Shameful, I call it!" while others said, "Well, I call it robbery! The old tea-pot for me after this!" A few were for moving off at once and breaking Ovington's windows, and going on to Dean's and serving them the same. But they were restrained, things had not quite come to that; and it was an orderly if excited throng that once more waited on Bride Hill and in the Market Place for the opening of the doors.
Not all who gathered there had anything to lose. Many were mere onlookers. But here and there were to be seen compressed lips, pale faces, anxious eyes. Here and there women gripped books in feverish fingers or squeezed handkerchiefs into tight balls; and now and again a man broke into bad words and muttered what he would do if they robbed him. There were country shopkeepers who had lodged the money to meet the traveller's account, and trembled for its safety. There were girls who saw their hard-earned portions at stake, and parsons whose hearts ached as they thought of the invalid wife or the boy's school-bill; and there were at least a score who knew that if the blow fell the bailiff, never far from the threshold, would be in the house.
Before the eyes of not a few rose the spectres of the poorhouse and a pauper funeral.
Standing in groups or dotted amid the crowd were bigger men--wool-brokers and cattle-dealers--men loud in bar-parlors and great among their fellows, whose rubicund faces showed flabby and mottled, and whose fleshy lips moved in endless calculations. How was this bill to be met, and who would renew that one? Too often the end of their calculations spelled ruin--if the bank failed. Ruin--and many were they who depended on these big men: wage-earners, clerks, creditors, poor relations! One man walking up and down under the arcade of the Market House was the centre for many eyes. He was an auctioneer from a neighboring town, a man of wide dealings, who, it was whispered, had lodged with Ovington's the proceeds of his last great sale--a sum running into thousands and due every penny to the vendor.
His case and other hard cases were whispered by one to another, and, bruited about, they roused the passions even of those who were not involved. Yet when the bank at length opened on the stroke of ten an odd thing happened. A sigh, swelling to a murmur, rose from the dense crowd, but no one moved. The expected came as the unexpected, there was a moment of suspense, of waiting. No one advanced. Then some one raised a shout and there was a rush for the entrance; men struggled and women were thrust aside, smaller men were borne in on the arms of their fellows. A wail rose from the unsuccessful, but no man heeded it, or waited for his neighbor, or looked aside to see who it was who strove and thrust and struggled at his elbow. They pushed in tumultuously, their country boots drumming on the boards. Their entrance was like the inrush of an invading army.
The clerks, the cashier, Ovington himself, stood at the counter waiting motionless to receive them, confronting them with what courage they might. But the strain of the preceding day had told. The clerks could not conceal their misgivings, and even Rodd failed to bear himself with the chilling air which had yesterday abashed the modest.
He shot vindictive glances across the counter, his will was still good to wither, but the crowd was to-day made up of rougher material, was more brusque and less subservient. They cared nothing for him, and he looked, in spite of his efforts, weary and dispirited. There was no longer any pretence that things were normal or that the bank was not face to face with a crisis. The gloves were off. They were no longer banker and customers. They were enemies.
It was Ovington himself who this morning stood forward, and in a few cold words informed his friends that they would all be paid, requesting them at the same time to be good enough to keep order and await their turns, otherwise it would be impossible to proceed with the business. He added a single sentence, in which he expressed his regret that those who had known him so long should doubt, as he could only suppose that they did doubt, his ability to meet his engagements.
It was well done, with calmness and dignity, but as he ceased to speak--his appearance had for the moment imposed silence--a disturbance broke out near the door. A man thrust himself in.
Ovington, already in the act of turning, recognized the newcomer, and a keen observer might have noted that his face, grave before, turned a shade paler. But he met the blow. "Is that Mr. Yapp?" he asked.
It was the auctioneer from Iron Ferry. "Ay, Mr. Ovington, it is," he said, the perspiration on his face, "and you know my position."
Ovington nodded. Yapp was one of five depositors--big men--whose claims had been, for the last twenty-four hours, a nightmare to him.
But he let nothing be seen, and "Kindly let Mr. Yapp pass," he said; "I will deal with him myself." Then, as one or two murmured and protested, "Gentlemen," he said sternly, "you must let me conduct my business in my own way, or I close my doors. Let Mr. Yapp pass, if you please."
They let him through then, some grumbling, others patting him on the back--"Good luck to you, Jimmy!" cried one well-wisher. The counter was raised, and resettling his clothes about him, the auctioneer followed Mr. Ovington into the parlor. The banker closed the door upon them.
"How much is it, Mr. Yapp?" he asked.
The man's hand shook as he drew out the receipt. "Two thousand, seven hundred and forty," he said. "I hope to God it's all right, sir?" His voice shook. "It's not my money, and to lose it would three parts ruin me."
"You need not fear," the banker assured him. "The money is here." But for a moment he did not continue. He stood, his eyes on the man's face, lost in thought. Then, "The money is here, and you can have it, Yapp," he said. "But I am going to be plain with you. You will do me the greatest possible favor if you will leave it for a few days. The bank is solvent--I give you my honor it is. No one will lose a penny by it in the end. But if this and other large sums are drawn to-day I may have to close for a time, and the injury to me will be very great.
If you wish to make a friend who may be able to return the favor ten-fold----"
But Yapp shook his head. "I daren't do it!" he declared, the sweat springing out anew on his face. "It isn't my money and I can't leave it! I daren't do it, sir!"
Ovington saw that it was of no use to plead farther, and he changed his tone. "Very good," he said, and he forced himself to speak equably. "I quite understand. You shall have the money." Sitting down at the table he wrote the amount on a slip, and struck the bell that stood beside his desk. The younger clerk came in. He handed him the slip.
Yapp did not waver, but he remembered that good turns had been done to him in that room, and he was troubled. "If it was my money," he said awkwardly, "or if there was anything else I could do, Mr. Ovington?"
"You can," Ovington replied. He had got himself in hand, and he spoke cheerfully.
"Well----"
"You can hold your tongue, Yapp," smiling.
"It's done, sir. I won't have a tongue except to say that the money's paid. You may depend upon me."
"Thank you. I shall not forget it." The clerk brought in the money, and stayed until the sum was counted and checked and the receipt given. Then, "That's right, Mr. Yapp," the banker said, and sat back in his chair. "Show Mr. Yapp out, Williams."
Yapp followed the clerk. His appearance in the bank was greeted by half a dozen voices. "Ha' you got it?" they cried.
He was a man of his word, and he slapped his pocket briskly. "Every penny!" he said, and something like a cheer went up. "I'd not have worried, but it wasn't my money."
Ovington's appeal to him had been a forlorn hope, and much, now it had failed, did the banker regret it. But he had calculated that that twenty-seven hundred pounds might just make the difference, and he had been tempted. Left to himself he sat, turning it over, and wondering if the auctioneer would be silent; and his face, now that the mask was off, was haggard and careworn. He had slept little the night before, and things were working out as he had feared that they would.
Presently he heard a disturbance in the bank. Something had occurred to break the orderly course of paying out. He rose and went out, a frown on his face. He was prepared for trouble, but he found to his relief that the interruption was caused by nothing worse than his son's return.
Having given his word to Arthur to carry the money through the bank, Clement had sunk whatever scruples he felt, and had made up his mind to do it handsomely. He had driven up to the door with a flourish, had taken the gold from the chaise under the public eye, and now, with all the parade he could, he was bringing it into the bank. His brisk entrance and cheery presence, and the careless words he flung on this side and that as he pushed through the crowd, seemed in a trice to clear the air and lift the depression. Not even Arthur could have carried the thing through more easily or more flamboyantly. And that was saying much.
"Make way! Make way, if you please, gentlemen!" he cried, his face ruddy with the sharp, wintry air. "Let me in, please! Now, if you want to be paid, you must let the money come through! Plenty of money!
Plenty for all of you, gentlemen, and more where this comes from! But you must let me get by! Hallo, Rawlins, is that you? You're good at dead weights. Here, lift it! What do you make of it?" And he thrust the bag he carried into a stout farmer's hands.
"Well, it be pretty near fifty pund, I'd say," Rawlins replied.
"Though, by gum, it don't look within a third of it, Mr. Clement."
Clement laughed. "Well done!" he said. "You're just about right. And you can say after this, Rawlins, that you've lifted fifty pound weight of gold! Now, make way, gentlemen, make way, if you please. There's more to come in! Plenty more."
He bustled through with the bag, greeted his father gaily, and placed his burden on the floor beside him. Then he went back for the other bag. He made a second countryman weigh this, grinned at his face of astonishment, then taking up the two bags he went through with his father to the parlor.
His arrival did good. The clerks perked up, smiled at one another, went to and fro more briskly. Rodd braced himself and, though he knew the truth, began to put on airs, bandied words with a client, and called contemptuously for order. And the customers looked sheepish.
Gold! Gold coming in like that in bags as if 'twere common stuff. It made them think twice. A few, balancing in their minds a small possible loss against the banker's certain favor, hesitated and hung back. Two or three even went out without cashing their notes and shrugged their shoulders in the street, declaring that the whole thing was nonsense. They had been bamboozled. They had been hoaxed. The bank was sound enough.
But behind the parlor door things wore a different aspect.
CHAPTER XL
The banker looked at the money lying at his feet. Clement looked at his father. He noted the elder man's despondent attitude, he read the lines which anxiety had deepened on his brow, and his assumed gaiety fell from him. He longed to say something that might comfort the other, but _mauvaise honte_ and the reserve of years were too much for him, and instead he rapidly and succinctly told his tale, running over what had happened in London and on the road. He accounted for what he had brought, and explained why he had brought it and at whose request.
Then, as the banker, lost in troubled thought, his eyes on the money, did not speak, "It goes badly then, sir, does it?" he said. "I see that the place is full."
Ovington's eyes were still on the bags, and though he forced himself to speak, his tone was dull and mechanical. "Yes," he said. "We paid out fifteen thousand and odd yesterday. About six thousand in odd sums to-day. I have just settled with Yapp--two thousand seven hundred.
Mills and Blakeway have drawn at the counter--three thousand and fifty between them. A packet of notes from Birmingham, eleven hundred.
Jenkins sent his cheque for twelve hundred by his son, but he omitted to fill in the date."
"And you didn't pay it?"
"No, I didn't pay it. Why should I? But he will be in himself by the two o'clock coach. The only other account--large account outstanding--is Owen's for eighteen hundred. Probably he will come in by the same coach. In the meantime--" he took a slip of paper from the table--"we have notes for rather more than two thousand still out; half of these may not, for one reason or another, be presented. And payable on demand we still owe something like two or three thousand."
"You may be called upon for another six thousand, then, sir?"
"Six at best, seven thousand or a little more at worst. And we had in the till to meet it, a quarter of an hour ago, about three thousand.
We should not have had as much if Rodd had not paid in four hundred and fifty."
"Rodd?" Clement eyes sparkled. "God bless him! He's a Trojan, and I shan't forget it! Bravo, Rodd!"
The banker nodded, but in a perfunctory way. "That's the position," he said. "If Owen and Jenkins hold off--but there's no hope of that--we may go on till four o'clock. But if either comes in we must close.
Close," bitterly, "for the lack of three thousand or four thousand pounds!"
Clement sighed. Young as he was he was beginning to feel the effect of his exertions, of his double journey, and his two sleepless nights. At last, "No one will lose, sir?" he said.