Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

“Well, I’m going to pay wages now,” he rejoined. “Bring ’em up after dinner and I’ll sign ’em. You and the girl or Peacock can witness them. And, hark you—here, wait a minute!” irascibly, for Arthur, giving as much rein to his temper as he dared, had turned on his heel and was marching off. “Take my keys and open the safe-cupboard downstairs, and bring me up the agreement. I’ve got to compare it with the lease—I shan’t sign it without! Lock the door, d’you hear, before you open the cupboard, and have a care no one sees you.”

“Very well,” Arthur said, and was half-way to the door when again, as if to try his patience, the old man stopped him. “What’s this they’re saying about Ovington’s, eh? ’Bout the bank? Pretty thing, if he’s let you in and your money too! But I’m not surprised. I told you you were a fool, young man, to dirty your hands in that bag, whatever you thought to get out of it. And if you’re not going to get anything out of it, but to leave your own in, as I hear talk of—what then? Come, let’s hear what you have to say about it! I’d like to know.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, sir,” Arthur answered, sparring for time. For self-control, provoking as the old man was, he had no longer need to fight. For he had seen, the moment the Squire spoke, that here, here if he chose to avail himself of it, was his chance of the twelve thousand! Here was an opening, if he had the courage to seize it. Granted the chance was desperate, and the opening unpromising—a poorer or less promising could hardly be. And the courage necessary was great. But here it was. The Squire himself had brought up the subject. He knew of the rumors: he had broken the ice. Here it was, and for a moment, uncertain, wavering, giddy with the swift interchange of pros and cons, Arthur tried for time—time to think. “What was it? What did you hear, sir?” he asked.

“What did I hear?” the Squire answered. “Why, that they’re d—d suspicious of them in the town. And I don’t wonder. Up in a night, and cut off in a day, like a rotten mushroom!” He spoke with gusto, forgetting for the moment what this might mean to his listener; who, on his side, hardly heeded the brutality, so absorbed was he in the question which he must answer—the question whether it would be wise or foolish, ruin or salvation, to ask the Squire for help. “He’ll be another Fauntleroy, ’fore he’s done,” the old man went on with relish. “He’ll stretch a rope, you’ll see if he won’t! I told him as much myself. I told him as much in those very words the day he came here about his confounded silly toy of a railroad. He might take in Woosenham and a lot of other fools, I told him, but he did not deceive me. Now I hear that he’s going to burst up, and where’ll you be, my lad? Where’ll you be? By Gad, you may be in the dock with him!”

Certainly he might speak on that. The old man was harsh and hard-fisted, but he was also hard-headed and very shrewd; and conceivably the case might be so put to him that he might see his profit in it. Certainly it might be so put that he might see a fair prospect of saving his nephew’s five thousand at no great risk to himself. The books might be laid before him, the figures be taken out, the precise situation made clear. There was—it could not be put higher than this—just a slender chance that he would listen, prejudiced as he was.

But twelve thousand! It was such a stupendous sum to name. It needed such audacity to ask for it. And yet it was that or nothing. Less might not serve; while to ask for less, to ask for anything at all, might cost the petitioner the favor he had won—his standing in the house, and the advantages which the Squire’s support might still gain for him. And then it was such a forlorn hope, such a desperate, feckless venture! No, he would be a fool to risk it. He dared not do it. He had not the face.

Yet, for a few seconds after the Squire had ceased to speak, Arthur hesitated, confession trembling on his lips. The twelve thousand would make all good, save all, redeem all—ay, and bind Ovington to him in bonds of steel. But no, he dared not. He would be a fool to speak. And instead of the words that had risen to his lips, “I think you mistake, sir,” he said coldly. “I think you’ll find that this is all cry and little wool! Of course money is tight, and there is trouble in the City. I’ve heard talk of two or three weak banks being in difficulties, and I should not wonder if one or two of them stopped payment between this and Christmas. We are told that it is likely. But we are perfectly solvent. It will take more than talk to bring Ovington’s down.”

“Umph!” the Squire grumbled. “Well, maybe, maybe. You talk as if you knew, and you ought to know. I hope you do know. After all—I don’t want you to lose your money—Gad, a pretty fool you’d look, my lad! A pretty fool, indeed! But as for Ovington, a confounded rascal, who thinks himself a gentleman because he has filled his purse at some poor devil’s expense—I’d see him break with pleasure.”

“I don’t think you’ll have the pleasure this time!” Arthur retorted with a bitterness which he could not repress—a bitterness caused as much by his own doubts as by the other’s harshness. He left the room without more, the keys in his hand, and went downstairs.

It wanted about an hour of the Squire’s dinner-time, but Calamy had laid the table early, and the dining-room was dark. Arthur carried in a lamp from the hall, and himself closed the shutters. He locked the door. Then he opened the nearer panel and the cupboard behind it, and sought for and found the agreement—but all mechanically, his mind still running on the Squire’s words, and now approving of the course he had taken, now doubting if he had not missed his opportunity. The agreement in his hand, his errand done, he closed the cupboard door, and was preparing to close the panel, when, with his hand still on it, he paused. More clearly than when his bodily eyes had rested upon them he saw the contents of the cupboard.