Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

And one thing in particular, a small thing, but it was on this that his mind focussed itself—the iron box containing the India Stock. He saw it before him; it stood out dark, its every outline sharp. And with equal clearness he saw its contents, the two certificates that remained in it. He recalled the value of them, and almost against his will he calculated their worth at the price of the day. India Stock, sound and safe security as it was, had fallen more than thirty points since the Squire had sold. It stood to-day, he thought, at two hundred and forty or a little over or a little under—somewhere about that. At the lowest figure five thousand pounds would fetch—just twelve thousand, he calculated.

Twelve thousand!

He stood staring at the door, and even by the yellow light of the lamp his face looked pale. Twelve thousand! And upstairs in a pigeon-hole of the old bureau, where he had carelessly thrust it, was the blank transfer.

It seemed providential. It seemed as if the stock—stock to the precise amount he required—had been placed there for a purpose. Twelve thousand! And realizable, no matter what the pinch. If he borrowed it for a month, what harm would there be? Or what risk? The bank was solvent, he knew that: give it time, and it would stand as strong as ever. Within a month, or two months at the most, he could replace the stock, and no one would be the wiser. And the bank and his own fortune would be saved.

Whereas—whereas, if the bank failed, he lost everything. And what was it his uncle had said? “A pretty fool you will look!” It was true, it was horribly true. He would be the laughing stock of the county. Men of his own class would say with a sneer that it served him right. And the Squire—what would he say? His life would be a hell!

Still he hesitated, though he told himself that it was not by boggling at trifles that men arrived at great ends—nor by poltroonery. And who would be the loser? No one. It would be all gain. The Squire, if he had common sense, would be the first to wish it done.

Yet, as he felt through the bunch, with fingers that shook a little, for the small key that opened the box, he glanced fearfully over his shoulder. But the door of the room was locked, the windows were shuttered: no one could see him. No one could ever say what he had done in that room. And he was lawfully there, at the Squire’s own request, on his errand.

Five minutes later he closed the door, closed the panel. He took up the lamp with a steady hand and left the room. He went into the Squire’s bedroom to return the keys, loitered a minute or two at the bureau, then he went to his own room. On the table lay the lease and the counterpart that he had brought from Aldersbury for the old man’s signature. He closed and locked the door.

It was some hour and a half later that, having finished dinner—and he had talked more fluently at the meal, and with less restraint than of late—he rose from the table with Miss Peacock and Josina. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “I shall have my wine upstairs.” And then, turning to Miss Peacock, “The Squire will want you to witness his signature,” he said. “Will you come? He has to sign some deeds that Welsh’s have sent.”

Miss Peacock bewailed herself. She was in a flurry at the prospect. “Oh, dear, dear,” she said, “I wish he didn’t! I am all of a twitter, and then he scolds me. I am sure to put my name in the wrong place, or write his or something.”