Arthur was at the bank by noon, and up to that time nothing had
occurred to justify the banker’s apprehensions or to alarm the most
timid. Business seemed to be a little slack, the bank door had a rest,
and there was less coming and going. But in the main things appeared to
be moving as usual, and Arthur, standing at his desk in an atmosphere
as far removed as possible from that of Garth, had time to review the
check that he had received at Josina’s hands, and to consider whether,
with the Squire’s help, it might not still be repaired.
But an hour or two later a thing occurred which might have passed
unnoticed at another time, but on that day had a meaning for three out
of the five in the bank. The door opened a little more abruptly than
usual, a man pushed his way in. He was a publican in a fair way of
business in the town, a smug ruddy-gilled man who, in his younger days,
had been a pugilist at Birmingham and still ran a cock-pit behind the
Spotted Dog, between the Foregate and the river. He stepped to the
counter, his small shrewd eyes roving slyly from one to another.
Arthur went forward to attend to him. “What is it, Mr. Brownjohn?” he
asked. But already his suspicions were aroused.
“Well, sir,” the man answered bluntly, “what we most of us want, sir.
The rhino!”
“Then you’ve come to the right shop for that,” Arthur rejoined, falling
into his humor. “How much?”
“How’s my account, sir?”
Arthur consulted the book which he took from a ledge below the counter.
In our time he would have scribbled the sum on a scrap of paper and
passed the paper over in silence. But in those days many customers
would have been none the wiser for that, for they could not read. So,
“One, four, two, and three and six-pence,” he said.
“Well, I’ll take it,” the publican announced, gazing straight before
him.
Arthur understood, but not a muscle of his face betrayed his knowledge.
“Brewers’ day?” he said lightly. “Mr. Rodd, draw a cheque for Mr.
Brownjohn. One four two, three and six. Better leave five pounds to
keep the account open?”
“Oh, well!” Mr. Brownjohn was a little taken aback. “Yes, sir, very
well.”
“One three seven, Rodd, three and six.” And while the customer,
laboriously and with a crimsoning face, scrawled his signature on the
cheque, Arthur opened a drawer and counted out the amount in Ovington’s
notes. “Twenty-seven fives, and two, three, six,” he muttered, pushing
it over. “You’ll find that right, I think.”
Brownjohn had had his lesson from Wolley, who put up at his house, but
he had not learnt it perfectly. He took the notes, and thumbed them
over, wetting his thumb as he turned each, and he found the tale
correct. “Much obliged, gentlemen,” he muttered, and with a perspiring
brow he effected his retreat. Already he doubted—so willingly had his
money been paid—if he had been wise. He was glad that he had left the
five pounds.
But the door had hardly closed on him before Arthur asked the cashier
how much gold he had in the cash drawer.
“The usual, sir. One hundred and fifty and thirty-two, thirty-three,
thirty-four—one hundred and eighty-four.”
“Fetch up two hundred more before Mr. Brownjohn comes back,” Arthur
said. “Don’t lose time.”
Rodd did not like Arthur, but he did silent homage to his sharpness. He
hastened to the safe and was back in two minutes with twenty rouleaux
of sovereigns. “Shall I break them, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so. Ah!” as the door swung open and one of the Welsh
brothers entered. It was Mr. Frederick. Arthur nodded. “Good day,
Welsh, I was thinking of you. I fancy Clement wants to see you.”
“Right—in one moment,” the lawyer replied. “Just put that——”
But Arthur saw that he had a cheque to pay in—he banked at Dean’s but
had clients’ accounts with them—and he broke in on his business.
“Clement,” he said, “here’s Welsh. Just give him your father’s
message.”
Clement came forward with his father’s invitation—oysters and whist at
five on Friday—and his opinion on a glass of ’20 he was laying down? He
kept the lawyer in talk for a minute or two, and then, as Arthur had
shrewdly calculated, the door opened and Brownjohn slid in. The man’s
face was red, and he looked heartily ashamed of himself, but he put
down his notes on the counter. He was going to speak when, “In a
moment, Brownjohn,” Arthur said. “What is it, Mr. Welsh?”
“Just put this to the Hobdays’ account,” the lawyer answered recalled
to his business. “Fifty-four pounds two shillings and five-pence. And,
by the way, are you going to Garth on Saturday?”
“On Saturday, or Sunday, yes. Can I do anything for you!”
“Will you tell the Squire that that lease will be ready for signature
on Saturday week. If you don’t mind I’ll send it over by you. It will
save me a journey.”
“Good. I’ll tell him. He has been fretting about it. Good-day! Now, Mr.
Brownjohn?”
“I’d like cash for these,” the innkeeper mumbled, thrusting forward the
notes, but looking thoroughly ill at ease.
“Man alive, why didn’t you say so?” Arthur answered, good-humoredly,
“and save yourself the trouble of two journeys? Mr. Rodd, cash for
these, please. I’ve forgotten something I must tell Welsh!” And
flinging the cash drawer wide open, he raised the counter-flap and
hurried after the lawyer.
Rodd knew what was expected of him, and he took out several fistsful of
gold and rattled it down before him. Rapidly, as if he handled so many
peas, he counted out and thrust aside Mr. Brownjohn’s portion, swiftly
reckoned it a second time, then swept the balance back into the open
drawer. “I think you’ll find that right,” he said. “Better count it.
How’s your little girl that was ailing, Mr. Brownjohn?”
Brownjohn muttered something, his face lighting up. Then he counted his
gold and sneaked out, impressed, as Arthur had intended he should be,
with his own unimportance, and more inclined than before to think that
he had made a mistake in following Wolley’s advice.
But before the bank closed that day two other customers came in and
drew out the greater part of their balances. They were both men
connected in one way or another with the clothier, and the thing
stopped there. The following day was uneventful, but the drawings had
been unusual, and the two young clerks might have exchanged notes upon
the subject if their elders had not appeared so entirely unconscious.
As it was, it was impossible for them to think that anything out of the
common had happened.
Worse, and far more important, than this matter was the fact that
stocks and shares continued to fall all that week. Night after night
the arrival of the famous “Wonder,” the fast coach which did the
journey from London in fifteen hours, was awaited by men who thought
nothing of the wintry weather if they might have the latest news.
Afternoon after afternoon the journals brought by the mail were fought
for and opened in the street by men whose faces grew longer as the week
ran on. Some strode up jauntily, and joined themselves to the group of
loungers before the coach-office, while others sneaked up privily, went
no farther than the fringe of the crowd, and there, gravitating
together by twos and threes, conferred in low voices over prices and
changes. Some, until the coach arrived, lurked in a neighboring
churchyard, raised above the street, and glancing suspiciously at one
another affected to be immersed in the study of crumbling gravestones;
while a few made a pretence of being surprised, as they passed, by the
arrival of the mail, or hiding themselves in doorways appeared only at
the last moment, and when they believed that they might do so
unobserved.
One thing was noticeable of nearly all these; that they avoided one
another’s eyes, as if, declining to observe others, they became
themselves unseen. Once possessed of the paper they behaved in
different ways, according as they were of a sanguine or despondent
nature. Some tore the sheet open at once, devoured a particular column
and stamped or swore, or sometimes flung the paper underfoot. Others
sneaked off to the churchyard or to some neighboring nook, and there,
unable to wait longer, opened the journal with shaking fingers; while a
few—and these perhaps had the most at stake—dared not trust themselves
to learn the news where they might by any chance be overlooked, but
hurried homewards through “shuts” and by-lanes, and locked themselves
in their offices, afraid to let even their wives come near them.
For the news was very serious to very many; the more so as,
inexperienced in speculation, they clung for the most part to the hope
of a recovery, and could not bring themselves to sell at a lower figure
than that which they might have got a week before. Much less could they
bring themselves to sell at an actual loss. They had sat down to play a
winning game, and they could not now believe that the seats were
reversed, and that they were liable to lose all that they had gained,
nay, in many cases much more than their stake. Amazed, they saw stocks
falling, crumbling, nay, sinking to a nominal value, while large calls
on them remained to be paid, and loans on them to be repaid. No wonder
that they stared aghast, or that many after a period of stupefaction,
at a state of things so new and so paralyzing, began to feel that it
was neck or nothing with them, and bought when they should have sold,
seeing that in any case the price to which stock was falling meant
their ruin.
For a time indeed there was no public outcry and no great excitement on
the surface. For a time men kept their troubles to themselves, jealous
lest they should get abroad, and few suspected how common was their
plight or how many shared it. Men talk of their gains but not of their
losses, and the last thing desired by a business man on the brink of
ruin is that his position should be made public. But those behind the
scenes feared only the more for the morrow; for with this ferment of
fear and suspense working beneath the surface it was impossible to say
at what moment an eruption might not take place or where the ruin would
stop. One thing was certain, that it would not be confined to the
speculators, for many a sober trader, who had never bought shares in
his life, would fail, beggared by the bankruptcy of his debtors.
Ovington returned on the Friday, and Arthur met him at the Lion, as he
had met him eleven months before. They played their parts well—so well
that even Arthur did not learn the news until the door of the bank had
closed behind them and they were closeted with Clement in the
dining-room. Then they learned that the news was bad—as bad as it could
be.
The banker retained his composure and told his story with calmness, but
he looked very weary. Williams’—Williams and Co. were Ovington’s
correspondents in London—would do nothing, he told them. “They would
not re-discount a single bill nor hear of an acceptance. My own opinion
is that they cannot.”
Arthur looked much disturbed. “As bad as that,” he said, “is it?”
“Yes, and I believe, nay, I am sure, lad, that they fear for
themselves. I saw the younger Williams. He gave me good words, but that
was all; and he looked ill and harassed to the last degree. There was a
frightened look about them all. I told them that if they would
re-discount fifteen thousand pounds of sound short bills, we should
need no further help, and might by and by be able to help others. But
he would do nothing. I said I should go to the Bank. He let out—though
he was very close—that others had done so, and that the Bank would do
nothing. He hinted that they were short of gold there, and saw nothing
for it but a policy of restriction. However, I went there, of course.
They were very civil, but they told me frankly that it was impossible
to help all who came to them; that they must protect their reserve.
They were inclined to find fault, and said it was credit recklessly
granted that had produced the trouble, and the only cure was
restriction.”
“But surely,” Arthur protested, “where a bank is able to show that it
is solvent?”
“I argued it with them. I told them that I agreed that the cure was to
draw in, but that they should have entered on that path earlier; that
to enter on it now suddenly and without discrimination after a period
of laxity was the way to bring on the worst disaster the country had
ever known. That to give help where it could be shown that moderate
help would suffice, to support the sound and let the rotten go was the
proper policy, and would limit the trouble. But I could not persuade
them. They would not take the best bills, would in fact take nothing,
discount nothing, would hardly advance even on government securities.
When I left them——”
“Yes?” The banker had paused, his face betraying emotion.
“I heard a rumor about Pole’s.”
“Pole’s? Pole’s!” Arthur cried, astounded; and he turned a shade paler.
“Sir Peter Pole and Co.? You don’t mean it, sir? Why, if they go scores
of country banks will go! Scores! They are agents for sixty or seventy,
aren’t they?”
The banker nodded. His weariness was more and more apparent. “Yes,
Pole’s,” he said gloomily. “And I heard it on good authority. The truth
is—it has not extended to the public yet, but in the banks there is
panic already. They do not know where the first crash will come, or who
may be affected. And any moment the scare may spread to the public.
When it does it will run through the country like wild-fire. It will be
here in twenty-four hours. It will shake even Dean’s. It will shake us
down. My God! when I think that for the lack of ten or twelve thousand
pounds—which a year ago we could have raised three times over with the
stroke of a pen—just for the lack of that a sound business like this——”
He broke off, unable to control his voice. He could not continue.
Clement went out softly, and for a minute or so there was silence in
the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock, the noise of wheels
in the street, the voices of passers-by—voices that drifted in and died
away again, as the speakers walked by on the pavement. Opposite the
bank, at the corner of the Market Place, two dogs were fighting before
a barber’s shop. A woman drove them off with an umbrella. Her “Shoo!
Shoo!” was audible in the silence of the room.
Before either spoke again, Clement returned. He bore a decanter of
port, a glass, a slice of cake. “D’you take this, sir,” he said. “You
are worn out. And never fear,” cheerily, “we shall pull through yet,
sir. There will surely be some who will see that it will pay better to
help us than to pull us down.”
The banker smiled at him, but his hand shook as he poured out the wine.
“I hope so,” he said. “But we must buckle to. It will try us all. A run
once started—have there been any withdrawals?”
They told him what had happened and described the state of feeling in
the town. Rodd had been going about, gauging it quietly. He could do so
more easily, and with less suspicion, than the partners. People were
more free with him.
Ovington held his glass before him by the stem and looked thoughtfully
at it. “That reminds me,” he said, “Rodd had some money with us—three
hundred on deposit, I think. He had better have it. It will make no
difference one way or the other, and he cannot afford to lose it.”
Arthur looked doubtful. “Three hundred,” he said, “might make the
difference.”
“Well, it might, of course,” the banker admitted wearily. “But he had
better have it. I should not like him to suffer.”
“No,” Clement said. “He must have it. Shall I see to it now? The sooner
the better.”
No one demurred, and he left the room. When he had gone Arthur rose and
walked to the window. He looked out. Presently he turned. “As to that
twelve thousand?” he said. “That you said would pull us through? Is
there no way of getting it? Can’t you think of any way, sir?”
“I am afraid not,” Ovington answered, shaking his head. “I see no way.
I’ve strained our resources, I’ve tried every way. I see no way
unless——”
“Yes, sir? Unless?”
“Unless—and I am afraid that there is no chance of that—your uncle
could be induced to come forward and support us—in your interest.”
Arthur laughed aloud, but there was no mirth in the sound. “If that is
your hope, if you have any idea of that kind, sir,” he said, “I am
afraid you don’t know him yet. I know nothing less likely.”
“I am afraid that you are right. Still, your future is at stake. I am
sorry that it is so, lad, but there it is. And if it could be made
clear to him that he ran no risk?”
“But could it? Could it?”
“He would run no risk.”
“But could he be brought to see that?” Arthur spoke sharply, almost
with contempt. “Of course he could not! If you knew what his attitude
is towards banks generally, and bankers, you would see the absurdity of
it! He hates the very name of Ovington’s.”
The other yielded. “Just so,” he said. Even to him the idea was
unpalatable. “It was only a forlorn hope, a wild idea, lad, and I’ll
say no more about it. It comes to this, that we must depend on
ourselves, show a brave face, and hope for the best.”
But Arthur, though he had scoffed at the suggestion which Ovington had
made, could not refrain from turning it over in his mind. He had
courage enough for anything, and it was not the lack of that which
hindered him from entertaining the project. The storm which was
gathering ahead, and which threatened the shipwreck of his cherished
ambition and his dearest hopes, was terrible to him, and to escape from
its fury he would have faced any man, had that been all. But that was
not all. He had other interests. If he applied to the Squire and the
Squire took it amiss, as it was pretty certain that he would, then not
only would no good be done and no point be gained, but the life-boat,
on which he might himself escape, if things came to the worst, would be
shipwrecked also.
For that life-boat consisted in the Squire’s influence with Josina. The
Squire’s word might still prevail with the girl, silly and unpractical
as she was. It was a chance; no more than a chance, Arthur recognized
that. But at Garth the old man’s will had always been law, and if he
could be brought to put his foot down, Arthur could not believe that
Josina would resist him. And amid the wreck of so many hopes and so
many ambitions, every chance, even a desperate chance, was of value.
But if he was to retain the Squire’s favor, if he was to fall back on
his influence, he must do nothing to forfeit that favor. Certainly he
must not hazard it by acting on a suggestion as ill-timed and hopeless
as that which the banker had put forward. Not to save the bank, not to
save Ovington, not to save anyone! The more, as he felt sure that the
application would do none of these things.
Ovington did not know the old man. He did, and he was not going to sink
his craft, crank and frail as it already was, by taking in passengers.