"No, no one, ultimately and directly, by us. And if we were an old bank, if we were Dean's even--" there was venom in the tone in which he uttered his rival's name "--we might resume in a week or a fortnight. We might reopen and go on. But," shrugging his shoulders, "we are not Dean's, and no one would trust us after this. It would be useless to resume. And, of course, the sacrifices that we have made have been very costly. We have had to rediscount bills at fifteen per cent., and sell a long line of securities at a loss, and what is left on our hands may be worth money some day, but it is worthless at present."
"Wolley's Mill?"
"Ay, and other things. Other things."
Clement looked at the floor, and again the longing to say something or do something that might comfort his father pressed upon him. To himself the catastrophe, save so far as it separated him from Josina, was a small thing. He had had no experience of poverty, he was young, and to begin the world at the bottom had no terrors for him. But with his father it was different, and he knew that it was different. His father had built up from nothing the edifice that now cracked and crumbled about them. He had planned it, he had seen it rise and grow, he had rejoiced in it and been proud of it. On it he had spent the force and the energy of the best twenty years of his life, and he had not now, he had no longer, the vigor or the strength to set about rebuilding.
It was a tragedy, and Clement saw that it was a tragedy. And all for the lack--pity rose strong within him--all for the lack of--four thousand pounds. To him, conversant with the bank's transactions, it seemed a small sum. It was a small sum.
"Ay, four thousand!" his father repeated. His eyes returned mechanically to the money at his feet, returned and fixed themselves upon it. "Though in a month we may be able to raise twice as much again! And here--here"--touching it with his foot--"is the money! All, and more than all that we need, Clement."
Then at last Clement perceived the direction of his father's gaze, and he took the alarm. He put aside his reserve, he laid his hand gently on the elder man's shoulder, and by the pressure of his silent caress he strove to recall him to himself, he strove to prove to him that whatever happened, whatever befell, they were one--father and son, united inseparably by fortune. But aloud, "No!" he said firmly. "Not that, sir! I have given my word. And besides----"
"He would be no loser."
"No, we should be the losers."
"But--but it was not we, it was Bourdillon, lad!"
"Ay, it was Bourdillon. And we are not Bourdillon! Not yet! Nor ever, sir!"
Ovington turned away. His hand shook, the papers that he affected to put together on his desk rustled in his grasp. He knew--knew well that his son was right. But how great was the temptation! There lay the money at his feet, and he was sure that he could not be called to account for it. There lay the money that would gain the necessary time, that would meet all claims, that would save the bank!
True, it was not his, but how great was the temptation. It was so great that what might have happened had Clement not been there, had he stood there alone and unfettered, it is impossible to say--though the man was honest. For it was easy, nothing was more easy, than to argue that the bank would be saved and no man, not even the Squire, would lose. It was so great a temptation, and the lower course appeared so plausible that four men out of five, men of average honesty and good faith, might have fallen.
Fortunately the habit of business integrity came to the rescue, and reinforced and supported the son's argument--and the battle was won.
"You are right," the banker said huskily, his face still averted, his hands trembling among the papers. "But take it away! For God's sake, boy, take it away! Take it out of my sight, or I do not know what I may do!"
"You'll do the right thing, sir, never fear!" the son answered confidently. And with an effort he lifted the two heavy bags and moved towards the door. But on the threshold and as the door closed behind him, "Thank God!" he whispered to himself, "Thank God!" And to Betty, who met him in the hall and flung her arms about his neck--the girl was in tears, for the shadow of anxiety hung over the whole house, and even the panic-stricken maids were listening on the stairs or peering from the windows--"Take care of him, Betty," he said, his eyes shining. "Take care of him, girl. I shall be back by one o'clock. If I could stay with him now I would, but I cannot. I cannot! And don't fret. It will come right yet!"
"Oh, poor father!" she cried. "Is there no hope, Clement?"
"Very little. But worse things have happened. And we may be proud of him, Betty. We've good cause to be proud of him. I say it that know!
Cheer up!"
She watched him go with his heavy burden and his blunt common-sense down the garden walk; and when he had disappeared behind the pear-tree espaliers she went back to listen outside the parlor door. She had been her father's pet. He had treated her with an indulgence and a familiarity rare in those days of parental strictness, and she understood him well, better than others, better even than Clement. She knew what failure would mean to him. It was not the loss of wealth which would wound him most sorely, though he would feel that; but the loss of the position which success had gained for him in the little world in which he lived, and lived somewhat aloof. He had been thought, and he had thought himself, cleverer than his neighbors. He had borne himself as one belonging to, and destined for, a wider sphere. He had met the pride of the better-born and the older-established with a greater pride; and believing in his star, he had allowed his contempt for others and his superiority to be a little too clearly seen.
For all this he would now pay, and his pride would suffer. Betty, lingering in the darker part of the hall, where the servants could not spy on her, listened and longed to go in to him and comfort him. But all the rules forbade this, she might not distract him at such a time.
Yet, had she known how deep was his depression as he sat sunk in his chair, had she known how the past mocked him, and the long chain of his successes rose and derided him, how the mirage of long-cherished hopes melted and left all cold before him--had she guessed the full bitterness of his spirit, she had broken through every rule and gone in to him.
The self-made man! Proudly, disdainfully he had flung the taunt back in men's faces. Could they make, could they have made themselves, as he had? And now the self-ruined man! He sat thinking of it, and the minutes went by. Twice one of the clerks came in and silently placed a slip beside him and went softly out. He looked at the slip, but without taking in its meaning. What did it matter whether a few more or a few less pounds had been drawn out, whether the drain had waxed or waned in the last quarter of an hour? The end was certain, and it would come when the two men arrived on the Chester coach. Then he would have to bestir himself. Then he would have to resume the lead and play the man, give back hardness for hardness and scorn for scorn, and bear himself so in defeat that no man should pity him. And he knew that he could do it. He knew that when the time came his voice would be firm and his face would be granite, and that he would pronounce his own sentence and declare the bank closed with a high head. He knew that even in defeat he could so clothe himself with power that no man should browbeat him.
But in the meantime he paid his debt to weakness, and sat brooding on the past, rather than preparing for the future; and time passed, the relentless hand moved round the clock. Twice the clerk came in with his doom-bearing slips, and presently Rodd appeared. But the cashier had nothing to say that the banker did not know. Ovington took the paper and looked at the figures and at the total, but all he said was, "Let me know when Owen and Jenkins come."
"Very good, sir." Rodd lingered a moment as if he would gladly have added something, would have ventured, perhaps, some word of sympathy.
But his courage failed him and he went out.
Nor when Clement, half an hour afterwards, returned from his mission to Garth did he give any sign. Clement laid his hand on his shoulder and said a cheery word, but, getting no answer, or as good as none, he went through to his desk. A moment later his voice could be heard rallying a too conscious customer, greeting another with contemptuous good humor, bringing into the close, heated atmosphere of the bank, where men breathed heavily, snapped at one another, and shuffled their feet, a gust of freer brisker air.
Another half-hour passed. A clerk brought in a slip. The banker looked at it. No more than seven hundred pounds remained in the till. "Very good," he said. "Let me know when Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins come." And as the door closed behind the lad he fell back into his old posture of depression. There was nothing to be done.
But five minutes later Clement looked in, his face concerned. "Sir Charles Woosenham is here," he said in a low voice. "He is asking for you."
The banker roused himself. The call was not unexpected nor quite unwelcome. "Show him in," he said; and he took up a pen and drew a sheet of paper towards him that he might appear to be employing himself.
Sir Charles came in, tall, stooping a little, his curly-brimmed hat in his hand; the dignified bearing with which he was wont to fence himself against the roughness of the outer world a little less noticeable than usual. He was a gentleman, and he did not like his errand.
Ovington rose. "Good morning, Sir Charles," he said, "you wanted to see me? I am unfortunately busy this morning, but I can give you ten minutes. What is it, may I ask?" He pushed a chair toward his visitor.
But Woosenham would not sit down. If the man was down he hated to--but, there, he had come to do it. "I am sure it is all right, Mr.
Ovington," he said awkwardly, "but I am concerned about the--about the Railway money, in fact. The sum is large, and--and--" stammering a little--"but I think you will understand my position?"
The banker smiled. "You wish to know if it's safe?" he said.
"Well, yes--precisely," with relief. "You'll forgive me, I am sure.
But people are talking."
"They are doing more," Ovington answered austerely--he no longer smiled. "They are doing their best to ruin me, Sir Charles, and to plunge themselves into loss. But I need not go into that. You are anxious about the Railroad money? Very good." He rang the bell and the clerk came in. "Go to the strong-room," the banker said, taking some keys from the table, "with Mr. Clement, and bring me the box with the Railway Trust."
"I am sorry," Sir Charles said, when they were alone, "to trouble you at this time, but----"
Ovington stopped him. "You are perfectly in order," he said. "Indeed, I am glad you have come. The box will be here in a minute."
Clement brought it in, and Ovington took another key and unlocked it.
"It is all here," he explained, "except the small sum already expended in preliminary costs--the sum passed, as you will remember, at the last meeting of the Board. Here it is." He took a paper which lay on the top of the contents of the box. "Except four hundred and ten pounds, ten shillings. The rest is invested in Treasury Bills until required. The bills are here, and Clement will check them with you, Sir Charles, while I finish this letter. We have, of course, treated this as a Trust Fund, and I think that the better course will be for you to affix your seal to the box when you have verified the contents."
He turned to his letter, though it may be doubted whether he knew what he was writing, while Sir Charles and Clement went through the box, verified the securities, and finally sealed the box. That done, Woosenham would have offered fresh apologies, but the banker waved them aside and bowed him out, directing Clement to see him to the door.
That done, left alone once more, he sat thinking. The incident had roused him and he felt the better for it. He had been able to assert himself and he had confirmed in good will a man who might yet be of use to him. But he was not left alone very long. Sir Charles had not been gone five minutes before Rodd thrust a pale face in at the door, and in an agitated whisper informed him that Owen and Jenkins were coming down the High Street. A scout whom the cashier had sent out had seen them and run ahead with the news. "They'll be here in two minutes, sir," Rodd added in a tone which betrayed his dismay. "What am I to do? Will you see them, sir?"
"Certainly," Ovington answered. "Show them in as soon as they arrive."
He spoke firmly, and made a brave show in Rodd's eyes. But he knew that up to this moment he had retained a grain of hope, a feeling, vague and baseless, that something might yet happen, something might yet occur at the last moment to save the bank. Well, it had not, and he must steel himself to face the worst. The crisis had come and he must meet it like a man. He rose from his chair and stood waiting, a little paler than usual, but composed and master of himself.
He heard the disturbance that the arrival of the two men caused in the bank. Some one spoke in a harsh and peremptory tone, and something like an altercation followed. Raised voices reached him, and Rodd's answer, civil and propitiatory, came, imperfectly, to his ear. The peremptory voice rose anew, louder than before, and the banker's face grew hard as he listened. Did they think to browbeat him? Did they think to bully him? If so, he would soon--but they were coming. He caught the sound of the counter as Rodd raised it for the visitors to pass, and the advance of feet, slowly moving across the floor. He fixed his eyes on the door, all the manhood in him called up to meet the occasion.
The door was thrown open, widely open, but for a moment the banker could not see who stood in the shadow of the doorway. Two men, certainly, and Rodd at their elbow, hovering behind them; and they must be Owen and Jenkins, though Rodd, to be sure, should have had the sense to send in one at a time. Then it broke upon the banker that they were not Owen and Jenkins. They were bigger men, differently dressed, of another class; and he stared. For the taller of the two, advancing slowly on the other's arm, and feeling his way with his stick, was Squire Griffin, and his companion was no other than Sir Charles, mysteriously come back again.
Prepared for that which he had foreseen, Ovington was unprepared for this, and the old man, still feeling on his unguarded side with his stick, was the first to speak. "Give me a chair," he grunted. "Is he here, Woosenham?"
"Yes," Woosenham said, "Mr. Ovington is here."
"Then let me sit down." And as Sir Charles let him down with care into the chair which the astonished banker hastened to push forward, "Umph!" he muttered, as he settled himself and uncovered his head.
"Tell my man"--this to Rodd--"to bring in that stuff when I send for it. Do you hear? You there? Tell him to bring it in when I bid him."
Then he turned himself to the banker, who all this time had not found a word to say, and indeed had not a notion what was coming. He could only suppose that the Squire had somehow revived Woosenham's fears, in which case he should certainly, Squire or no Squire, hear some home truths. "You're surprised to see me?" the old man said.
"Well, I am, Mr. Griffin. Yes."