Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

The Squire sighed, and again he was silent.

“Then—then I may speak to her, sir?”

“Wait a bit! Wait a bit!” The Squire had more to say, it appeared. “You’ll leave the bank, of course?”

Arthur’s mind, trained to calculation, reviewed the position. Most heartily he wished—though he thought that Ovington’s views were unnecessarily dark—that he could leave the bank. But he could not. The moment when Ovington might have released him, when the cancellation of the articles had been possible, was past. The banker could no longer afford to cancel them, or to lose the five thousand pounds that Arthur had brought in.

He hesitated, and the old man read his hesitation, and was wroth. “You heard what I said?” he growled, and he struck his stick upon the floor. “Do you think I am going to have my daughter’s husband counterskipping in Aldersbury? Cheek by jowl with every grocer and linen-draper in the town? Bad enough as it is, bad enough, but when you’re Jos’s husband—no, by G—d, that’s flat! You’ll leave the bank, and you’ll leave it at once, or you’re no son-in-law for me. I’ll not have the name of Griffin dragged in the dirt.”

Arthur had not anticipated this, though he might easily have foreseen it; and he cursed his folly. He ought to have known that the old question would be raised, and that it would revive the Squire’s antagonism. He was like a fox caught in a trap, nay, like a fox that has put its own foot in the trap; and he had no time to give any but a candid answer. “I am afraid, sir,” he said. “I mean—I am quite willing to comply with your wishes. But unfortunately there’s a difficulty. I am tied to the bank for three years. At the end of three years——”

“Three years be d—d!” In a passion the Squire struck his stick on the floor. “Three years! I’m to sit here for three years while you go in and out, partner with Ovington! Then my answer is, No! No! Do you hear? I’ll not have it.”

The perspiration stood on Arthur’s brow. Here was a débâcle! An end, crushing and complete, to all his hopes! Desperately he tried to explain himself and mend matters. “If I could act for myself, sir,” he said, “I would leave the bank to-morrow. But the agreement——”

“Agreement? Don’t talk to me of agreements! You could ha’ helped it!” the Squire snarled. “You could ha’ helped it! Only you would go on! You went in against my advice! And for the agreement, who but a fool would ha’ signed such an agreement? No, you may go, my lad. As you ha’ brewed you may bake! You may go! If I’d known this was going on, I’d not ha’ seen so much of you, you may be sure of that! As it is, Good-day! Good-day to you!”

It was indeed a débâcle; and Arthur could hardly believe his ears, or that he stood in his own shoes. In a moment, in one moment he had fallen from the height of favor and the pinnacle of influence, and disowned and defeated, he could hardly take in the mischance that had befallen him. Slowly he got to his feet, and as soon as he could master his voice, “I’m grieved, sir,” he answered, “more grieved than I, can say, that you should take it like this—when I have no choice. I am sorry for my own sake.”