Ovington's Bank Part 19

The same could not be said of those whom he had warned. Acherley, indeed, abused him freely, but the majority were impressed, and Sir Charles, who respected his opinion, was sorely shaken. He put no trust in Acherley, whose debts and difficulties were known, and Ovington was not there to rea.s.sure him. He valued the good opinion of his world, and what, he reflected, if the Squire were right? What if in going into this scheme he had made a mistake? The picture that Griffin had drawn of town and country pointing the finger at him rose like a nightmare before him, and would, he knew, accompany him home and darken his dinner-table. And Ovington? Ovington was doubtless a clever man and, as a banker, well versed in these enterprises. But Fauntleroy--Fauntleroy, with whose name the world had rung these twelve months past, he, too, had been clever and enterprising and plausible. Yet what a fate had been his, and what losses had befallen all who had trusted him, all who had been involved with him!

Sir Charles went home an unhappy man. He wished that Griffin had not warned him, or that he had warned him earlier. Of what use was a warning when his lot was cast and he was the head and front of the matter, President of the Company, Chairman of the Board?

Meanwhile the Squire stood on the steps of the Court House, cursing his man. The curricle was not there, Thomas was not there, it was growing dark, and a huge pile of clouds, looming above the roofs to westward, threatened tempest. The shopkeepers were putting up their shutters, the packmen binding up their bundles, stall-keepers hurrying away their trestles, and the Market Place, strewn with the rubbish and debris of the day, showed dreary by the failing light. In the High Street there was still some traffic, and in the lanes and alleys around candles began to shine out. A one-legged sailor, caterwauling on a crazy fiddle, had gathered a small crowd before one of the taverns.

"Hang the man! Where is he?" the Squire muttered, looking about him with a disgusted eye, and wishing himself at home. "Where is the rogue?"

Then Thomas, driving slowly and orating to a couple of men who walked beside the carriage, came into view. The Squire roared at him, and Thomas, taken by surprise, whipped up his horses so sharply that he knocked over a hawker's basket. Still storming at him the old man climbed to his seat and took the reins. He drove round the corner into Bride Hill, and stopped at Purslow's door.

The draper was at the carriage wheel before it stopped. He had the bag in his hand, but he did not at once hand it up. "Excuse me, excuse the liberty, sir," he said, lowering his voice and glancing at Thomas, "but it's a large sum, sir, and it's late. Hadn't I better keep it till morning?"

The Squire snapped at him. "Morning? Rubbish, man! Put it in." He made room for the bag at his feet.

But the draper still hesitated. "It will be dark in ten minutes, sir, and the road--it's true, no one has been stopped of late, but----"

"I've never been stopped in my life," the Squire rejoined. "Put it in, man, and don't be a fool. Who's to stop me between here and Garth?"

Purslow muttered something about the safe side, but he complied. He handed in the bag, which gave out a clinking sound as it settled itself beside the Squire's feet. The old man nodded his thanks and started his horses.

He drove down Bride Hill, and by the Stalls, where the taps were humming, and the inns were doing a great business. Pa.s.sing one or two belated carts, he turned to the right and descended to the bridge, the old houses with their galleries and gables looming above him as for three centuries they had loomed above the traveller by the Welsh road.

He rumbled over the bridge, the wide river flowing dark below him.

Then he trotted sharply up Westwell, pa.s.sing by the inns that in old days had served those who arrived after the gates were closed.

Now he faced the open country and the wet west wind, and he settled himself down in his seat and shook up his horses. As he did so his foot touched the bag, and again the gold gave out a clinking sound.

CHAPTER XIII

The Squire in his inmost heart had not derived much satisfaction from his visit to the bank. He had left it with an uneasy feeling that the step he had taken had not produced the intended effect. Ovington had accepted the loss of his custom, not indeed with indifference, but with dignity, and in a manner which left the old man little upon which to plume himself. The withdrawal of his custom wore in the retrospect too much of the look of spite, and he came near to regretting it, as he drove along.

Had he been present at an interview which took place after he had retired, he might have been better pleased. The banker had not been many minutes in the parlor, chewing the cud of the affair, before he was interrupted by his cashier. In this there was nothing unusual; routine required Rodd's presence in the parlor several times in the day. But his manner on the present occasion, and the way in which he closed the door, prepared Ovington for something new, and "What is it, Rodd?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, and disposing himself to listen.

"Can I have a word with you, sir?"

"Certainly." The banker's face told nothing. Rodd's was that of a man who had made up his mind to a plunge. "What is it?"

"I have been wishing to speak for some time, sir," Rodd faltered.

"This----" Ovington understood at once that he referred to the Squire's matter--"I don't like it, sir, and I have been with you ten years, and I feel--I ought to speak."

Ovington shrugged his shoulders. "I don't like it either," he said.

"But it is of less importance than you think, Rodd. I know why Mr.

Griffin did it. And we are not now where we were. The withdrawal of a few hundreds or the loss of a customer----" again he shrugged his shoulders.

"No," Rodd said gravely. "If nothing more follows, sir."

"Why should anything follow? I know his reasons."

"But the town doesn't. And if it gets about, sir?"

"It won't do us much damage. We've lost customers before, yet always gained more than we lost. But there, Rodd, that is not what you came in to say. What is it?" He spoke lightly, but he felt more surprise than he showed. Rodd was a model cashier, performing his duties in a precise, plodding fashion that had often excited Arthur's ridicule; but hitherto he had never ventured an opinion on the policy of the bank, nor betrayed the least curiosity respecting its secrets. "What is it?" Ovington repeated. "What has frightened you, man?"

"We've a lot of notes out, sir!"

The banker looked thoughtfully at the gla.s.ses he held in his hand.

"True," he said. "Quite true. But trade is brisk, and the demand for credit is large. We must meet the demand, Rodd, as far as we can--with safety. That's our business."

"And we've a lot of money out--that could not be got in in a hurry, sir."

"Yes," the banker admitted, "but that is our business, too. If we did not put our money out we might close the bank to-morrow. That much of the money cannot be got in at a minute's notice is a thing we cannot avoid."

The perspiration stood on Rodd's forehead, but he persisted. "If it were all on bills, sir, I would not say a word. But there is a lot on overdraft."

"Well secured."

"While things are up. But if things went down, sir? There's Wolley's account. I suspect that the last bills we discounted for him were accommodation. Indeed, I am sure of it. And his overdraft is heavy."

"We hold the lease of his mill."

"But you don't want to run the mill!" Rodd replied, putting his finger on the weak point.

The banker reflected. "That's the worst account we have. The worst, isn't it?"

"Mr. Acherley's, sir."

"Well, yes. There might be a sounder account than that. But what is it?" He looked directly at the other. "I want to know what has opened your mouth? Have you heard anything? What makes you think that things are going down?"

"Mr. Griffin----"

"No." The banker shook his head. "That won't do, Rodd. You had this in your mind before he came in. You are pat with Wolley and Mr. Acherley; bad accounts both, as all banks have bad accounts here and there. But it's true--we've been giving our customers rope, and they have bought things that may fall. Still, they've made money, a good deal of money, and we've kept a fair margin and obliged them at the same time. All legitimate business. There must be something in your mind besides this, I'm sure. What is it, lad?"

The cashier turned a dull red, but before he could answer the door behind him opened. Arthur came in. He looked at the banker, and from him to Rodd, and his suspicions were aroused. "It's four o'clock, sir," he said, and looked again at Rodd as if to ask what he was doing there.

But Rodd held his ground, and the banker explained.

"Rodd is a little alarmed for us," he said, and it was difficult to be sure whether he spoke in jest or in earnest. "He thinks we're going too fast. Putting our hand out too far. He mentions Wolley's account, and Acherley's.

"I was speaking generally," Rodd muttered. He looked sullen.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "I stand corrected," he said. "I didn't know that Rodd ever went beyond his ledgers."

"Oh, he's quite right to speak his mind. We are all in the same boat--though we do not all steer."

"Well, I'm glad of that, sir."

"Still," mildly, "it is a good thing to have an opinion."