Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXXI

  In Aldersbury there had been a simmering of excitement through all thehours of that Monday. At the corner of the Market Place on which thelittle statue of the ancient Prince looked down, in the shops on BrideHill, in the High Street under the shadow of St. Juliana's, knots ofpeople had gathered, discussing, some with scared faces and lowvoices, others with the gusto of unconcern, the rumors of troublesthat came through from Chester, from Manchester, from the capital;that fell from the lips of guards in inn-yards, and leaked from theboots of coaches before the Lion. Gibbon's, one of the chief banks atBirmingham, had closed its doors, Garrard's had stopped payment atHereford, there was panic on the stones in Manchester, a bank hadfailed at Liverpool. It was reported that a director had hung himself,a score had fled to Boulogne, dark stories of '15 and '93 wererevived. It was asserted that the Bank of England had run out of gold,that cash payments would be again suspended. In a dozen forms theseand wilder statements ran from mouth to mouth, gathered weight as theywent, blanched men's faces and turned traders' hearts to water. Butthe worst, it was agreed, would not be known until the afternooncoaches came in and brought the mails from London. Then--ah, then,people would see what they would see!

  Idle men, with empty pockets, revelled in news which promised to bringall to their level. And malice played its part. Wolley, who had littlebut a debtor's prison in prospect, was in town and talking, bent onrevenge, and the few who had already withdrawn their accounts fromOvington's were also busy; foxes who had lost their tails, they feltthemselves marked men until others followed their example. Meanwhile,Purslow and such as were in his case lay low, sweated in theirshop-parlors, conned their ledgers with haggard faces, or snarled attheir womenfolk. Gone now was the pride in stock and scrip, andbounding profits! Gone even the pride in a directorship.

  Purslow, perhaps, more than anyone was to be pitied. A year before hehad been prosperous, purse-proud, free from debt, with a goodbusiness. Now his every penny was sunk in unsaleable securities, hiscredit was pledged to the bank, his counter was idle, while tradecreditors whom in the race for wealth he had neglected were pressinghim hard. Worst of all, he did not know where he could turn to obtaineven the small sum needed to pay the next month's wages.

  But, though the pot was boiling in Aldersbury as elsewhere, it did notat once boil over. The day passed without any serious run on either ofthe banks. Men were alarmed, they got together in corners, theywhispered, they marked with jealous eyes who entered and who left thebanks. They muttered much of what they would do on the morrow, or whenthe London mail came in, or when they had made up their minds. But towalk into Ovington's and face the clerks and do the deed requiredcourage; and for the most part they were not so convinced of danger,or fearful of loss, as to be ready to face the ordeal. They might drawtheir money and look foolish afterwards. Consequently they hung about,putting off the act, waiting to see what others would do. The hoursslipped by and the excitement grew, but still they waited, watchingtheir neighbors and doing nothing, but prepared at any moment to rushin and jostle one another in their panic.

  "By G--d, I'll see I get my money!" said one. "You wait, Mr. Lello!You wait and----"

  In another part, "I'd draw it, I'd draw it, Tom, if I were you! Afterall, it's your own money. Why, confound it, man, what are you afraidof?"

  "I ain't afraid of anything," Tom replied surlily. "But Ovington gaveme a leg-up last December, and I'm hanged if I like to go in and----"

  "And ask for your own? Well, you are a ninny!"

  "Maybe. May--be," jingling the money in his fob. "But I'll wait. I'llwait till to-morrow. No harm done afore then!"

  A third had left Dean's under a cloud, and if he quarrelled withOvington's, where was he to go? While a fourth had bills falling due,and did not quite see his way. He might be landing a trout and losinga salmon. He would see how things went. Plenty of time!

  But though this was the general attitude, and the Monday passedwithout a run of any consequence, a certain number of accounts wereclosed, and the excitement felt boded ill for the morrow. It waxedrather than waned as the day went on, and Ovington's heart would havebeen heavy and his alarm keen if the one had not been lightened andthe other dispersed by the good news which Arthur had brought fromGarth that morning--the almost incredibly good news!

  Aldersbury, however, was in ignorance of that news, and when Clementissued from the bank a few minutes after the doors had closed, therewere still knots of people hanging about the corners of the MarketPlace, watching the bank. He viewed them with a sardonic eye, andcould afford to do so; for his heart was light like his father's, andhe could smile at that which, but for the good news of the morning,would have chilled him with apprehension. He turned from the door,intending to seek the Lime-Walks by the river, and, late as it was, toget a breath of fresh air after the confinement of the day. But hisintention was never carried out. He had not gone half a dozen yardsdown the street before his ear caught the sound of a horse breastingBride Hill at an unusual pace, and something in the speed at which itapproached warned him of ill. He waited, and his fears were confirmed.The vehicle, a gig, drew up at the door of the bank, and the driver, acountry lad, began to get down. Clement retraced the half-dozen stepsthat he had taken.

  "Who is it you want?" he asked.

  The lad sat down again in his seat. "Be Mr. Arthur here, sir?" heinquired.

  "Mr. Bourdillon?"

  "Ay, sure, sir."

  "No, he is not."

  "Well, I be to follow 'ee wheresomever he be, axing your pardon!"

  "I'm afraid you can't do that, my lad," Clement explained. "He's goneto London. He went by coach this morning."

  The lad scratched his head. "O Lord!" he said. "What be I to do? I wasto bring him back, whether or no. Squire's orders."

  "Squire Griffin?"

  "Ay, sure, sir. He's in a taking, and mun see him, whether or no!Mortal put about he were!"

  Clement thought rapidly, the vague alarm which he had felt takingsolid shape. What if the Squire had repented of his generosity? Whatif the help, heaven-sent, beyond hope and beyond expectation, whichhad removed their fears, were after all to fail them? Clement's heartsank. "Who sent you?" he asked. "The young lady?"

  "Ay, sure. And she were in a taking, too. Crazy she were."

  Clement leapt to a decision. He laid his hand on the rail of the gig."Look here," he said. "You'd better take me out instead, and, at anyrate, I can explain."

  "But it were Mr. Arthur----"

  "I know, but he's half-way to London by now. And he won't be back tillThursday."

  He climbed up, and the lad accepted his decision and turned the horse.They trotted down the hill between the dimly lighted shops, pastobservers who recognized the Garth gig, by groups of men who loiteredand shivered before the tavern doors. They swung sharply into Maerdol,where the peaks of the gables on either hand rose against a pale sky,and a moment later they were crossing the bridge, and felt the coldwaft of the river breeze on their faces. Two minutes saw them trottingsteadily across the open country, the lights of the town behind them.

  Clement sat silent, lost in thought, wondering if he were doing right,and fearing much that the Squire had repented of his generosity andwas minded to recall it. If that were so, the awakening from the hopeswhich he had raised, and the dream of security in which they had lostthemselves, would be a cruel shock. Clement shrank from thinking whatits effect would be on his father, whose relief had betrayed the fullmeasure of his fears. And his own case was hardly better, for it wasnot only his fortune that was at stake and that he had thought saved.He had given rein, also, to his hopes. He had let them carry him farinto a roseate country where the sun shone and Josina smiled, and allthe difficulties that had divided them melted into air. There might beneed of time and patience; but with time and patience he had fanciedthat he might win his way.

  It was cruel, indeed, then if the old man at Garth had changed hismind, if he had played with them, only to deceive
them, only todisappoint them! And Clement could not but fear that it was so. Theclosing day, the wintry air, the prospect before him, as they swungacross the darkening land, seemed to confirm his fears and oppress himwith misgivings. A long cloud, fish-shaped, hung lowering across thewestern sky; below it, along the horizon, a narrow strip of angryyellow, unnaturally bright, threw the black, jagged outline of thehills into violent contrast, and shed a pale light on the interveningplain. Ay, he feared the worst. He could think of nothing else thatcould be the cause of this sudden, this agitated summons. The Squiremust have repented. He had changed his mind, and----

  But here they were at the bridge. The cottages of the hamlet showedhere and there a spark of light. They turned to the left, and fiveminutes later--the horse quickening its pace as they approached itsstable--they were winding up the sunken drive under the stark limbs ofthe beeches. The house stood above them, a sombre pile, its chimneyshalf obscured by the trees.

  Heavily Clement let himself down, to find Calamy at his elbow. The manhad been waiting for him in the dimly lighted doorway. "Mr. Bourdillonhas gone to London," Clement explained. "I have come instead if I canbe of any use." Then he saw that the butler did not know him, and "Iam Mr. Clement Ovington," he added. "You'd better ask your master ifhe would like to see me."

  "There's times when the devil'd be welcome," the man replied bluntly."It's tears and lamentations and woe in the house this night, but Godknows what it's all about, for I don't. Come in, come in, sir, inheaven's name, but I'm fearing it's little good. The devil has us inhis tail, and if the master goes through the night--but this way,sir--this way!"

  He opened a door on the left of the hall, pushed the astonishedClement into the room, and over his shoulder, "Here's one from thebank, at any rate," he proclaimed. "Maybe he'll do."

  Clement took in the scene as he entered, and drew from it an instantimpression of ill. The room was in disorder, lighted only by a pair ofcandles, the slender flames of which were reflected, islanded inblackness, in the two tall windows that, bald and uncurtained, let inthe night. The fire, a pile of wood ashes neglected or forgotten, wasalmost out, and beside it a cupboard-door gaped widely open. A chairlay overturned on the floor, and in another sat the Squire, gaunt andupright, muttering to himself and gesticulating with his stick, whileover him, her curls falling about her neck, her face tragic andtear-stained, hung his daughter, her shadow cast grotesquely on thewall behind her. She had a glass in her hand, and by her on the table,from which the cloth had fallen to the floor, stood water and amedicine bottle.

  In their absorption neither of the two had heard Calamy's words, andfor a moment Clement stood in doubt, staring at them and feeling thathe had been wrong to come. The trouble, whatever it was, could not bewhat he had feared. Then, as he moved, half minded to withdraw, Josinaheard him, and turned. In her amazement, "Clement!" she cried. "You!"

  The Squire turned in his chair. "Who?" he exclaimed.

  "Who's there? Has he come?"

  The girl hesitated. The hand that rested on the old man's shouldertrembled. Then--oh, bravely she took her courage in her hands, and "Itis Clement who has come," she said--acknowledging him so firmly thatClement marvelled to hear her.

  "Clement?" The old man repeated the word mechanically, and for amoment he sought in his mind who Clement might be. Then he found theanswer, and "One of them, eh?" he muttered--but not in the voice thatClement had anticipated. "So he won't face me? Coward as well asrogue, is he? And a Griffin! My God, a Griffin! So he's sent him?"

  "Where is Arthur?" Josina asked sharply.

  "He left for London this morning--by the coach."

  "Ay, ay," the Squire said. "That's it."

  Clement plucked up courage. "And hearing that you wanted him, I cameto explain. I feared from what the messenger said that there wassomething amiss."

  "Something amiss!" The Squire repeated the words in an indescribabletone. "That's what he calls it! Something amiss!"

  Clement looked from one to the other. "If there is anything I can do?"

  "You?" bluntly. "Why, you be one of them!"

  "No!" Josina interposed. "No, father. He has no part in it! I swear hehas not!"

  But, "One of them! One of them!" the Squire repeated in the samestubborn tone, yet without lifting his voice.

  "No!" Josina repeated as firmly as before; and the hand that rested onher father's shoulder slid round his neck. She held him half embraced."But he may tell you what has happened. He may explain, sir?"

  "Explain!" the Squire muttered. Contempt could go no farther.

  "Shall I tell him, sir?"

  "You're a fool, girl! The man knows."

  "I am sure he does not!" she said.

  Again Clement thought that it was time to interpose, "Indeed I do not,sir," he said. "I am entirely in the dark." In truth, looking on whathe did, seeing before him the unfamiliar room, the dark staringwindows, and the old man so unlike himself and so like King Lear orsome figure of tragedy, he was tempted to think the scene a dream. "Ifyou will tell me what is the matter, perhaps I can help. Arthur leftthis morning for London. He went to raise the money with which he wasentrusted----"

  "Entrusted?" the Squire cried with something of his old energy. Heraised his head and struck the floor with his stick. "Entrusted?That's what you call it, is it?"

  Clement stared. "I don't understand," he said.

  "What did he tell you?" Josina asked. "For heaven's sake speak,Clement! Tell us what he told you."

  "Ay," the Squire chimed in. "Tell us how you managed it. Now it'sdone, let's hear it." For the time scorn, a weary kind of scorn, hadtaken the place of anger and subdued him to its level.

  But Clement was still at sea. "Managed it?" he repeated. "What doyou----"

  "Tell us, tell us--from the beginning!" Jos cried, at the end of herpatience. "About this money? What did Arthur tell you? What did hetell you--this morning?"

  Then for the first time Clement saw what was in question, and hebraced himself to meet the shock which he foresaw. "He told us," hesaid, "what Mr. Griffin had consented to do--that he had given himsecurities for twelve thousand pounds for the use of the bank and tosupport its credit. He had the stock with him, and he received fromthe bank, in return for it, an undertaking to replace the amount twomonths after date with interest at seven per cent. It was thought bestthat he should take it to London himself, as it was so large a sum andtime was everything. And he went by the coach this morning--to realizethe money."

  Josina shivered. "He took it without authority," she said, her voicelow.

  "He stole it," the Squire said, "out of that cupboard."

  "Oh, but that's impossible, sir!" Clement replied with eagerness. Hefelt an immense relief, for he thought that he saw light. He took noteof the Squire's condition, and he fancied that his memory, if not hismind, had given way. He had forgotten what he had done. That was it!"That's impossible, sir," he repeated firmly. "He had a propertransfer of the stock--India Stock it was--signed and witnessed andall in order."

  "Signed and witnessed?" the Squire ejaculated. "Signed and--signed,your grandmother! So that's your story, is it? Signed and witnessed,eh?"

  But Clement was beginning to be angry. "Yes, sir," he said. "That isour story, and it is true." He thought that he had hit on the truth,and he clung to it. The Squire had signed and the next minute hadforgotten the whole transaction--Clement had heard of such cases. "Hehad the transfer with him," he continued, "signed by you and witnessedby himself and--and Miss Griffin. I saw it myself. I saw thesignatures, and I have seen yours, sir, often enough on a cheque toknow it. The transfer was perfectly in order."

  "In whose favor, young man?"

  "Our brokers', sir."

  The Squire flared up. "I did not sign it!" he cried. "It's a lie, sir!I signed nothing! Nothing!"

  But Josina intervened. She, poor girl, saw light. "Yes," she said, "myfather did sign something--on Saturday after dinner. But it was alease. I and Arthur witnessed it."

  "And what h
as that to do with it?" the Squire asked passionately."What the devil has that to do with it? I signed a lease and--and acounterpart. I signed no transfer of stock, never put hand to it!Never! What has the lease to do with it?"

  But Josina was firm. "I am afraid I see now, sir," she said. "Youremember that you signed a paper to try your pen? And I signed it too,father, by mistake? You remember? Ah!"--with a gesture of despair--"ifI had only not signed it!"

  The Squire groaned. He, too, saw it now. He saw it, and his head sankon his breast. "Forger as well as thief!" he muttered. "And aGriffin!"

  And Clement's heart sank too as he met the girl's anguished eyes andviewed the Squire's bowed head and the shame and despair that clothedthemselves in an apathy so unlike the man. He saw that here was atragedy indeed, a tragedy fitly framed in that desolate room with itswindows staring on the night and its air of catastrophe; a tragedypassing bank failures or the loss of fortune. And in his mind hecursed the offender.

  But even as the words rose to his lips, doubt stayed them. There was,there must be, some mistake. The thing could not be. He knew Arthur,he thought that he knew Arthur; he knew even the darker side ofhim--his selfishness, his lack of thought for others, his desire toget on and to grow rich. But this thing Arthur never could have done!Clement recalled his gay, smiling face, his frank bearing, hiscare-free eyes, the habit he had of casting back a lock from his brow.No, he could not have done this thing. "No, sir, no!" he criedimpulsively. "There is some mistake! I swear there is! I am sure ofit."

  "You've the securities?"

  "Yes, but I am sure----"

  "You're all in it," the Squire said drearily. And then, with energyand in a voice quivering with rage, "He's learned this at your d--dcounter, sir! That's where it is. It's like to like, that's where itis. Like to like! I might ha' known what would happen, when the ladset his mind on leaving our ways and taking up with yours. I might ha'known that that was the blackest day our old house had ever seen--whenhe left the path his fathers trod and chose yours. You can't touchpitch and keep your hands clean. You ha' stole my daughter--d--n you,sir! And you ha' taught him to steal my money. I mind me I bid yourfather think o' Fauntleroy, I never thought he was breeding up aFauntleroy in my house." And, striking the table with all his oldvitality, "You are thieves! thieves all o' you! And you ha' taught mylad to thieve!"

  "That is not true!" Clement cried. "Not a word of that is true!"

  "You ha' stole my daughter!"

  Clement winced. She had told him, then.

  "And now you ha' stole my money!"

  "That, at least, is not true!" He held up his head. He stepped forwardand laid his hand on the table. "That is not true," he repeatedfirmly. "Yon do not know my father, Mr. Griffin, though you may thinkyou do. He would see the bank break a hundred times, he would seeevery penny pass from him, before he would do this that you say hasbeen done. Your nephew told us what I have told you, and we believedhim--naturally we believed him. We never suspected. Not a suspicioncrossed my father's mind or mine. We saw the certificates, we saw thetransfer, we knew your handwriting. It was in order, and----"

  "And you thought--you ha' the impudence to tell me that you thoughtthat I should throw thousands, ay, thousands upon thousands into thegutter--to save your bank?"

  "We believed what we were told," Clement maintained. "Why not--as youput the question, sir? Your nephew had five thousand pounds at stake.His share in the bank was at stake. He knew as well as we did thatwith this assistance the bank was secure. We supposed that for hissake and the sake of his prospects----"

  "I don't believe it!" the Squire retorted. "I'll never believe it.Your father's a trader. I know 'em, and what their notion of honestyis. And you tell me----"

  "I tell you that a trader is nothing if he be not honest!" Clementcried hotly. "Honesty is to him what honor is to you, Mr. Griffin. Butwe'll leave my father's name out of this, if you please, sir. You maysay what you like of me. I have deserved it."

  "No," said Josina.

  "Yes, I have deserved it, and I am ashamed of myself--and proud ofmyself. But my father has done nothing and known nothing. And for thismoney, when he learns the truth, Mr. Griffin, he will not touch onepenny of it with one of his fingers. It shall be returned to you,every farthing of it, as soon as we can lay our hands on it. Everypenny of it shall be returned to you--at once!"

  "Ay," dryly, "when you have had the use of it!"

  "No, at once! Without the loss of an hour!"

  "You be found out," said the old man bitterly. "You be found out!That's it!"

  Clement read an appeal in Josina's eyes, and he stayed the retortthat rose to his lips. "At any rate the money shall be restored," hesaid--"at once. I will start for town to-night, and if I canovertake"--he paused, unwilling to utter Arthur's name--"if I canovertake him before he transfers the stock, the securities shall bereturned to you. In that case no harm will be done."

  "No harm!" the Squire ejaculated. He raised his hand and let it fallin a gesture of despair. "No harm?"

  But Clement was determined not to dwell on that side of it. "If I amnot able to do that," he continued, "the proceeds shall be placed inyour hands without the delay of an hour. In which case you must letthe signature pass--as good, sir."

  "Never!" the old man cried, and struck his hand on the table.

  "But after all it is yours," Clement argued. "And you must see,sir----"

  "Never! Never!" the Squire repeated passionately.

  "You will not say that in cold blood!" Clement rejoined, and from thatmoment he took a higher tone, as if he felt that, strange as the callwas, it lay with him now to guide this unhappy household. "You havenot considered, and you must consider, Mr. Griffin," he continued,"before you do that, what the consequences may be. If you deny yoursignature, and anyone, the India House or anyone, stands to lose,steps may be taken which may prove--fatal. Fatal, sir! A point may bereached beyond which even your influence, and all you may then bewilling to do, may not avail to save your nephew."

  The Squire groaned. Clement's words called up before him and beforeJosina, not only the thing which Arthur had done, but the position inwhich he had placed himself. In this room, in this very room in whichmen of honor--dull and prejudiced, perhaps, but men of honor, andproud of their honor--had lived and moved for generations, he, theirdescendant, had done this thing. The beams had stood, the house hadnot fallen on him. But to Josina's eyes the candles seemed to burnmore mournfully, the windows to stare more darkly on the night, theashes on the hearth to speak of desolation and a house abandoned andfallen.

  Clement hoped that his appeal had succeeded, but he was disappointed.The old man in his bitterness and unreason was not to be moved--at anyrate as yet. He would listen to no arguments, and he suspected thosewho argued with him. "I'll never acknowledge it!" he said. "No, I'llnever acknowledge it. I'll not lie for him, come what may! He has donethe thing and disgraced our blood, and what matter who knows it--hehas done it! He has made his bed and must lie on it! He went into yourbank and learned your tricks, and now you'd have me hush it up! But Iwon't, d--n you! I'll not lie for you, or for him!"

  Clement had a retort on his lips--for what could be more unfair thanthis? But again Josina's eyes implored him to be silent, and hecrushed back the words. He believed that by and by the Squire wouldsee the thing differently, but for the moment he could do no more, andhe turned to the door.

  There in the doorway, and for one moment, Josina's hands met his, shehad one word with him. "You will save him if you can, Clement?" shemurmured.

  "Yes," he promised her, "I will save him if I can."