Arthur, on the other hand, felt that things were going well with him. A
few months earlier he had decided that a partnership in Ovington’s
would be cheaply bought at the cost of a rupture with his uncle. Now he
had the partnership, he could look forward to the wealth and importance
which it would bring—and he had not to pay the price. On the contrary,
his views now took in all that he had been prepared to resign, as well
as all that he had hoped to gain. They took in Garth, and he saw
himself figuring not only as the financier whose operations covered
many fields, and whose riches were ever increasing, but as the landed
Squire, the man of family, whose birth and acres must give him a
position in society which no mere wealth could confer. The unlucky
night which had cost the old man so much, had been for Arthur the
birth-night of fortune. He could date from it a favor, proof, as he now
believed, against chance and change, a favor upon which it seemed
unlikely that he could ever overdraw.
For since his easy victory on the question of the India Stock, he had
become convinced that the Squire was failing. The old man, once so
formidable, was changed; he had grown, if not weak, yet dependent. And
it could hardly be otherwise, Arthur reflected. The loss of sight was a
paralyzing deprivation, and it had fallen on the owner of Garth at a
time of life when any shock must sap the strength and lower the
vitality. For a while his will had reacted, he had seemed to bear up
against the blow, but age will be served, and of late he had grown more
silent and apathetic. Arthur had read the signs and drawn the
conclusion, and was now sure that, blind and shaken, the old man would
never again be the man he had been, or assert himself against an
influence which a subtler brain would know how to weave about him.
Arthur was thinking of this as he rode into town one morning in
November, his back turned to the hills and the romance of them, his
face to the plain. It was early in the month. St. Luke’s summer,
prolonged that year, had come to an end a day or two before, and the
air was raw, the outlook sombre. Under a canopy of grey mist, the
thinning hedge-rows and dripping woods showed dark against clear blue
distances. But in the warmth of his thoughts the rider was proof
against weather, and when he came to the sedgy spot, never more dreary
to the view than to-day, which Thomas had chosen for his attack on the
Squire, he smiled. That little patch of ground had done much for him,
but at a price, of course—for there he had lost a friend, a good easy
friend in Clement. And Betty—Betty, whose coolness had caused him more
than one honest pang—he had no doubt that there had come a change in
her, too, from that date.
But one had to pay a price for everything, and these were but small
spots on the sun of his success. Soon he had put the thought of them
from him, and, abreast of the first houses of the town, began to employ
his mind on the work of the day—revolving this and that, matters
outside routine which would demand his attention. He knew what was
likely to arise.
Rarely in these days did he enter Aldersbury without a feeling of
elation. The very air of the town inspired him. The life of the
streets, the movement of the markets, the sight of the shopkeepers at
their doors, the stir and bustle had their appeal for him. He felt
himself on his own ground; it was here and not in the waste places that
his work lay, here that he was formed to conquer, here that he was
conquering fortune. Garth was very well—a grand, a splendid reserve;
but as he rode up the steep streets to the bank, he felt that here was
his vocation. He sniffed the battle, his eyes grew brighter, his figure
more alert. From some Huguenot ancestor had descended the Huguenot
appetite for business, the Huguenot ability to succeed.
This morning, however, he did not reach the bank in his happiest mood.
Purslow, the irrepressible Purslow, stopped him, with a long face and a
plaint to match. “Those Antwerp shares, Mr. Bourdillon! Excuse me, have
you heard? They’re down again—down twenty-five since Wednesday! And
that’s on to five, as they fell the week before! Thirty down, sir! I’m
in a regular stew about it! Excuse me, sir, but if they fall much
more——”
“You’ve held too long, Purslow,” Arthur replied. “I told you it was a
quick shot. A fortnight ago you’d have got out with a good profit. Why
didn’t you?”
“But they were rising—rising nicely. And I thought, sir——”
“You thought you’d hold them for a bit more? That was the long and
short of it, wasn’t it? Well, my advice to you now is to get out while
you can make a profit.”
“Sell?” the draper exclaimed. “Now?” It is hard to say what he had
expected, but something more than this. “But I should not clear more
than—why, I shouldn’t make——”
“Better make what you can,” Arthur replied, and rode on a little more
cavalierly than he would have ridden a few months before.
He did not reflect how easy it is to sow the seeds of distrust.
Purslow, left alone to make the best of cold comfort, felt for the
first time that his interests were not the one care of the bank. For
the first time he saw the bank as something apart, a machine, cold,
impassive, indifferent, proceeding on its course unmoved by his
fortunes, good or bad, his losses or his gains. It was a picture that
chilled him, and set him thinking.
Arthur, meantime, left his horse at the stables and let himself into
the bank by the house-door. As he laid his hat and whip on the table in
the hall, he caught the sound of an angry voice. It came from the bank
parlor. He hesitated an instant, then he made up his mind, and stepping
that way he opened the door.
The voice was Wolley’s. The man was on his feet, angry, protesting,
gesticulating. Ovington, his lips set, the pallor of his handsome face
faintly tinged with color, sat behind his table, his elbows on the arms
of his chair, his fingertips meeting.
Arthur took it all in. Then, “You don’t want me?” he said, and he made
as if he would close the door again. “I thought that you were alone,
sir.”
“No, stay,” Ovington answered. “You may as well hear what Mr. Wolley
has to say, though I have told him already——”
“What?” the clothier cried rudely. “Come! Let’s have it in plain
words!”
“That we can discount no more bills for him until the account against
him is reduced. You know as well as I do, Mr. Wolley, that you have
been drawing more bills and larger bills than your trade justifies.”
“But I have to meet the paper I’ve accepted for wool, haven’t I? And if
my customers don’t pay cash—as you know it is not the custom to
pay—where am I to get the cash to pay the wool men?”
The banker took up one of two bills that lay on the table before him.
“Drawn on Samuel Willias, Manchester,” he said. “That’s a new name. Who
is he?”
“A customer. Who should he be?”
“That’s the point,” Ovington replied coldly. “Is he? And this other
bill. A new name, too. Besides, we’ve already discounted your usual
bills. These bills are additional. My own opinion is that they are
accommodation bills, and that you, and not the acceptors, will have to
meet them. In any case,” dropping the slips on the table, “we are not
going to take them.”
“You won’t cash them? Not on no terms?”
“No, we are going no further, Wolley,” the banker replied firmly. “If
you like I will send for the bill-book and ledger and tell you exactly
what you owe, on bills and overdraft. I know it is a large amount, and
you have made, as far as I can judge, no effort to reduce it. The time
has come when we must stop the advances.”
“And you’ll not discount these bills?”
“No!”
“Then, by G—d, it’s not I will be the only one to be ruined!” the man
exclaimed, and he struck the table with his fist. The veins on his
forehead swelled, his coarse mottled face became disfigured with rage.
He glared at the banker. But even as Ovington met his gaze, there came
a change. The perspiration sprang out on his forehead, his face turned
pale and flabby, he seemed to shrink and wilt. The ruin, which
recklessness and improvidence had hidden from him, rose before him,
certain and imminent. He saw his mill, his house, his all gone from
him, saw himself a drunken, ruined, shiftless loafer, cadging about
public-houses! “For God’s sake!” he pleaded, “do it this once, Mr.
Ovington. Meet just these two, and I’ll swear they’ll be the last. Meet
these.”
“No,” the banker said. “We go no farther.”
Perhaps the thought that he and Ovington had risen from the ranks
together, that for years they had been equals, and that now the one
refused his help to the other, rose and mocked the unhappy man. At any
rate, his rage flared up anew. He swore violently. “Well, there’s more
than I will go down, then!” he said. “And more than will suit your
book, banker! Wise as you think yourself, there’s more bills out than
you know of!”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“Ay, and you’ll be more sorry by and by!” viciously. “Sorry for
yourself and sorry that you did not give me a little more help, d—n
you! Are you going to? Best think twice about it before you say no!”
“Not a penny,” Ovington rejoined sternly. “After what you have admitted
I should be foolish indeed to do so. You’ve had my last word, Mr.
Wolley.”
“Then damn your last word and you too!” the clothier retorted, and went
out, cursing, into the bank, shouting aloud as he passed through it,
that they were a set of bloodsuckers and that he’d have the law of
them! Clement from his desk eyed him steadily. Rodd and the clerks
looked startled. The customers—there were but two, but they were two
too many for such a scene—eyed each other uneasily. A moment, and
Clement, after shifting his papers uncertainly, left his desk and went
into the parlor.
Ovington and Arthur had not moved. “What’s the matter?” Clement asked.
The occurrence had roused him from his apathy. He looked from the one
to the other, a challenge in his eyes.
“Only what we’ve been expecting for some time,” his father answered.
“Wolley has asked for further credit and I’ve had to say, no. I’ve
given him too much rope as it is, and we shall lose by him. He’s an
ill-conditioned fellow, and he is taking it ill.”
“He wants a drubbing,” said Clement.
“That is not in our line,” Ovington replied mildly. “But,” he
continued—for he was not sorry to have the chance of taking his son
into his confidence—“we are going to have plenty to think of that is in
our line. Wolley will fail, and we shall lose by him; and I have no
doubt that he is right in saying that he will bring down others. We
must look to ourselves and draw in, as I warned Bourdillon some time
ago. That noisy fellow may do us harm, and we must be ready to meet
it.”
Arthur looked thoughtful. “Antwerps have fallen,” he said.
“I wish it were only Antwerps!” the banker answered. “You haven’t seen
the mail? Or Friday’s prices? There’s a fall in nearly everything.
True,” looking from one to the other, “I’ve expected it—sooner or
later; and it has come, or is coming. Yes, Rodd? What is it?”
The cashier had opened the door. “Hamar,” he said in a low voice,
“wants to know if we will buy him fifty of the railroad shares and
advance him the face value on the security of the shares. He’ll find
the premium himself. He thinks they are cheap after the drop last
week.”
The banker shook his head. “No,” he said. “We can’t do it, tell Mr.
Hamar.”
“It would support the shares,” Arthur suggested.
“With our money. Yes! But we’ve enough locked up in them already. Tell
him, Rodd, that I am sorry, but it is not convenient at present.”
“They are still at a premium of thirty shillings,” Arthur put in.
“Is the door shut, Rodd?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thirty shillings? And that might run off in a week, Mr. Secretary. No,
the time is come when we must not shilly-shally. I see your view and
the refusal may do harm. But we have enough money locked up in the
railway, and with the outlook such as it is, I will not increase the
note issues. They are already too large, as we may discover. We must
say no, Rodd, but tell him to come and see me this evening, and I will
explain.”
The cashier nodded and went out.
Ovington gazed thoughtfully at his joined finger-tips. “Is the door
closed?” he asked again, and assured that it was, he looked
thoughtfully from one to the other of the young men. He seemed to be
measuring them, considering how far he could trust them, how far it
would be well to take them into his confidence. Then, “We are going to
meet a crisis,” he said. “I have now no doubt about that. All over the
country the banks have increased their issues, and hold a vast quantity
of pawned stock. If the fall in values is continued, the banks must
throw the stock on the market, and there will be a general fall. At the
same time they will be obliged to restrict credit and refuse discounts,
which will force traders to throw goods on the market to meet their
obligations. Goods as well as stocks will fall. Alarm will follow, and
presently there will be a run on a weak bank and it will close its
doors. Then there will be a panic, and a run on other banks—a run
proportioned in violence to the amount of credit granted in the last
two years. We may have to meet a run on deposits at the same time that
we may be called upon to cash every note that we have issued.”
“Impossible!” Arthur cried. “We could not do it.”
“If you mean that the run is impossible,” the banker answered quietly,
“I much fear that events will confute you. If you mean that we could
not meet our obligations, well, we must strain every nerve to do so. We
must retain all the cash that comes in, and we must issue no more
notes, create no more credit. But even this we must do with discretion,
and above all not a whisper must pass beyond this room. I will speak to
Rodd. Hamar I will see this evening, and do what I can to sweeten the
refusal. We must wear confident faces however grave the crisis. We are
solvent, amply solvent, if time be given us to realize our resources;
but time may not be given us, and we may have to make great sacrifices.
You may be inclined to blame me——” he paused, and looked from one to
the other—Arthur stood frowning, his eyes on the carpet—“that I did not
take the alarm earlier? Well, I ought to have done so, perhaps. But——”
“Nobody blames you, sir!” It was Clement who spoke, Clement, in whom
the last few minutes had made a marked change. His dulness and
listlessness had fallen from him, he stood upright and alert. The
imagination which had balked at the routine of banking, faced a crisis
with alacrity, and conscious that he had hitherto failed his father, he
welcomed with zest the opportunity of proving his loyalty, “Nobody
blames you, sir!” he repeated firmly. “We are here to stand by you, and
I am confident that we shall win through. If any bank can stand,
Ovington’s will stand. And if we don’t win through, if the public
insists on cutting its own throat, well”—a little ashamed of his own
enthusiasm—“we shall still believe in you, sir, you may be sure of
that!”
“But isn’t—isn’t all this a little premature?” Arthur asked, his tone
cold and business-like. “I don’t understand why you think that all this
is coming upon us at a moment’s notice, sir? Without warning?”
“Not quite without warning,” the banker rejoined with patience.
Clement’s declaration of faith had moved him more deeply than he
showed, and, having that, he could bear a little disappointment. “I
have hinted more than once, Arthur, that I was uneasy. But why, you
ask, this sudden alarm—now? Well, look at Richardson’s list of last
Friday’s prices. You have not seen it. Exchequer Bills that a week ago
were at par are at a discount. India Stock are down five points on the
day—a large fall for such a stock. New Four per Cents, have fallen 3,
Bank Stock that stood at 224 ten days ago is 214. These are not panic
falls, but they are serious figures. With Bank Stock falling ten points
in as many days, what will happen to the immense mass of speculative
securities held by the public, and on much of which calls are due? It
will be down this week; next week the banks will have to throw it out
to save their margins, and customers to pay their calls. It will fall,
and fall. The week after, perhaps, panic! A rush to draw deposits, or a
rush to cash notes, or, probably, both.”
“Then you think—you must think”—Arthur’s voice was not quite under his
control—“that there is danger?”
“It would be as foolish in me to deny it here,” the banker replied
gravely, “as it would be reckless in me to affirm it outside. There is
danger. We shall run a risk, but I believe that we shall win through,
though, it may be, by a narrow margin. And a little thing might upset
us.”
Arthur was not of an anxious temperament—far from it. But he had
committed himself to the bank. He had involved himself in its fortunes
in no ordinary way. He had joined it against the wishes of his friends
and in the teeth of the prejudices of his caste. He had staked his
reputation for judgment upon its success, and assured that it would
give him in the future all for which he thirsted, he had deemed himself
far-sighted, and others fools. In doing this he had never dreamt of
failure, he had never weighed the possibility of loss. Not once had he
reflected that he might turn out to be wrong and robbed of the
prize—might in the end be a laughing-stock!
Now as the possibility of all this, as the thought of failure, complete
and final, flooded his mind and shook his self-confidence, he flinched.
Danger! Danger, owned to by Ovington himself! Ah, he ought to have
known! He ought to have suspected that fortunes were not so easily
made! He ought to have reflected that Ovington’s was not Dean’s! That
it was but a young bank, ill-rooted as yet—and speculative! Ay,
speculative! Such a bank might fall, he was almost certain now that it
would fall, as easily as it had risen!
It was a nerve-shaking vision that rose before him, and for a moment he
could not hide his disorder. At any rate, he could not hide it from two
jealous eyes. Clement saw and condemned—not fully understanding all
that this meant to the other or the sudden strain which it put upon
him. A moment and Arthur was himself again, and his first words
recovered for him the elder man’s confidence. They were practical.
“How much—I mean, what extra amount of reserve,” he asked, “would make
us safe?”
“Just so,” and in the banker’s eyes there shone a gleam of relief.
“Well, if we had twelve thousand pounds, in addition to our existing
assets, I think—nay, I am confident that that would place us out of
danger.”
“Twelve thousand pounds.”
“Yes. It is not a large sum. But it might make all the difference if it
came to a pinch.”
“In cash?”
“In gold, or Bank paper. Or in such securities as could be realized
even in a crisis. Twelve thousand added to our reserve—I think I may
say with confidence that with that we could meet any run that could be
made upon us.”
“There is no doubt that we are solvent, sir?”
“You should know that as well as I do.”
“We could realize the twelve thousand eventually?”
“Of course, or we should not be solvent without it.” For once Ovington
spoke a little impatiently.
“Then could we not,” Arthur asked, “by laying our accounts before our
London agents obtain the necessary help, sir?”
“If we were the only bank likely to be in peril, of course we could.
And even as it is, you are so far right that I had already determined
to do that. It is the obvious course, and my bag is being packed in the
house—I shall go to town by the afternoon coach. And now,” rising to
his feet, “we have been together long enough—we must be careful to
cause no suspicion. Do you, Clement, see Massy, the wine-merchant
to-day, and tell him that I will take, to lay down, the ten dozen of
’20 port that he offered me. And ask the two Welshes to dine with me on
Friday—I shall return on Thursday. And get some oysters from
Hamar’s—two barrels—and have one or two people to dine while I am away.
And, cheerful faces, boys—and still tongues. And now go. I must put
into shape the accounts that I shall need in town.”
He dismissed them with calmness, but he did not at once fall to work
upon the papers. His serenity was that of the commander who, on the eve
of battle, reviews the issues of the morrow, and habituated to the
chances of war, knows that he may be defeated, but makes his
dispositions, folds his cloak about him, and lies down to sleep. But
under the cloak of the commander, and behind the mask that deceives
those about him, is still the man, with the man’s hopes and fears, and
cares and anxieties, which habit has rendered tolerable, and pride
enables him to veil. But they are there. They are there.
As he sat, he thought of his rise, of his success, of step won after
step; of the praise of men and the jealousy of rivals which wealth had
won for him; and of the new machine that he had built up—Ovington’s.
And he knew that if fate went against him, there might in a very short
time be an end of all. Yesterday he and Wolley had been equals. They
had risen from obscurity together. To-day Wolley was a bankrupt.
To-morrow—they might be again equal in their fall, and Ovington’s a
thing to wonder at. Dean’s would chuckle, and some would call him a
fool and some a rogue, and all an upstart—one who had not been able to
keep his head. He would be ruined, and they would find no name too bad
for him.
He thought of Betty. How would she bear it? He had made much of her and
spoiled her, she had been the apple of his eye. She had known only the
days of his prosperity. How would she bear it, how take it? He sighed.
He turned at last to the papers.