you. It is your turn to be of use to me. I want to be rid of theseshares."

  "Naturally. But we don't wish to take them, Mr. Acherley."

  Acherley glowered at him. "You mean," he said, "that the bank can'tafford to take them? If that's your meaning----"

  "It does not suit us to take them."

  "But by G--d you've got to take them! D'you hear, sir? You've got totake them, or take the consequences! I went into this to oblige you."

  "Not at all," Ovington said. "You came into it with your eyes open,and with a view to the improvement of your property, if the enterpriseproved a success. No man came into it with eyes more open! To be frankwith you----"

  But Acherley cut him short. "Oh, d--n all that!" he cried. "I did notcome here to palaver. The long and short of it is you've got to takethe shares, or, by Gad, I go out of this room and I say what I think!And you'll take the consequences. There's talk enough in the townalready as you know. It only needs another punch, one more good punch,and you're out of the ring and in the sponging house. And yourbeautiful bank you know where. You know that as well as I do, my goodman. And if you want a friend instead of an enemy you'll oblige me,and no words about it. That's flat!"

  The room was growing dark. Ovington stood facing such light as therewas. He looked very pale. "Yes, that's quite flat," he said.

  "Very good. Then what do you say to it?"

  "What I said before--No! No, Mr. Acherley!"

  "What? Do you mean it? Why, if you are such a fool as not to know yourown interests----"

  "I do know them--very well," Ovington said, resolutely taking him up."I know what you want and I know what you offer. It is, as you say,quite flat, and I'll be equally--flat! Your support is not worth theprice. And I warn you, Mr. Acherley, and I beg you to take notice,that if you say a word against the solvency of the bank afterthis---after this threat--you will be held accountable to the law. Andmore than that, I can assure you of another thing. If, as you believe,there is going to be trouble, it is you and such as you who will bethe first to suffer. Your creditors----"

  "The devil take them! And you!" the gentleman cried, stung to fury."Why, you swollen little frog!" losing all control over himself, "youdon't think my support worth buying, don't you? You don't think it'sworth a dirty hundred or two of your scrapings! Then I tell you I'llput my foot on you--by G--d, I will! Yes! I'll tread you down into themud you sprang from! If you were a gentleman I'd shoot you on theFlash at eight o'clock to-morrow, and eat my breakfast afterwards! Youto talk to me! You, you little spawn from the gutter! I've a good mindto thrash you within an inch of your life, but there'll be those readyenough to do that for me by and by--ay, and plenty, by G--d!"

  He towered over the banker, and he looked threatening enough, butOvington did not flinch. He went to the door and threw it open."There's the door, Mr. Acherley!" he said.

  For a moment the gentleman hesitated. But the banker's firm frontprevailed, and with a gesture, half menacing, half contemptuous,Acherley stalked out. "The worse for you!" he said. "You'll be sorryfor this! By George, you will be sorry for this next week!"

  "Good evening," said the banker--he was trembling with passion. "Iwarn you to be careful what you say, or the law will deal with you."And he stood his ground until the other, shrugging his shoulders andflinging behind him a last curse, had passed through the door. Then heclosed the door and went back to the fireplace. He sat down.

  The matter was no surprise to him. He knew his man, and neither thedemand nor the threat was unexpected. But he knew, too, that Acherleywas shrewd, and that the demand and the threat were ominous signs.More forcibly than anything that had yet occurred, they brought beforehim the desperate nature of the crisis, and the likelihood that,before a week went by, the worst would happen. He would be compelledto put up the shutters. The bank would stop. And with the bank wouldgo all that he had won by a life of continuous labor: the positionthat he had built up, the status that he had gained, the reputationthat he had achieved, the fortune which he had won and which had somuch exceeded his early hopes. The things with which he had surroundedhimself, they too, tokens of his success, the outward and handsomesigns of his rise in life, many of them landmarks, milestones on thepath of triumph--they too would go. He looked sadly on them. He sawthem, he too, under the hammer: saw the mocking, heedless crowdhandling them, dividing them, jeering at his short-lived splendor,gibing at his folly in surrounding himself with them.

  Ay, and one here and there would have cause to say more bitter things.For some--not many, he hoped, but some--would be losers with him. Somehomes would be broken up, some old men beggared: and all would be laidat his door. His name would be a byword. There would be little said ofthe sufferers' imprudence or folly or rashness: he would be thescapegoat for all, he and the bank he had founded. Ovington's Bank!They would tell the story of it through years to come--would smile atits rise, deride its fall, make of it a town tale, the tale of a man'sarrogance, and of the speedy Nemesis which had punished it!

  He was a proud man, and the thought of these things, the visions thatthey called up, tortured him. At times, he had borne himself a littletoo highly, had presumed on his success, had said a word too much.Well, all that would be repaid now with interest, ay, with compoundinterest.

  The room was growing dark, as dark as his thoughts. The fire glowed, amere handful of red embers, in the grate. Now and again men went bythe windows, talking--talking, it might be, of him: anxious,suspicious, greedy, ready at a word to ruin themselves and him, to cuttheir own throats in their selfish panic. They had only to use commonsense, to control themselves, and no man would lose a penny. But theywould have no common sense. They would rush in and destroy all, theirown and his. For no bank called upon to pay in a day all that it owedcould do so, any more than an insurance office could at any moment payall its lives. But they would not blame themselves. They would blamehim--and his!

  He groaned as he thought of his children. Clement, indeed, might andmust fend for himself. And he would--he had proved it of late days byhis courage and cheerfulness, and the father's heart warmed to him.But Betty? Gay, fearless, laughing Betty, the light of his home, thejoy of his life! Who, born when fortune had already begun to smile onhim, had never known poverty or care or mean shifts! For whom he hadbeen ambitious, whom he had thought to see well married--married intothe county, it might be! Poor Betty! There would be an end of thatnow. Past his prime and discredited, he could not hope to make morethan a pittance, happy if he could earn some two or three pounds aweek in some such situation as Rodd's. And she must sink with him andaccept such a home as he could support, in place of this spacious oldtown-house, with its oaken wainscots and its wide, shallow stairs, andits cheerful garden at the back.

  His love suffered equally with his pride.

  He was thinking so deeply that he did not hear the door open, or alight foot cross the room. He did not suspect that he was observeduntil a pair of warm young arms slid round his neck, and Betty's curlsbrushed his check. "In the dumps, father?" she said. "And in thedark--and alone? Poor father! Is it as bad as that? But you have notgiven up hope? We are not ruined yet?"

  "God forbid!" he said, hardly able, on finding her so close to him, tocontrol his voice. "But we may be, Betty."

  "And what then?" She clasped him more closely to her. "Might not worsethings happen to us? Might you not die and I be left alone? Or might Inot die, and you lose me? Or Clement? You are pleased with Clement,father, aren't you? He may not be as clever as--as some people. Butyou know he's there when you want him. Suppose you lost us?"

  "True, child. But you don't know what poverty is--after wealth,Betty--how narrowing, how irksom
e, how it galls at every point! Youdon't know what it is to live on two or three pounds a week, in two orthree rooms!"

  "They will bring us the closer together," said Betty.

  "And to be looked down upon by those who have been your equals, andshunned by those who have been your friends!"

  "Nice friends! We shall do better without them!"

  "And things will be said of me, things it will be hard to listen to!"

  "They won't say them to me," said Betty. "Or look out for my nails,ma'am! Besides, they won't be true, and who cares, father! LizzieClough said yesterday I'd a cast in one eye, but does it worry me? Nota scrap. And we'll shut the door on our two or three rooms and letthem--go hang! As long as we are together we can face anything,father--we can live on two pounds or two shillings or two pence. Andconsider! You might never have known what Clement was, how lively, howbrave, how"--with a funny little laugh--"like me," hugging him to her,"if this had not happened--that's not going to happen after all."

  He sighed. He dealt with figures, she with fancy. "I hope not," hesaid. "At any rate I've two good children, and if it does come to theworst----"

  "We'll lock ourselves in and our false friends out!" she said; and fora moment after that she was silent. Then, "Tell me, father, why didMr. Rodd take that money--when you need all that you can get together,and he knows it? For he's taking the plate to Birmingham to pledge,isn't he? So he must know it."

  "He is, if----"

  "If it comes to the worst? I know. Then why did he take his money,when he knew how things stood?"

  "Why did he take his own when we offered it?" the banker replied. "Whyshouldn't he, child? It was his own, and business is business. Hewould have been very foolish if he had not taken it. He's not a manwho can afford to lose it."

  "Oh!" said Betty. And for some minutes she said no more. Then sheroused herself, poked the fire, and rang for the lamp.