|Your money will be perfectly safe here, Miss Mowbray,” said the banker
quietly. “But I'm afraid my clerks are too busily occupied to have a
moment to spare to receive it to-day, unless you wait until my customers
get their cheques cashed. You're getting well through your business, Mr.
Calmour?” he added, turning to the cashier.
“Slowly, sir. I haven't touched the second bag of twenty thousand,”
replied the cashier.
“I'm sure Cyril will be able to reach the desk,” said the lady, “and
it will only occupy a clerk half a minute entering the lodgment. Good
heavens! Mr. Westwood, it takes a clerk no longer to receive and enter
up a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds than it does for a single note.”
Mr. Westwood gave a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders.
“Give me the cheque,” said Cyril. “I'll lodge it or perish in the
attempt.”
The good humour with which he set about the task of forcing his way
through the crowd, spread around. The people who a few minutes before
had been struggling with eager faces and clenched hands to get near the
desks, actually laughed as the young man, holding the cheque for fifteen
thousand pounds high above their heads, made an amusingly exaggerated
attempt to shoulder his way forward. He had no need to use his
shoulders; the people divided before him quite good-naturedly. He
reached the cubicle next to that of the cashier's in a few seconds, and
handed the cheque and the pass-book across the counter to a clerk who
had stepped up to a desk to receive the lodgment.
The silence was so extraordinary that the scratching of the clerk's pen
making the entry was heard all over the place.
And then--then there came a curious reaction from the excitement of the
previous two hours: the tremendous tension upon the nerves of the people
who fancied they were on the verge of ruin, was suddenly relaxed. There
came a clapping of hands, then a cheer arose; every one was cheering
and laughing. The cashier found himself idle. He availed himself of the
opportunity to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief; until now he had
been compelled to shake the drops away to prevent them from falling on
the cheques or the leaves of his ledger.
He stood idle, looking across the maghogany counter in amazement at the
people who were laughing and cheering the tradesmen, poking their thumbs
at each other's ribs, others pressing forward to shake hands with Mr.
Westwood. The cashier, being happily unaccustomed to panics, looked
round in amazement. How was it possible that the people could be so
ignorant as to imagine that the stability of a bank which has only a
small gold reserve to meet the demands of a run upon it, is increased by
the fact of a cheque being lodged?
This was what he felt inclined to ask, Mr. Westwood could see without
difficulty, when he glanced in the direction of Mr. Calmour, but he knew
something of men, and had studied the phenomena of panics. He would not
have minded if his cashier had protested against so erroneous a view of
the situation being taken by the people who a short time before had
been clamouring for gold--gold--gold in exchange for their cheques. Mr.
Westwood knew that his cashier's demonstration, however well founded it
might be--however consistent with the science of finance, would count
for nothing in the estimation of these people. He knew that as they had
originally been moved to adopt the very foolish course which had so very
nearly brought ruin to him, by an impulse as senseless as that which
compels a flock of sheep to leap over a precipice simply because one
very silly animal has led the way, they had, on equally illogical
grounds, but in keeping with the habits of the sheep, allowed themselves
to be moved in exactly the opposite direction to that in which they
had rushed previously. A cheque! If the crowd had been sufficiently
self-possessed to perceive that the mere lodging of a cheque in the
bank did not increase the ability of the bank to pay them the balance of
their accounts in gold, they would certainly have been able to perceive
that, to join in a run upon the bank, simply because some other bank a
hundred miles away had closed its doors, was senseless.
Richard Westwood knew that the action of Agnes Mowbray had arrested the
run and the ruin. He saw that already some of the men who had cashed
their cheques, but who had not had time to reach the doors, were
relodging the cash which they had received. The panic that now
threatened to take hold upon the crowd was in regard to the security
of the money which they had in their pockets. They seemed to be
apprehensive of their pockets being picked, of their houses being
robbed. Had not several ladies been clamouring to the effect that their
pockets had been picked? Had not Miss Mowbray declared that she could
not consider her money secure so long as it remained unlodged in the
bank?
While he chatted to Miss Mowbray and her brother Cyril, Richard Westwood
could see that his cashier was closing and locking the drawers of his
desk; the busy clerk was the one who was receiving the lodgments.
He laughed, but in no more audible tone of exultation than had been his
an hour before, when he had emptied the bag of sovereigns into the till
and had lifted, with a great show of fatigue, the dummy bag from the
counter to the drawer. He felt that he could not afford to give himself
away in the presence of the mob. He knew that the clutch for gold makes
a mob of the most cultivated people.
“How good of you! how wise of you!” he said to Agnes in a low tone
when the crowd had drifted away from them and the office was rapidly
emptying. “But the cheque--how did you get the cheque?”
“You did not see whose signature was attached to it?” said Agnes.
“I only saw that it was a London & County cheque.”
“It was signed by Sir Percival Hope.”
“I do not quite understand how you could have a cheque signed by Sir
Percival Hope.”
“He gave it to me; he trusted me as I have trusted you. He would have
done so without security if I had accepted it on such terms. I declined
to do so, however. I placed in his hands security that would satisfy any
bank--even so scrupulous a bank as Westwoods'. I handed over to him all
my shares in the Water Company.”
“They are worth twenty-five thousand pounds at least. Great heavens!
Agnes, you never sold them for fifteen thousand pounds?”
“Oh no; I did not sell them. I only deposited them as security with Sir
Percival. You see I had not long to make up my mind what to do. Only an
hour and a half ago I heard of this idiotic run upon the bank. Oh no;
neither Sir Percival nor I had much margin for deliberation. He told me
that unless I lodged gold with you it would be no use. He laughed at the
idea of my fancying that a cheque would be as useful to you as gold. But
you see”--
“Yes, I see; I see. And I believed that it required a man to understand
men, and that only a clever man understood what was meant by a panic
among men and women. I was a fool. For the past two hours I have been
trying to stem the flood of that panic--the avalanche of that panic; I
have been smiling in the faces of those fools; they were fools, but
not great enough fools to fail to see through my acting. I have been
pretending that dummy money bags were almost too heavy for me to lift.
That trick only got rid of half-a-dozen men, and not one woman. I
came out from my room munching a biscuit, to make them believe that I
regarded the situation as an everyday one, not worth a second thought.
I bluffed--abusing the cashier for the time he took to count out the
money, promising to pay the full amount of all the cheques without
taking time to calculate if they were correct to the penny. It was all
a game of bluff to make the people believe that the bank had enough gold
to pay them all in full. But I failed to deceive more than a few, though
I played my part well. I know that I played it well; I like boasting of
it. But I failed. And then you enter. Ah, my dear, I am proud of you;
you are the truest woman that lives. You deserve a better fate than that
which has been yours.”
“I am content to wait, my dear Dick. I have come to think of waiting as
part of my life. Will it be all my life, I wonder?”
“No, no; that would be impossible. That would be too cruel even for
Fate.”
Agnes Mowbray looked at him for a few moments. He saw that the tears
came into her eyes. Then she gave an exclamation of impatience, saying:
“Psha! my friend. What does it matter in the general scheme of things
if one woman dies waiting to marry the one man on whom she has set her
heart? My dear Dick, what is life more than waiting--a constant waiting
that is never repaid? Is any man, any woman, ever satisfied? No matter
what it is that we get, do we not resume our waiting for something
else--something that we think worth waiting for? Psha! I am beginning
to preach; and whatever women do they should not preach. Good-bye, Dick.
Why, we are almost left alone.”
“My poor Agnes--my poor Agnes!” said he, looking at her with tenderness
in his eyes. “Never think for a moment that he will not return. Eight
years is a long time for him to be lost, but he will return. Oh, never
doubt that he will return.”
“I have never yet doubted the goodness of God,” said she. “I will wait.
I will accept without a murmur my life of waiting. He will not mind my
grey hairs.”
She gave a laugh--after a little pause. In her laugh there was a curious
note that sounded like a defiance of Fate. The man laughed also, but she
saw that he knew very well that as a matter of fact there were several
grey threads among the beautiful brown of her hair.
That was all the conversation they had at that time. She went away with
her brother Cyril, who had been trying to get Mr. Calmour to listen
to his views regarding the bowling policy to be pursued at Saturday's
match. Cyril had his own views regarding the slow bowling of young
Sharp, the rector's son. It was supposed to be very baffling, and so
it was on a bad wicket. But if the wicket was good--and there was every
likelihood that the fine weather would last over Saturday--the batsmen
would simply send every ball across the boundary, Cyril declared with
great emphasis.
He was in some measure put out when Mr. Calmour turned to him suddenly,
saying:
“I beg your pardon. What is it you've been talking about?”
“What should I be talking about if not the bowling for Saturday?” cried
Cyril.
“Oh, the bowling. What bowling? Saturday--what is to happen on
Saturday?” said the cashier.
“You idiot! Haven't we been discussing”--
“Oh, go away--go away,” said Mr. Calmour wearily. “Heaven only knows
what may happen between to-day and Saturday. If you could have any idea
of what I've gone through to-day already--bless my soul! it all seems
like a queer dream. Where are all the people gone? Why have they gone,
can you tell me? I haven't paid away all my gold yet. I've still over
two thousand pounds left. Have they closed the doors of the bank? They
were fools--oh, such fools! But I could have held out. I had three
or four tricks left. And now what's to become of me? I support my
mother--she's an old woman; and I have a sister in another town--she is
an epileptic. We are all ruined with the bank.”
The cashier put his hands up to his face and burst into tears. The
strain of the previous hour had been too much for him. It was in vain
that Cyril Mowbray slapped him on the back and assured him that the bank
was safe and that his mother and sister might reasonably look forward
to a brilliant future. It was in vain that Mr. Westwood shook him by the
hand, promising never to forget the way in which he had worked through
the crisis. Mr. Calmour refused to be comforted. He continued weeping,
and had to be conveyed to his home in a fly.
Richard Westwood had begged Cyril to drive to Westwood Court and dine
with him; and now the banker was sitting in his bedroom, staring into
the empty grate as he recalled the incidents of the terrible day through
which he had passed.
The boom of the gong which came half an hour later aroused him from
his reverie. He started up with a great sigh, and was surprised to
find himself as weary as if he had had a twenty-mile ride. He went to
a looking-glass and examined his face narrowly. It looked haggard. He
remembered having heard of men's hair becoming grey in a single night.
He quite believed such stories. He thought it strange that his hair
should remain black. He was thirty-six years of age--four years older
than Agnes, and he had noticed that she had many grey hairs--she had
talked of them when they had stood face to face in the bank.
He wondered if waiting for an absent lover was more trying than being
the senior partner in a bank during a severe financial crisis.
He went downstairs to dinner without coming to any satisfactory
conclusion on this rather difficult question.