Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XL

  The banker looked at the money lying at his feet. Clement looked athis father. He noted the elder man's despondent attitude, he read thelines which anxiety had deepened on his brow, and his assumed gaietyfell from him. He longed to say something that might comfort theother, but _mauvaise honte_ and the reserve of years were too much forhim, and instead he rapidly and succinctly told his tale, running overwhat had happened in London and on the road. He accounted for what hehad 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 seethat the place is full."

  Ovington's eyes were still on the bags, and though he forced himselfto speak, his tone was dull and mechanical. "Yes," he said. "We paidout fifteen thousand and odd yesterday. About six thousand in odd sumsto-day. I have just settled with Yapp--two thousand seven hundred.Mills and Blakeway have drawn at the counter--three thousand and fiftybetween them. A packet of notes from Birmingham, eleven hundred.Jenkins sent his cheque for twelve hundred by his son, but he omittedto fill in the date."

  "And you didn't pay it?"

  "No, I didn't pay it. Why should I? But he will be in himselfby the two o'clock coach. The only other account--large accountoutstanding--is Owen's for eighteen hundred. Probably he will come inby the same coach. In the meantime--" he took a slip of paper from thetable--"we have notes for rather more than two thousand still out;half of these may not, for one reason or another, be presented. Andpayable 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 inthe 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 hundredand fifty."

  "Rodd?" Clement eyes sparkled. "God bless him! He's a Trojan, and Ishan't forget it! Bravo, Rodd!"

  The banker nodded, but in a perfunctory way. "That's the position," hesaid. "If Owen and Jenkins hold off--but there's no hope of that--wemay go on till four o'clock. But if either comes in we must close.Close," bitterly, "for the lack of three thousand or four thousandpounds!"

  Clement sighed. Young as he was he was beginning to feel the effect ofhis exertions, of his double journey, and his two sleepless nights. Atlast, "No one will lose, sir?" he said.

  "No, no one, ultimately and directly, by us. And if we were an oldbank, if we were Dean's even--" there was venom in the tone in whichhe uttered his rival's name "--we might resume in a week or afortnight. 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 beuseless to resume. And, of course, the sacrifices that we have madehave been very costly. We have had to rediscount bills at fifteen percent., and sell a long line of securities at a loss, and what is lefton our hands may be worth money some day, but it is worthless atpresent."

  "Wolley's Mill?"

  "Ay, and other things. Other things."

  Clement looked at the floor, and again the longing to say something ordo something that might comfort his father pressed upon him. Tohimself 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 withhis father it was different, and he knew that it was different. Hisfather had built up from nothing the edifice that now cracked andcrumbled 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 theforce and the energy of the best twenty years of his life, and he hadnot now, he had no longer, the vigor or the strength to set aboutrebuilding.

  It was a tragedy, and Clement saw that it was a tragedy. And all forthe lack--pity rose strong within him--all for the lack of--fourthousand pounds. To him, conversant with the bank's transactions, itseemed a small sum. It was a small sum.

  "Ay, four thousand!" his father repeated. His eyes returnedmechanically to the money at his feet, returned and fixed themselvesupon it. "Though in a month we may be able to raise twice as muchagain! 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, andhe took the alarm. He put aside his reserve, he laid his hand gentlyon the elder man's shoulder, and by the pressure of his silent caresshe strove to recall him to himself, he strove to prove to him thatwhatever happened, whatever befell, they were one--father and son,united inseparably by fortune. But aloud, "No!" he said firmly. "Notthat, 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 toput together on his desk rustled in his grasp. He knew--knew well thathis son was right. But how great was the temptation! There lay themoney at his feet, and he was sure that he could not be called toaccount for it. There lay the money that would gain the necessarytime, that would meet all claims, that would save the bank!

  True, it was not his, but how great was the temptation. It was sogreat that what might have happened had Clement not been there, had hestood there alone and unfettered, it is impossible to say--though theman was honest. For it was easy, nothing was more easy, than to arguethat the bank would be saved and no man, not even the Squire, wouldlose. It was so great a temptation, and the lower course appeared soplausible that four men out of five, men of average honesty and goodfaith, might have fallen.

  Fortunately the habit of business integrity came to the rescue, andreinforced and supported the son's argument--and the battle was won."You are right," the banker said huskily, his face still averted, hishands 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 Imay do!"

  "You'll do the right thing, sir, never fear!" the son answeredconfidently. And with an effort he lifted the two heavy bags and movedtowards the door. But on the threshold and as the door closed behindhim, "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 girlwas in tears, for the shadow of anxiety hung over the whole house, andeven the panic-stricken maids were listening on the stairs or peeringfrom the windows--"Take care of him, Betty," he said, his eyesshining. "Take care of him, girl. I shall be back by one o'clock. If Icould stay with him now I would, but I cannot. I cannot! And don'tfret. 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 ofhim, 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-sensedown the garden walk; and when he had disappeared behind the pear-treeespaliers she went back to listen outside the parlor door. She hadbeen her father's pet. He had treated her with an indulgence and afamiliarity rare in those days of parental strictness, and sheunderstood him well, better than others, better even than Clement. Sheknew what failure would mean to him. It was not the loss of wealthwhich would wound him most sorely, though he would feel that; but theloss of the position which success had gained for him in the littleworld in which he lived, and lived somewhat aloof. He had beenthought, and he had thought himself, cleverer than his neighbors. Hehad borne himself as one belonging to, and destined for, awider sphere. He had met the pride of the better-born and theolder-established with a greater pride; and believing in his star, hehad allowed his contempt for others and his superiority to be a littletoo 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 notspy on her, listened and longed to go in to him and comfort him. Butall 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 hischair, had she known how the past mocked him, and the long chain ofhis successes rose and derided him, how the mirage of long-cherishedhopes melted and left all cold before him--had she guessed the fullbitterness of his spirit, she had broken through every rule and gonein to him.

  The self-made man! Proudly, disdainfully he had flung the taunt backin men's faces. Could they make, could they have made themselves, ashe had? And now the self-ruined man! He sat thinking of it, and theminutes went by. Twice one of the clerks came in and silently placed aslip beside him and went softly out. He looked at the slip, butwithout taking in its meaning. What did it matter whether a few moreor a few less pounds had been drawn out, whether the drain had waxedor waned in the last quarter of an hour? The end was certain, and itwould come when the two men arrived on the Chester coach. Then hewould have to bestir himself. Then he would have to resume the leadand 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 knewthat he could do it. He knew that when the time came his voice wouldbe firm and his face would be granite, and that he would pronounce hisown sentence and declare the bank closed with a high head. He knewthat even in defeat he could so clothe himself with power that no manshould browbeat him.

  But in the meantime he paid his debt to weakness, and sat brooding onthe past, rather than preparing for the future; and time passed, therelentless hand moved round the clock. Twice the clerk came in withhis doom-bearing slips, and presently Rodd appeared. But the cashierhad nothing to say that the banker did not know. Ovington took thepaper 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 haveadded 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 missionto Garth did he give any sign. Clement laid his hand on his shoulderand said a cheery word, but, getting no answer, or as good as none, hewent through to his desk. A moment later his voice could be heardrallying a too conscious customer, greeting another with contemptuousgood humor, bringing into the close, heated atmosphere of the bank,where men breathed heavily, snapped at one another, and shuffled theirfeet, a gust of freer brisker air.

  Another half-hour passed. A clerk brought in a slip. The banker lookedat it. No more than seven hundred pounds remained in the till. "Verygood," he said. "Let me know when Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins come." Andas the door closed behind the lad he fell back into his old posture ofdepression. There was nothing to be done.

  But five minutes later Clement looked in, his face concerned. "SirCharles Woosenham is here," he said in a low voice. "He is asking foryou."

  The banker roused himself. The call was not unexpected nor quiteunwelcome. "Show him in," he said; and he took up a pen and drew asheet of paper towards him that he might appear to be employinghimself.

  Sir Charles came in, tall, stooping a little, his curly-brimmed hat inhis hand; the dignified bearing with which he was wont to fencehimself against the roughness of the outer world a little lessnoticeable than usual. He was a gentleman, and he did not like hiserrand.

  Ovington rose. "Good morning, Sir Charles," he said, "you wanted tosee me? I am unfortunately busy this morning, but I can give you tenminutes. 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 hatedto--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 theRailway money, in fact. The sum is large, and--and--" stammering alittle--"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 longersmiled. "They are doing their best to ruin me, Sir Charles, and toplunge themselves into loss. But I need not go into that. You areanxious about the Railroad money? Very good." He rang the bell and theclerk came in. "Go to the strong-room," the banker said, taking somekeys from the table, "with Mr. Clement, and bring me the box with theRailway Trust."

  "I am sorry," Sir Charles said, when they were alone, "to trouble youat 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 expendedin preliminary costs--the sum passed, as you will remember, at thelast meeting of the Board. Here it is." He took a paper which lay onthe top of the contents of the box. "Except four hundred and tenpounds, ten shillings. The rest is invested in Treasury Bills untilrequired. The bills are here, and Clement will check them with you,Sir Charles, while I finish this letter. We have, of course, treatedthis as a Trust Fund, and I think that the better course will be foryou to affix your seal to the box when you have verified thecontents."

  He turned to his letter, though it may be doubted whether he knew whathe 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 wavedthem aside and bowed him out, directing Clement to see him to thedoor.

  That done, left alone once more, he sat thinking. The incident hadroused him and he felt the better for it. He had been able to asserthimself and he had confirmed in good will a man who might yet be ofuse to him. But he was not left alone very long. Sir Charles had notbeen gone five minutes before Rodd thrust a pale face in at the door,and in an agitated whisper informed him that Owen and Jenkins werecoming down the High Street. A scout whom the cashier had sent out hadseen them and run ahead with the news. "They'll be here in twominutes, sir," Rodd added in a tone which betrayed his dismay. "Whatam 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 knewthat up to this moment he had retained a grain of hope, a feeling,vague and baseless, that something might yet happen, something mightyet occur at the last moment to save the bank. Well, it had not, andhe must steel himself to face the worst. The crisis had come and hemust meet it like a man. He rose from his chair and stood waiting, alittle paler than usual, but composed and master of himself.

  He heard the disturbance that the arrival of the two men caused in thebank. Some one spoke in a harsh and peremptory tone, and somethinglike an altercation followed. Raised voices reached him, and Rodd'sanswer, civil and propitiatory, came, imperfectly, to his ear. Theperemptory voice rose anew, louder than before, and the banker's facegrew hard as he listened. Did they think to browbeat him? Did theythink to bully him? If so, he would soon--but they were coming. Hecaught the sound of the counter as Rodd raised it for the visitors topass, and the advance of feet, slowly moving across the floor. Hefixed his eyes on the door, all the manhood in him called up to meetthe occasion.

  The door was thrown open, widely open, but for a moment the bankercould not see who stood in the shadow of the doorway. Two men,certainly, and Rodd at their elbow, hovering behind them; and theymust be Owen and Jenkins, though Rodd, to be sure, should have had thesense to send in one at a time. Then it broke upon the banker thatthey were not Owen and Jenkins. They were bigger men, differentlydressed, of another class; and he stared. For the taller of the two,advancing slowly on the other's arm, and feeling his way with hisstick, was Squire Griffin, and his companion was no other than SirCharles, mysteriously come back again.

  Prepared for that which he had foreseen, Ovin
gton was unprepared forthis, and the old man, still feeling on his unguarded side with hisstick, was the first to speak. "Give me a chair," he grunted. "Is hehere, Woosenham?"

  "Yes," Woosenham said, "Mr. Ovington is here."

  "Then let me sit down." And as Sir Charles let him down with care intothe 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 forit. 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 founda word to say, and indeed had not a notion what was coming. He couldonly suppose that the Squire had somehow revived Woosenham's fears, inwhich case he should certainly, Squire or no Squire, hear some hometruths. "You're surprised to see me?" the old man said.

  "Well, I am, Mr. Griffin. Yes."

  "Ay," drily. "Well, I am surprised myself, if it comes to that. Ididn't think to be ever in this room again. But here I am, none theless. And come on business."

  The banker's eyes grew hard. "If it is about the Railroad moneys," hesaid, "and Sir Charles is not satisfied----"

  "It's none of his business. Naught to do with the Railroad," theSquire answered. Then sharply, "Where's my nephew? Is he here?"

  "No, he is not at the bank to-day."

  "No? Well, he never should ha' been! And so I told him and told you.But you would both have your own way, and you know what's come of it.Hallo!" breaking off suddenly, and turning his head, for his hearingwas still good. "What's that? Ain't we alone?"

  "One moment," Ovington said. Rodd had tapped at the door and put inhis head.

  The cashier looked at the banker, over the visitors' heads. "Mr. Owenand Mr. Jenkins are here," he said in a low tone. "They wish to seeyou. I said you were engaged, sir, but----" his face made the rest ofthe sentence clear.

  Ovington reddened, but retained his presence of mind. "They can see mein ten minutes," he said, coldly. "Tell them so."

  But Rodd only came a little farther into the room. "I am afraid," hesaid, dropping his voice, "they won't wait, sir. They are----"

  "Wait?" The word came from the Squire. He shot it out so suddenly thatthe cashier started. "Wait? Why, hang their infernal impudence,"wrathfully, "do they think their business must come beforeeverybody's? Jenkins? Is that little Jenkins--Tom Jenkins of theHollies?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then d--n his impudence!" the old man burst forth again in a voicethat must have wellnigh reached the street. "Little Tom Jenkins, whosegrandfather was my foot-boy, coming and interrupting my business! Godbless my soul and body, the world is turned upside-down nowadays. Finetimes we live in! Little--but, hark you, sirrah, d'you go and tell himto go to the devil! And shut the door, man! Shut the door!"

  "Tell them I will see them in ten minutes," said the banker.

  But the old man was still unappeased. "That's what we're coming to, isit?" he fumed. "Confound their impudence," wiping his brow, "andthey've put me out, too! I dunno where I was. Is the door closed? Oh,'bout my nephew! I didn't wish it, I've said that, and I've said itoften, but he's in. He's in with you, banker, and he's lugged me in!For, loth as I am to see him in it, I'm still lother that any one o'my name or my blood should be pointed at as the man that's lost thecountryside their money! Trade's bad, out of its place. But trade thatfails at other folks' cost and ruins a sight of people who, true orfalse, will say they've been swindled----"

  "Stop!" the banker could bear it no longer, and he stepped forward,his face pale. "No one has swindled here! No one has been robbed ofhis money. No one--if it will relieve your feelings to know it, Mr.Griffin will lose by the bank in the end. I shall pay all demandswithin a few weeks at most."

  "Can you pay 'em all to-day?" asked the Squire, at his driest.

  "It may be that I cannot. But every man to whom the bank owes a pennywill receive twenty shillings in the pound and interest, within a fewweeks--or months."

  "And who will be the loser, then, if the bank closes? Who'll lose,man?"

  "The bank. No one else."

  "But you can't pay 'em to-day, banker?"

  "That may be."

  "How much will clear you? To pay 'em all down on the nail,"truculently, "and tell 'em all to go and be hanged? Eh? How much doyou need for that?"

  Ovington opened his mouth, but for a moment, overpowered by theemotions that set his temples throbbing, he could not speak. He staredat the gaunt, stooping figure in the chair--the stooping figure in theshabby old riding-coat with the huge plated buttons that had weathereda dozen winters--and though hope sprang up in him, he doubted. The manmight be playing with him. Or, he might not mean what he seemed tomean. There might be some mistake. At last, "Five thousand poundswould pull us through," he said in a voice that sounded strange tohimself, "as it turns out."

  "You'd better take ten," the Squire answered. "There," fumbling in hisinner pocket and extracting with effort a thick packet, "count fiveout of that. And there's five in gold that my man will bring in. D'yougive me a note for ten thousand at six months--five per cent."

  "Mr. Griffin----"

  "There, no words!" testily. "It ain't for you I'm doing it, man.Understand that! It ain't for you. It's for my name and my nephew,little as he deserves it! Count it out, count it out, and give me backthe balance, and let's be done with it."

  Ovington hesitated, his heart full, his hands trembling. He was nothimself. He looked at Woosenham. "Perhaps, Sir Charles," he saidunsteadily, "will be good enough to check the amount with me!"

  "Pshaw, man, if I didn't think you honest I shouldn't be here, whetheror no. No such fool! I satisfied myself of that, you may be sure,before I came in. Count it, yourself. And there! Bid 'em bring in thegold."

  The banker rang the bell and gave the order. He counted the notes, andby the time he had finished, the bags had been brought in. "You'll ha'to take that uncounted," the Squire said, as he heard them set down onthe floor, "as I took it myself."

  "My son will have seen to that," Ovington replied. He was a littlemore like himself now. He sat down and wrote out the note, though hishand shook.

  "Ay," the Squire agreed, "I'm thinking he will have." And turning hishead towards Woosenham, "He's a rum chap, that," he continued, with achuckle and speaking as if the banker were not present. "He gave me atalking-to--me! D'you know that he got to London in sixteen hours, inthe night-time?"

  "Did he, by Jove! Our friend at Halston could hardly have beatenthat."

  "And nothing staged either! Railroads!" scornfully. "D'you thinkthere's any need o' railroads when a man can do that? Or that anyrailroad that's ever made will beat that? Sixteen hours, by George, ahundred and fifty-one miles in the night-time!"

  Sir Charles, who had been an astonished spectator of the scene, gave aqualified assent, and by that time Ovington was ready with his note.The Squire pouched it with care, but cut short his thanks. "I've toldyou why I do it," he said gruffly. "And now I'm tired and I'll begetting home. Give me your arm, Woosenham. But as we pass I've a wordto say to that little joker in the bank."

  He had his word, and a strange scene it was. The two great men stoodwithin the counter, the old man bending his hawk-like face andsightless eyes on the quailing group beyond it, while the clerkslooked on, half in awe and half in amusement. "Fools!" said the Squirein his harshest tone. "Fools, all of ye! Cutting your own throats andtearing the bottom out of your own money-bags! That's what ye bedoing! And you, Tom Jenkins, and you, Owen, that should know better,first among 'em! You haven't the sense to see a yard before you, butelbow one another into the ditch like a pair of blind horses! Youdeserve to be ruined, every man of you, and it's no fault o' yournthat you're not! Business men? You call yourselves business men, andrun on a bank as if all the money was kept in a box under the counterready to pay you! Go home! Go home!" poking at them with his stick."And thank God the banker has more sense than you, and a sight moremoney than your tuppenny ha'penny accounts run to! Damme, if I weremaster here, if
one single one o' you should cross my door again! Butthere, take me out, Woosenham; take me out! Pack o' fools! Pack o'dumb fools, they are!"

  The two marched out with that, but the Squire's words ran up and downthe town like wild-fire. What he had said and how he had said it, andthe figure little Tom Jenkins of the Hollies had cut, was known as faras the Castle Foregate before the old man had well set his foot on thestep of his carriage. The crowd standing about Sir Charles's four baysin the Market Place and respectfully gazing on the postillions' yellowjackets had it within two minutes. Within four it was known at theGullet that the old Squire was supporting the bank, and had givenWelsh Owen such a talking-to as never was. Within ten, the news wasbeing bandied up and down the long yard at the Lion, where theystabled a hundred horses, and was known even to the charwomen who, ontheir knees, were scrubbing the floors of the Assembly Rooms thatlooked down on the yard. Dean's, at which a persistent and provokingrun had been prosecuted since morning, got it among the first; and Mr.Dean, testy and snappish enough before, became for the rest of the daya terror and a thunder-cloud to the junior clerks. Nay, the news soonpassed beyond Aldersbury, for the three o'clock up-coach swept it awayand dropped it with various parcels and hampers at every stage betweenthe Falcon at Heygate and Wolverhampton. Not a turn-pike man but heardit and spread it, and at the Cock at Wellington they gave it to thedown-coach, which carried it back to Aldersbury.

  Owen, it was known, had drawn his money. But Jenkins had thoughtbetter of it. He had gone out of the bank with his cheque in his hand,and had torn it up _coram public_ in the roadway; and from that momentthe run, its force already exhausted, had ceased. Half an hour laterhe would have been held a fool who looked twice at an Ovington note,or distrusted a bank into which, rumor had it, gold had been carriedby the sackful. Had not the Bank of England sent down a specialmessenger bearing unstinted credit? And had not the old Squire ofGarth, the closest, stingiest, shrewdest man in the county, paid inthirty, forty, fifty thousand pounds and declared that he would sellevery acre before the bank should fail? Before night a dozen men wereconsidering ruefully the thing that they had done or pondering howthey might, with the least loss of dignity, undo it. Before morningtwice as many wives had told their husbands what they thought of them,and reminded them that they had always said how it would be--only theywere never listened to!

  At the Gullet in the Shut off the Market Place, where the tap neverceased running that evening, and half of the trade of the town pressedin to eat liver and bacon, there was no longer any talk of Boulogne.All the talk ran the other way. The drawers of the day were the buttsof the evening, and were bantered and teased unmercifully. Theirfriends would not be in their shoes for a trifle--not they! They hadcooked their goose with a vengeance--no more golden eggs for them! Andvery noticeable was it that whenever the banker's name came up, voicesdropped and heads came together. His luck, his power, his resourceswere discussed with awe and in whispers. There were not a fewthoughtful faces at the board, and here and there were appetites thatfailed, though the suppers served in the dingy low-ceiled room at theGullet, dark even at noon-day, were famous for their savoriness.

  * * * * *

  Very different was the scene inside the bank. At the counter, indeed,discipline failed the moment the door fell to behind the lastcustomer. The clerks sprang to their feet, cheered, danced a dance oftriumph, struck a hundred attitudes of scorn and defiance. Theycracked silly jokes, and flung paper darts at the public side; theyrepaid by every kind of monkey trick the alarms and exertions fromwhich they had suffered during three days. They roared, "Oh, dear,what can the matter be!" in tones of derision that reached the street.They challenged the public to come on--to come on and be hanged! Theyceased to make a noise only when breath failed them.

  But in the parlor, whither Clement, followed after a moment'shesitation by Rodd, had hastened to join and to congratulate hisfather, there was nothing of this. The danger had been too pressing,the margin of safety too narrow to admit of loud rejoicing. The threemet like ship-wrecked mariners drawn more closely together by theordeal through which they had passed, like men still shaken by thebuffeting of the waves. They were quiet, as men amazed to findthemselves alive. The banker, in particular, sat sunk in his chair,overcome as much by the scene through which he had passed as by arelief too deep for words. For he knew that it was by no art of hisown, and through no resources of his own that he survived, and hisusual self-confidence, and with it his aplomb, had deserted him. In aroom vibrating with emotion they gazed at one another in thankfulsilence, and it was only after a long interval that the older man lethis thoughts appear. Then "Thank God!" he said unsteadily, "and you,Clement! God bless you! If we owe this to any one we owe it to you, myboy! If you had not been beside me, God knows what I might not havedone!"

  "Pooh, pooh, sir," Clement said; yet he did but disguise deep feelingunder a mask of lightness. "You don't do yourself justice. And for thematter of that, if we have to thank any one it is Rodd, here." Heclapped the cashier on the shoulder with an intimacy that brought aspark to Rodd's eyes. "He's not only stuck to it like a man, but if hehad not paid in his four hundred and fifty----"

  "No, no, sir, we weren't drawn down to that--quite."

  "We were mighty near it, my lad. And easily might have been."

  "Yes," said the banker; "we shall not forget it, Rodd. But, afterall," with a faint smile, "it's Bourdillon we have to thank." And heexplained the motives which, on the surface at least, had moved theSquire to intervene. "If I had not taken Bourdillon in when I did----"

  "Just so," Clement assented drily. "And if Bourdillon had not----"

  "Umph! Yes. But--where is he? Do you know?"

  "I don't. He may be at his rooms, or he may have ridden out to hismother's. I'll look round presently, and if he is not in town I'll goout and tell him the news."

  "You didn't quarrel?"

  Clement shrugged his shoulders. "Not more than we can make up," hesaid lightly, "if it is to his interest."

  The banker moved uneasily in his chair. "What is to be done abouthim?" he asked.

  "I think, sir, that that's for the Squire. Let us leave it to him.It's his business. And now--come! Has any one told Betty!"

  The banker rose, conscience-stricken. "No, poor girl, and she must beanxious. I quite forgot," he said.

  "Unless Rodd has," Clement replied, with a queer look at his father.For Rodd had vanished while they were talking of Arthur, whom it wasnoteworthy that neither of them now called by his Christian name.

  "Well go and tell her," said Ovington, reverting to his everyday tone.And he turned briskly to the door which led into the house. He openedit, and was crossing the hall, followed by Clement, who was anxious torelieve his sister's mind, when both came to a sudden stand. Thebanker uttered an exclamation of astonishment--and so did Betty. ForRodd, he melted with extraordinary rapidity through a convenient door,while Clement, the only one of the four who was not taken completelyby surprise, laughed softly.

  "Betty!" her father cried sternly. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "Well, I thought--you would know," said Betty, blushing furiously. "Ithink it's pretty plain." Then, throwing her arms round her father'sneck, "Oh, father, I'm so glad, I'm so glad, I'm so glad!"

  "But that's an odd way of showing it, my dear."

  "Oh, he quite understands. In fact"--still hiding her face--"we'vecome to an understanding, father. And we want you"--half laughing andhalf crying--"to witness it."

  "I'm afraid I did witness it," gravely.

  "But you're not going to be angry? Not to-day? Not to-day, father."And in a small voice, "He stood by you. You know how he stood by you.And you said you'd never forget it."

  "But I didn't say that I should give him my daughter."

  "No, father; she gave herself."

  "Well, there!" He freed himself from her. "That's enough now, girl.We'll talk about it another time. But I'm not pleased, Betty."

  "No?" said Betty, gai
ly, but dabbing her eyes at the same time. "Hesaid that. He said that you would not be pleased. He was dreadfullyafraid of you. And I said you wouldn't be pleased, too. But----"

  "Eh?"

  "I said you'd come to it, father, by and by. In good time."

  "Well, I'm----" But what the banker was, was lost in the peal oflaughter that Clement could no longer restrain.