Ovington's Bank

CHAPTER XXXI

In Aldersbury there had been a simmering of excitement through all the hours of that Monday. At the corner of the Market Place on which the little statue of the ancient Prince looked down, in the shops on Bride Hill, in the High Street under the shadow of St. Juliana's, knots of people had gathered, discussing, some with scared faces and low voices, others with the gusto of unconcern, the rumors of troubles that came through from Chester, from Manchester, from the capital; that fell from the lips of guards in inn-yards, and leaked from the boots of coaches before the Lion. Gibbon's, one of the chief banks at Birmingham, had closed its doors, Garrard's had stopped payment at Hereford, there was panic on the stones in Manchester, a bank had failed at Liverpool. It was reported that a director had hung himself, a score had fled to Boulogne, dark stories of '15 and '93 were revived. It was asserted that the Bank of England had run out of gold, that cash payments would be again suspended. In a dozen forms these and wilder statements ran from mouth to mouth, gathered weight as they went, blanched men's faces and turned traders' hearts to water. But the worst, it was agreed, would not be known until the afternoon coaches 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 bring all to their level. And malice played its part. Wolley, who had little but a debtor's prison in prospect, was in town and talking, bent on revenge, and the few who had already withdrawn their accounts from Ovington's were also busy; foxes who had lost their tails, they felt themselves marked men until others followed their example. Meanwhile, Purslow and such as were in his case lay low, sweated in their shop-parlors, conned their ledgers with haggard faces, or snarled at their womenfolk. Gone now was the pride in stock and scrip, and bounding profits! Gone even the pride in a directorship.

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

But, though the pot was boiling in Aldersbury as elsewhere, it did not at once boil over. The day passed without any serious run on either of the banks. Men were alarmed, they got together in corners, they whispered, they marked with jealous eyes who entered and who left the banks. They muttered much of what they would do on the morrow, or when the London mail came in, or when they had made up their minds. But to walk into Ovington's and face the clerks and do the deed required courage; 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 draw their money and look foolish afterwards. Consequently they hung about, putting off the act, waiting to see what others would do. The hours slipped by and the excitement grew, but still they waited, watching their neighbors and doing nothing, but prepared at any moment to rush in 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! After all, it's your own money. Why, confound it, man, what are you afraid of?"

"I ain't afraid of anything," Tom replied surlily. "But Ovington gave me 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'll wait till to-morrow. No harm done afore then!"

A third had left Dean's under a cloud, and if he quarrelled with Ovington'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 losing a salmon. He would see how things went. Plenty of time!

But though this was the general attitude, and the Monday passed without a run of any consequence, a certain number of accounts were closed, and the excitement felt boded ill for the morrow. It waxed rather than waned as the day went on, and Ovington's heart would have been heavy and his alarm keen if the one had not been lightened and the other dispersed by the good news which Arthur had brought from Garth that morning-the almost incredibly good news!

Aldersbury, however, was in ignorance of that news, and when Clement issued from the bank a few minutes after the doors had closed, there were still knots of people hanging about the corners of the Market Place, watching the bank. He viewed them with a sardonic eye, and could afford to do so; for his heart was light like his father's, and he 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, to get a breath of fresh air after the confinement of the day. But his intention was never carried out. He had not gone half a dozen yards down the street before his ear caught the sound of a horse breasting Bride Hill at an unusual pace, and something in the speed at which it approached 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, a country lad, began to get down. Clement retraced the half-dozen steps that he had taken.

"Who is it you want?" he asked.

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

"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 gone to London. He went by coach this morning."

The lad scratched his head. "O Lord!" he said. "What be I to do? I was to 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 taking solid shape. What if the Squire had repented of his generosity? What if the help, heaven-sent, beyond hope and beyond expectation, which had removed their fears, were after all to fail them? Clement's heart sank. "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 any rate, 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 till Thursday."

He climbed up, and the lad accepted his decision and turned the horse. They trotted down the hill between the dimly lighted shops, past observers who recognized the Garth gig, by groups of men who loitered and 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 cold waft of the river breeze on their faces. Two minutes saw them trotting steadily 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 and was minded to recall it. If that were so, the awakening from the hopes which he had raised, and the dream of security in which they had lost themselves, would be a cruel shock. Clement shrank from thinking what its effect would be on his father, whose relief had betrayed the full measure of his fears. And his own case was hardly better, for it was not 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 far into a roseate country where the sun shone and Josina smiled, and all the difficulties that had divided them melted into air. There might be need of time and patience; but with time and patience he had fancied that he might win his way.

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

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

Heavily Clement let himself down, to find Calamy at his elbow. The man had been waiting for him in the dimly lighted doorway. "Mr. Bourdillon has gone to London," Clement explained. "I have come instead if I can be of any use." Then he saw that the butler did not know him, and "I am Mr. Clement Ovington," he added. "You'd better ask your master if he 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 God knows what it's all about, for I don't. Come in, come in, sir, in heaven's name, but I'm fearing it's little good. The devil has us in his 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 astonished Clement into the room, and over his shoulder, "Here's one from the bank, at any rate," he proclaimed. "Maybe he'll do."

Clement took in the scene as he entered, and drew from it an instant impression of ill. The room was in disorder, lighted only by a pair of candles, the slender flames of which were reflected, islanded in blackness, in the two tall windows that, bald and uncurtained, let in the night. The fire, a pile of wood ashes neglected or forgotten, was almost out, and beside it a cupboard-door gaped widely open. A chair lay overturned on the floor, and in another sat the Squire, gaunt and upright, muttering to himself and gesticulating with his stick, while over him, her curls falling about her neck, her face tragic and tear-stained, hung his daughter, her shadow cast grotesquely on the wall 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 a medicine bottle.

In their absorption neither of the two had heard Calamy's words, and for a moment Clement stood in doubt, staring at them and feeling that he had been wrong to come. The trouble, whatever it was, could not be what he had feared. Then, as he moved, half minded to withdraw, Josina heard 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 shoulder trembled. Then-oh, bravely she took her courage in her hands, and "It is Clement who has come," she said-acknowledging him so firmly that Clement marvelled to hear her.

"Clement?" The old man repeated the word mechanically, and for a moment he sought in his mind who Clement might be. Then he found the answer, and "One of them, eh?" he muttered-but not in the voice that Clement had anticipated. "So he won't face me? Coward as well as rogue, 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 came to explain. I feared from what the messenger said that there was something amiss."

"Something amiss!" The Squire repeated the words in an indescribable tone. "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 he has not!"

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

"No!" Josina repeated as firmly as before; and the hand that rested on her 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 what he did, seeing before him the unfamiliar room, the dark staring windows, and the old man so unlike himself and so like King Lear or some figure of tragedy, he was tempted to think the scene a dream. "If you will tell me what is the matter, perhaps I can help. Arthur left this morning for London. He went to raise the money with which he was entrusted-"

"Entrusted?" the Squire cried with something of his old energy. He raised 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's done, let's hear it." For the time scorn, a weary kind of scorn, had taken the place of anger and subdued him to its level.

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, but that's impossible, sir!" Clement replied with eagerness. He felt an immense relief, for he thought that he saw light. He took note of the Squire's condition, and he fancied that his memory, if not his mind, had given way. He had forgotten what he had done. That was it! "That's impossible, sir," he repeated firmly. "He had a proper transfer of the stock-India Stock it was-signed and witnessed and all 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 is our 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 had forgotten the whole transaction-Clement had heard of such cases. "He had the transfer with him," he continued, "signed by you and witnessed by himself and-and Miss Griffin. I saw it myself. I saw the signatures, and I have seen yours, sir, often enough on a cheque to know 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, "my father did sign something-on Saturday after dinner. But it was a lease. I and Arthur witnessed it."

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