It was in the third week of April that Arthur returned to Aldersbury.
Ovington had not failed to let his correspondents know that the lad was
no common mercantile person, but came of a county family and had
connections; and Arthur had been fêted by the bank’s agents and made
much of by their friends. The negotiation which Ovington had entrusted
to him had gone well, as all things went well at this time. His
abilities had been recognized in more than one counting-house, and in
the general elation and success, civilities and hospitality had been
showered upon him. Mothers and daughters had exerted themselves to
please the nephew—it was whispered the heir—of the Aldshire magnate;
and what Arthur’s letters of credit had not gained for him, his
handsome face and good breeding had won. He came back, therefore, on
the best of terms with himself and more in love than ever with the
career which he had laid out. And, but for the money difficulty, and
his mother’s obstinacy, he would have seen all things in rose color.
He returned at the moment when speculation in Aldersbury—and Aldersbury
was in this but a gauge of the whole country—was approaching its fever
point. The four per cent, consols, which not long before had stood at
72, were 106. The three per cents., which had been 52, had risen to 93.
India stock was booming at 280, and these prices, which would have
seemed incredible to a former generation, were justified by the large
profits accruing from trade and seeking investment. They were, indeed,
nothing beside the heights to which more speculative stocks were being
hurried. Shares in one mine, bought at ten pounds, changed hands at a
hundred and fifty. Shares in another, on which seventy pounds had been
paid, were sold at thirteen hundred. An instalment of £5 was paid on
one purchase, and ten days later the stock was sold for one hundred and
forty!
Under such circumstances new ventures were daily issued to meet the
demand. Proposals for thirty companies came out in a week, and still
there appeared to be money for all, for the banks, tempted by the
prevailing prosperity, increased their issues of notes. It seemed an
easy thing to borrow at seven per cent., and lay out the money at ten
or fifteen, with certainty of a gain in capital. Men who had never
speculated saw their neighbors grow rich, and themselves risked a
hundred and doubled it, ventured two and saw themselves the possessers
of six. It was like, said one, picking up money in a hat. It was like,
said another, baling it up in a bucket. There seemed to be money
everywhere—money for all. Peers and clergymen, shop-keepers and maiden
ladies, servants even, speculated; while those who knew something of
the market, or who could allot shares in new ventures, were courted and
flattered, drawn into corners and consulted by troops of friends.
All this came to its height at the end of April, and Arthur, sanguine
and eager, laden with the latest news from Lombard Street, returned to
Aldersbury to revel in it. He trod the Cop and the High Street as if he
walked on air. He moved amid the excitement like a young god. His nod
was confidence, his smile a promise. A few months before he had
doubted. He had viewed the rising current of speculation from without,
and had had his misgivings. Now the stream had caught him, and if he
ever reflected that there might be rocks ahead, he flattered himself
that he would be among the first to take the alarm.
The confidence which he owed to youth, the banker drew from a past of
unvarying success. But the elder man did have his moments of mistrust.
There were hours when he saw hazards in front, and the days on which he
did not call for the Note Issues were few. But even he found it easier
to go with the current, and once or twice, so high was his opinion of
Arthur’s abilities, he let himself be persuaded by him. Then the mere
bustle was exhilarating. The door of the bank that never rested, the
crowded counter, the incense of the streets, the whispers where he
passed, all had their intoxicating effect. The power to put a hundred
pounds into a man’s pocket—who can abstain from, who is not flattered
by, the use of this, who can at all times close his mouth? And often
one thing leads to another, and advice is the prelude to a loan.
It was above all when the railroad scheme was to the fore that the
banker realized his importance. It was his, he had made it, and it was
on its behalf that he was disposed to put his hand out farthest. The
Board, upon Sir Charles’s proposal—the fruit of a hint dropped by
Ovington—had fixed the fourth market-day in April for the opening of
the subscription list. Though the season was late, the farmers would be
more or less at liberty; and as it happened the day turned out to be
one of the few fine days of that spring. The sun, rarely seen of late,
shone, the public curiosity was tickled, the town was full, men in the
streets quoted the tea-kettle and explained the powers of steam; and
Arthur, as he forged his way through the good-tempered, white-coated
throng, felt to the full his importance.
Near the door of the bank he met Purslow, and the draper seized his
arm. “One moment, sir, excuse me,” he whispered. “I’ve a little more I
can spare at a pinch. What do you advise, Mr. Bourdillon?”
Arthur knew that it was not in his province to advise, and he shook his
head. “You must ask Mr. Ovington,” he said.
“And he that busy that he’ll snap my nose off! And you’re just from
London. Come, Mr. Bourdillon, just for two or three hundred pounds. A
good ’un! A real good ’un! I know you know one!”
Arthur gave way. The man’s wheedling tone, the sense of power, the
ability to confer a favor were too much for him. He named the Antwerp
Navigation Company. “But don’t stop in too long,” he added. And he
snatched himself away, and hurried on, and many were those who found
his frank eager face irresistible.
As he ploughed his way through the crowd, his head on a level with the
tallest, he seemed to be success itself. His careless greeting met
everywhere a cheery answer, and more than one threw after him, “There
goes the old Squire’s nevvy! See him? He’s a clever ’un if ever there
was one!” They gave him credit for knowing mysteries dark to them, yet
withal they owned a link with him. He too belonged to the land. A link
with him and some pride in him.
In the parlor where the Board met he had something of the same effect.
Sir Charles and Acherley had taken their seats and were talking of
county matters, their backs turned on their fellows. Wolley stood
before the fire, glowering at them and resenting his exclusion. Grounds
sat meekly on a chair within the door. But Arthur’s appearance changed
all. He had a word or a smile for each. He set Grounds at his ease, he
had a joke for Sir Charles and Acherley, he joined Wolley before the
fire. Ovington, who had left the room for a moment, noted the change,
and his heart warmed to the Secretary. “He will do,” he told himself,
as he turned to the business of the meeting.
“Come, Mr. Wolley, come, Mr. Grounds,” he said, “pull up your chairs,
if you please. It has struck twelve and the bank should be open to
receive applications at half-past. I conveyed your invitation,
gentlemen, to Mr. Purslow two days ago, and I am happy to tell you that
he takes two hundred shares, so that over one-third of the capital will
be subscribed before we go to the public. I suppose, gentlemen, you
would wish him to take his seat at once?”
Sir Charles and Acherley nodded, Wolley looked sullen but said nothing,
Grounds submitted. Neither he nor Wolley was over-pleased at sharing
with another the honor of sitting with the gentry. But it had to be
done. “Bring him in, Bourdillon,” Ovington said.
Purslow, who was in waiting, slid into the room and took his seat,
between pride and humility. “I have reason to believe, gentlemen,”
Ovington continued, “that the capital will be subscribed within
twenty-four hours. It is for you to say how long the list shall remain
open.”
“Not too long,” said Sir Charles, sapiently.
“Shall I say forty-eight hours? Agreed, gentlemen? Very good. Then a
notice to that effect shall be posted outside the bank at once. Will
you see to that, Bourdillon?”
“And what of Mr. Griffin?” Wolley blurted out the question before
Ovington could restrain him. The clothier was anxious to show Purslow
that he was at home in his company.
“To be sure,” Ovington answered smoothly. “That is the only point,
gentlemen, in which my expectations have not been borne out. The
interview between Mr. Griffin and myself was disappointing, but I hoped
to be able to tell you to-day that we were a little more forward. Mr.
Wolley, however, has handed me a letter which he has received from
Garth, and it is certainly——”
“A d——d unpleasant letter,” Wolley struck in. “The old Squire don’t
mince matters.” He had predicted that his landlord would not come in,
and he was pleased to see his opinion confirmed. “He says I’d better be
careful, for if I and my fine railroad come to grief I need not look to
him for time. By the Lord,” with unction, “I know that, railroad or no
railroad! He’d put me out as soon as look at me!”
Sir Charles shuffled his papers uncomfortably. To hear a man like
Wolley discuss his landlord shocked him—he felt it a kind of treason to
listen to such talk. He feared—he feared more than ever—that the
caustic old Squire was thinking him a fool for mixing himself up with
this business. Good Heavens, if, after all, it ended in disaster!
Acherley took it differently. He cared nothing for Griffin’s opinion;
he was in money difficulties and had passed far beyond that. He
laughed. “Put you out? I’ll swear he would! There’s no fool like an old
fool! But he won’t have the chance.”
“No, I think not,” Ovington said blandly. “But his attitude presents
difficulties, and I am sure that our Chairman will agree with me that
if we can meet his views, it will be worth some sacrifice.”
“Can’t Arthur get round him?” Acherley suggested.
“No,” Arthur replied, smiling. “Perhaps if you——”
“Will you see him, Mr. Acherley?”
“Oh, I’ll see him!” carelessly. “I don’t say I shall persuade him.”
“Still, we shall have done what we can to meet his views,” the banker
replied. “If we fail we must fall back—on my part most reluctantly—on
the compulsory clauses. But that is looking ahead, and we need not
consider it at present. I don’t think that there is anything else? It
is close on the half-hour. Will you see, Bourdillon, if all is ready in
the bank?”
Arthur went out, leaving the door ajar. There came through the opening
a murmur of voices and the noise of shuffling feet. Ovington turned
over the papers before him. “In the event of the subscriptions
exceeding the sum required, what day will suit you to allot? Thursday,
Sir Charles?”
“Friday would suit me better.”
“Friday be it then, if Mr. Acherley—good. On Friday at noon, gentlemen.
Yes, Bourdillon?”
Arthur did not sit down. He was smiling. “It’s something of a sight,”
he said. “By Jove it is! I think you ought to see it.”
Ovington nodded, and they rose, some merely curious, others eager to
show themselves in their new role of dignity. Arthur opened the door
and stood aside. Beyond the door the cashier’s desk with its green
curtains formed a screen which masked their presence. Ovington
separated the curtains, and Sir Charles and Acherley peeped between
them. The others looked round the desk.
The space devoted to the public was full. It hummed with low voices,
but above the hum sharp sentences from time to time rang out. “Here,
don’t push! It’s struck, Mr. Rodd! Hand ’em out!” Then, louder than
these, a lusty voice bawled, “Here, get out o’ my road! I want money
for a cheque, man!”
The two clerks were at the counter, with piles of application forms
before them and their eyes on the clock. Clement and Rodd stood in the
background. The impassive attitude of the four contrasted strikingly
with the scene beyond the counter, where eighteen or twenty persons
elbowed and pushed one another, their flushed faces eloquent of the
spirit of greed. For it had got about that there was easy money and
much money to be made out of the Railroad shares—to be made in
particular by those who were first in the field. Some looked to make
the money by a sale at a premium, others foresaw a profit but hardly
knew how it was to come, more had heard of men who had suddenly grown
rich, and fancied that this was their chance. They had but to sign a
form and pay an instalment, and profit would flow in, they did not care
whence. They were certain, indeed, but of one thing, that there was
gain in it; and with every moment their number grew, for with every
moment a newcomer forced his way, smiling, into the bank. Meantime the
crowd gave good-humored vent to their impatience. “Let’s have ’em! Hand
’em out!” they murmured. What if there were not enough to go round?
The man with the cheque, hopelessly wedged in, protested. “There,
someone hand it on,” he cried at last. “And pass me out the money, d—n
you! And let me get out of this.”
The slip was passed from hand to hand, and “How’ll you have it, Mr.
Boumphry?” Rodd asked.
“In shares!” cried a wit.
“Notes and a pound in silver,” gasped Boumphry, who thought the world
had gone mad. “And dunno get on my back, man!” to one behind him. “I’m
not a bullock! Here, how’m I to count it when I canna get——”
“A form!” cried a second wit. “Neither can we, farmer! Come, out with
’em, gentlemen. Hullo, Mr. Purslow! That you? Ha’ you turned banker?”
The draper, who had showed himself over-confidently, fell back purple
with blushes. “Certainly an odd sight,” said the banker quietly. “It
promises well, I think, Sir Charles.”
“Hanged well!” said Acherley.
Sir Charles acquiesced. “Er, I think so,” he said. “I certainly think
so.” But he felt himself a little out of place.
The minute hand touched the half-hour, and the clerks began to
distribute the papers. After watching the scene for a moment the Board
separated, its members passing out modestly through the house door.
They parted on the pavement, even Sir Charles unbending a little and
the saturnine Acherley chuckling to himself as visions of fools and fat
premiums floated before him. It was a vision which they all shared in
their different ways.
Arthur was about to join the workers in the bank when Ovington beckoned
him into the dining-room. “You can be spared for a moment,” he said.
“Come in here. I want to speak to you.” He closed the door. “I’ve been
considering the matter I discussed with you some time ago, lad, and I
think that the time has come when it should be settled. But you’ve said
nothing about it and I’ve been wondering if anything was wrong. If so,
you had better tell me.”
“Well, sir——”
The banker was shrewd. “Is it the money that is the trouble?”
The moment that Arthur had been dreading was come, and he braced
himself to meet it. “I’m afraid that there has been some difficulty,”
he said, “but I think now——”
“Have you given your uncle notice?”
Arthur hesitated. If he avowed that they had not given his uncle
notice, how weak, how inept he would appear in the other’s eyes! A wave
of exasperation shook him, as he saw the strait into which his mother’s
obstinacy was forcing him. The opportunity which he valued so highly,
the opening on which he had staked so much—was he to forfeit them
through her folly? No, a hundred times, no! He would not let her ruin
him, and, “Yes, we have given it,” he said, “but very late, I’m afraid.
My mother had her doubts and I had to overcome them. I’m sorry, sir,
that there has been this delay.”
“But the notice has been given now?”
“Yes.”
“Then in three months, as I understand——”
“The money will be ready, sir.” He spoke stoutly; the die was cast now,
and he must go through with it. After all it was not his fault, but his
mother’s; and for the rest, if the notice was not already given it
should be this very day. “It will be ready in three months, but not
earlier, I am afraid.”
Ovington reflected. “Well,” he said, “that must do. And we won’t wait.
We will sign the agreement now and it shall take effect from next
Monday, the payment to be made within three months. Go through the
articles”—he opened his desk and took a paper from it and gave it to
Arthur—“and come in with one of the clerks at five o’clock and we will
complete it.”
Arthur hardly knew what to Bay. “It’s uncommonly kind of you, sir!” he
stammered. “You may be sure I shall do my best to repay your kindness.”
“Well, I like you,” the banker rejoined. “And, of course, I see my own
advantage in it. So that is settled.”
Arthur went out taking the paper with him, but in the passage he
paused, his face gloomy. After all it was not too late. He could go
back and tell Ovington that his mother—but no, he could not risk the
banker’s good opinion. His mother must do it. She must do it. He was
not going to see the chance of a lifetime wasted—for a silly scruple.
He moved at last, and as he went into the bank he jostled two persons
who, sheltered by the cashier’s desk, were watching, as the Board had
watched a few minutes before, the scene of excitement which the bank
presented. The one was Betty, the other was Rodd, the cashier. It had
occurred to Rodd that the girl would like to view a thing so unusual,
and he had slipped out and fetched her. They faced about, startled by
the contact. “Oh, it’s you!” said Betty.
“Yes,” drily. “What are you doing here, Betty?”
“I came to see the Lottery drawn,” she retorted, making a face at him.
“Mr. Rodd fetched me. No one else remembered me.”
“Well, I should have thought that he—ain’t you wanted, Rodd?” There was
a new tone in Arthur’s voice. “Mr. Clement seems to have his hands
full.”
Rodd’s face reddened under the rebuke. For a moment he seemed about to
answer, then he thought better of it. He left them and went to the
counter.
“And what would you have thought?” Betty asked pertly, reverting to the
sentence that he had not finished.
“Only that Rodd might be better employed—at his work. This is just the
job he is fit for, giving out forms.”
“And Clement, too, I suppose? It is his job, too?”
“When he’s here to do it,” with a faint sneer. “That is not too often,
Betty.”
“Well, more often of late, anyway. Do you know what Mr. Rodd says?”
“No.”
“He says that he has seen just such a crowd as this in a bank before.
At Manchester seventeen years ago, when he was a boy. There was a run
on the bank in which his father worked, and people fought for places as
they are fighting to-day. He does not seem to think it—lucky.”
“What else does he think?” Arthur retorted with contempt. “What other
rubbish? He’d better mind his own business and do his work. He ought to
know more than to say such things to you or to anyone.”
Betty stared. “Dear me,” she replied, “we are high and mighty to-day!
Hoity toity!” And turning her shoulder on him, she became absorbed in
the scene before her.
But that evening she was more than usually grave, and when her father,
pouring out his fourth and last glass of port—for he was an abstemious
man—told her that the partnership articles had been signed that
afternoon, she nodded. “Yes, I knew,” she said sagely.
“How, Betty? I didn’t tell you. I have told no one. Did Arthur?”
“No, father, not in so many words. But I guessed it.” And during the
rest of the evening she was unusually pensive.