Rodd’s cold eye travelled over them, measured them, weighed them. He was filled with an immense contempt for them, for their folly, their greed, their selfishness. He raised his hand for silence. “This is not a cock-fight,” he said in a tone as withering as his eye. “This is a bank. When you gentlemen have settled who comes first. I will attend to you.” And then, as the noise only broke out afresh and more loudly, “Well, suppose I begin at the left hand,” he said. He passed to that end of the counter. “Now, Mr. Buffery, what can I do for you. Got your book?”
But Mr. Buffery had not got his book, as Rodd had noticed. On that the cashier slowly drew from a shelf below the counter a large ledger, and, turning the leaves, began a methodical search for the account.
But this was too much for the patience of the man last on the right, who saw six before him, and had left no one to take care of his shop. “But, see here,” he cried imperiously. “Mr. Rodd, I’m in a hurry! If that young man at the desk could attend to me I shouldn’t take long.”
Rodd, keeping his place in the book with his finger, looked at him. “Do you want to pay in, Mr. Bevan?” he asked gravely.
“No. I want forty-two, seven, ten. Here’s my cheque.”
“You want cash?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, I’m the cashier in this bank. No one else pays cash. That’s the rule of the bank. Now, Mr. Buffery,” leisurely turning back to the page in the ledger, and running his finger down it. “Thirty-five, two, six. That’s right, is it?”
“That’s right, sir.” Buffery knuckled his forehead gratefully.
“You’ve brought a cheque?”
But Buffery had not brought a cheque. Rodd shrugged his shoulders, called the senior clerk forward, and entrusted the customer, who was no great scholar, to his care. Then he closed the ledger, returned it carefully to the shelf, and turned methodically to the next in the line. “Now, Mr. Medlicott, what do you want? Are you paying, or drawing?”
Mr. Medlicott grinned, and sheepishly handed in a cheque. “I’ll draw that,” he mumbled, perspiring freely, while from the crowd behind him, shuffling their feet and breathing loudly, there rose a laugh. Rodd brought out the ledger again, and verified the amount. “Right,” he said presently, and paid over the sum in Dean’s notes and gold.
The man fingered the notes and hesitated. Rodd, about to pass to the next customer, paused. “Well, ain’t they right?” he said. “Dean’s notes. Anything the matter with them?”
The man took them without more, and Rodd paid the next and the next in the same currency, knowing that it would be remarked. “I’ll give them a jog while I can,” he thought. “They deserve it.” And, sure enough, every note of that bank that he paid out was presented across the counter at Dean’s within the hour. It gave Mr. Dean something to think about.
No one, in truth, could have done the work better than Rodd. He was so cool, so precise, so certain of himself. Nothing put him out. He plodded through his usual routine at his usual leisurely pace. He recked nothing of the impatient shuffling crowd on the other side of the counter, nothing of the greedy eyes that grudged every motion of his hand. They might not have existed for him. He looked through them. A plodder, he had no nerves. He was the right man in the right place.
At noon, taking with him a slip of paper, he went to report to Ovington, who had retired to the parlor. They had paid out seventeen hundred pounds in the two hours. At this rate they could go on for a long time. There was only one large account in the room — should he call it up and pay it? It might have a good effect.
Ovington agreed, and Rodd returned to the counter. His eye sought out Mr. Meredith. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said austerely. “But I suppose your time is worth something. If you’ll pass up your cheque I’ll let you go.”
The small fry clamored, but Rodd looked through them. “Eight hundred and ten,” said Meredith with a sigh of relief, passing his cheque over the heads of those before him. He was not ashamed of his balance, but for the moment he was ashamed of himself. He began to suspect that he had let himself be carried away with a lot of silly small chaps — yet his fingers itched to hold the money.
Rodd confirmed the account, fluttered a packet of notes, counted them thrice and slowly, and tossed them to Mr. Meredith. “I make them right,” he said, “but you’d better count them.” Then, to one or two who were muttering something about illegal preference, “Bless your innocent hearts,” he said, “you’ll all be paid!” And he took the next in order as if nothing had happened.
It had its effect, and so had a thing that half an hour later broke the dreary monotony of paying out. A man at the back who had just pressed in — for the crowd, reinforced by new arrivals, was very nearly as large as at the hour of opening — raised his voice, complaining bitterly that he could not stay there all day, and that he wanted to pay in some money and go about his business.
There was a stir of surprise. A dozen turned to look at him.
“Good lord!” someone exclaimed.
Only Rodd was unmoved. “Get a pay slip,” he said to the senior clerk, who had been pretty well employed filling in cheques for the illiterate and examining notes. “Now, gentlemen, fair play. Let his pass through. Oh, it’s Mr. Walker, is it? How much, Mr. Walker?”
“Two seven six, ten,” said Mr. Walker, laying a heavy canvas bag on the counter. Rodd untied the neck of the bag and upset the contents, notes and gold, before him. He counted the money with professional deftness, whilst the clerk filled in the slip. “How’s your brother?” he asked.
“Pretty tidy.”
“And how are things in Wolverhampton?”
“So, so! But not so bad as they were.”
“Thank you. You’re the only sensible man I’ve seen to-day, and we shall not forget it. Now, gentlemen, next please.”
Mr. Walker was closely inspected as he pushed his way out, and one or two were tempted to say a word of warning to him, but thought better of it, and held their peace. About two in the afternoon a Mr. Hope of Bretton again broke the chain of withdrawals. He paid in two hundred. Him a man did pluck by the sleeve, muttering “Have a care, man! Have a care what you’re doing!” But Mr. Hope, a bluff tradesman-looking person only answered, “Thank ye, but I am up to snuff. If you ask me I think you’re a silly set of fools.”
News of him and of what he had said, and indeed of much more than he had said, ran quickly through the crowd that wondered and waited all day before the bank; that snapped up every rumor, and devoured the wildest inventions. The bank would close at one! It would close at three — the speaker had it on the best authority! It would close when so and so had been paid! Ovington, the rascal, had fled. He was in the bank, white as a sheet. He had attempted suicide. There was a warrant out for him. The crowd moved hither and thither, like the colors in a kaleidoscope. On its outer edges there was horseplay. Children chased one another up and down the Butter Cross steps, fell over the old women who knitted, were cuffed by the men, driven out by the Beadle — only to return again.
But under the trivialities there was tense excitement. Now and again a man who had been slow to take the alarm forced his way, pale and agitated, through the crowd, to vanish within the doors; or a countryman, whom the news had only just reached in his boosey-close or his rickyard — as they call a stackyard in Aldshire — rode up the hill, hot with haste and cursing those who blocked his road, flung his reins to the nearest bystander, and plunged into the bank as into water. And on the fringe, hiding themselves in doorways, or in the dark mouths of alleys, were men who stood biting their nails, heedless or unconscious of what passed about them; or who came staggering up from the Gullet with stammering tongues and eyes bloodshot with drink — men who a year before had been well-to-do, sober citizens, fathers of families. All one to them now whether Ovington’s stood or fell! They had lost their all, and to show for it and for all that they had ever been worth had but a few pieces of printed paper, certificates, or what not, which
they took out and read in corners, as if something of hope might still, at the thousandth time of reading be derived from them, or which they brandished aloft in the tavern with boasts of what they would have gained if trickery had not robbed them. So, though the crowd had its humors and was swept at times by gusts of laughter, the spectre of ruin stood, gaunt and bleak, in the background, and many a heart quailed before grim visions of bailiffs and forced sales and the workhouse — the workhouse, that in Aldersbury, where they were nothing if not genteel, they called the House of Industry.
And Ovington, as he sat over his books, or peered from time to time from a window, knew this, and felt it. He would not have been human if he had not thought with longing of that twelve thousand, the use of which had so nearly been his; ay, and with passing regret — for after all was not the greatest good for the greatest number sound morality? — of the self-denying ordinance which had robbed him of it. But harassed and heavy-hearted as he was, he remained master of himself, and his bearing was calm and dignified, when at a quarter to four, he showed himself, for the first time that day, in the bank.
It was still half-full, and the approach of closing time and the certainty that they could not all be paid that day, along with the fear that the doors would not open on the morrow, mightily inflamed those who were not in the front rank. They clamored to be paid, brandishing their books or their notes. Some tried prayers, addressing Rodd by name, pleading their poverty or their services. Others reproached him for his slowness, and swore that it was purposeful. And they would not be still, they pushed and elbowed one another, rose on tiptoe and shuffled their feet, quarrelled among themselves.
Their voices filled the bank, passed beyond it, were heard in the street. Rodd worked on bravely, but the perspiration stood on his brow, while the clerks, flurried and nervous, looked now at the clock and now at the malcontents whose violence and restlessness seemed to treble their numbers.
Then it was that Ovington came in, and on the instant the noise died down, and there was silence. He advanced without speaking to within a few feet of the counter. He was cold, composed, upright, dignified. And still he did not speak. He surveyed his customers, his spectacles in his hand. His eyes took in each. At length, “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “there is no need for this excitement. You will all be paid. We are shorthanded to-day, but I had no reason to suppose that those who know me as well as most of you do know me — and there are some here who have known me all my life — would distrust me. However, as we are shorthanded, the bank will remain open to-day until half-past four. Mr. Rodd, you will see, if you please, that the requirements of those now in the room are met. I need not add that the bank will open at the usual time to-morrow. Good-day, gentlemen.”
They raised a feeble cheer in their relief, and in the act of turning away, he paused. “Mr. Ricketts,” he said, singling out one, “you are here about those bills? They are important. If you will bring them through to me — yes, if you please?”
The man whom he had addressed, a banker’s clerk, followed him thankfully into the parlor. His uneasiness had been great, for, though he had not joined in his neighbors’ threats, his employers’ claim exceeded those of all the rest put together.
“We daren’t wait, Mr. Ovington,” he said apologetically. “Our people want it. I take it, it is all right, sir?”
“Quite,” Ovington said. “You have them here? What is the total?”
“Eighteen hundred and twenty-eight, six, eight, sir.”
Ovington examined the bills with a steady hand and wrote the amount on a slip of paper. He rang the bell, and the younger clerk came in. “Bring me that,” he said “as quickly as you can.” Then to his visitor, “My compliments to Mr. Allwood. Will you tell him that his assistance has been of material use to me, and that I shall not forget it? I was sorry to hear of Gibbons’ failure.”
“Yes, sir. Very unfortunate. Very unfortunate, indeed?”
“He is no loser by them, I hope?”
“Well, he is, sir, I am sorry to say.”
“Ah, I am sorry.” And when the lad had brought in the money, and the account was settled, “Are you returning to-night?”
“No, sir. My instructions were to travel by daylight.”
“Then you have an opportunity of stating outside, that you have been paid? I am anxious, of course, to stop this foolish run.”
The man said he would not fail to do so, and Ovington thanked him and saw him out by the private door. Then, taking with him certain books and the slips of paper that Rodd had sent in to him at hourly intervals, he went into the dining-room. Things were no worse than he had expected, but they were no better. Or, yes, they were, a few hundreds better.
Betty was there, awaiting him with an anxious face. She had had no slips to inform her from hour to hour how things went, and she had been too wise to intrude on her father. But many times she had looked from the windows on the scene before the bank, on the shifting crowd, the hasty arrivals, the groups that clung unwearied to the steps of the Butter Cross; and though poverty — she was young — had few terrors for her, she comprehended only too well what her father was suffering — ay, and, though it was a minor evil, what a blister to his pride was this gathering of his neighbors to witness his fall!
So, though she could have put on an appearance of cheerfulness, she felt that it would not accord with his mood, and instead, “Well, father,” she said, with loving anxiety, “is it bad or good?” And, as he sank wearily into his chair, she passed her arm about his shoulders.
“Well,” he replied, with the sigh of a tired man, “it is pretty much as we expected. I don’t know, child, that it is better or worse. But Rodd will be here presently and he will tell us. He must be worn out, poor chap. He has borne the brunt of the day, and he has borne it famously. Famously! I offered to take his place at the dinner-hour but he would not have it. He has not left the counter for five minutes at a time, and he has shown splendid nerve.”
“Then you have not missed the others much?”
“No. We did not wish to pay out too quickly. Well — let us have some tea. Rodd will be glad of it. He has not tasted food since ten o’clock.”
“Did you go in, father?”
“For a minute,” smiling, “to scold them.”
“Oh, they are horrid!”
“No, they are just frightened. Frightened, child! We should do the same in their place.”
“No,” Betty said stoutly. “I shouldn’t! And I could never like anyone who did! Never!”
“Did what?”
“Took money from you when you wanted it so much! I think they’re mean! Mean! And I shall never think anything else!” Betty’s eyes sparkled, she was red with indignation. But the heat passed, and now she was paler than usual, she looked sad. Perhaps she had forgotten how things were, and now remembered; or perhaps — at any rate the glow faded and she was again the Betty of late days — a tired and depressed Betty.
She had seen to it that the fire was clear and the lamps burned brightly; had she not visited the room a dozen times to see to it? And now the curtains had been drawn, the tea-tray had come in, the kettle sang on the hob, the silver and china, reflecting the lights, twinkled a pleasant welcome to the tired man. Or they would have, if he could have believed that the comfort about him was permanent. But how long — the doubt tortured him — would it be his? How long could he ensure it for others? The waiting, anxious crowd, the scared faces, the clamorous customers, these were the things he saw, the things that blotted out the room and darkened the future. These were the only realities, the abiding, the menacing facts of life. He let his chin fall on his hand, and gazed moodily into the fire. A Napoleon of-finance? Ay, but a Napoleon, crushed in the making, whose Waterloo had met him at Arcola!
He straightened himself when Rodd’s step was heard in the passage, and he rose to take the last slip from the cashier’s hand.
“Sit down, man, sit down,” he said. “Betty, give Rodd a cup of tea. He must need it. W
ell?” putting on his glasses to consult the slip.
“We’ve paid out thirteen thousand two hundred and ten, sir.”
“Through one pair of hands! Well done! A fine feat, Rodd, and I shall not forget it. Umph!” thoughtfully, “that is just about what we expected. Neither much better nor much worse. What we did not expect — but sit down and drink your tea, man. Betty!”
“Yes, father.”
“Pass the toast to him. He deserves all we can do for him. What we did not expect,” reverting to the slip with a wrinkled brow, “were the payments in. Four hundred and seventy odd! I don’t understand that. No other sign of returning credit, Rodd? Was it some one we’ve obliged? Very unlikely, for long memories are rare at such times as these. Who was it?”
Rodd was busy with his toast. Betty had passed it to him with a polite smile. “There were two, sir, I think,” he said. He spoke as if he were not quite certain.
The banker looked up in surprise. “Think!” he said. “Why, you must know.”
“Well, there were two, sir, I am sure. But paying out all day — —”
“You’d remember who paid in, I should think. When there were but two. You must remember who they were.”
“One was from Wolverhampton, I know,” Rodd replied, “Mr. Watkins — or Walker.”
“Walker or Watkins? Of Wolverhampton? I don’t remember any customer of that name. And the other? Who was he?”
“From somewhere Bretton way. I could look him up.”
The banker eyed Rodd closely. Had the day’s work been too much for him? “You could look him up?” he rejoined. “Why, man, of course you could. Four hundred and seventy! A bank has failed before now for lack of less. All good notes, I suppose? No Gibbons’ or Garrards’, eh?” an idea striking him. “But you’d see to that. If some one had the idea of washing his hands that way — and the two banks already closed!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 670