Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

It was relief, it was salvation. And that evening, as the banker sat after his five o’clock dinner and sipped his fourth and last glass of port and basked in the genial heat of the fire, while his daughter knitted on the farther side of the hearth, he owned himself a happy man. He measured the danger, he winced at the narrow margin by which he had escaped it—but he had escaped! Dean’s, staid, long-established, slow-going Dean’s, which had viewed his notes askance, had doubted his stability and predicted his failure, Dean’s which had slyly put many a spoke in his wheel, would not triumph. Nay, after this, would not he, too, rank as sound and staid and well established, he who had also ridden out the storm? For in crises men and banks age rapidly; they are measured rather by events than by years. Those who had mistrusted him would mistrust him no longer; those who had dubbed him new would now count him old. As he stretched his legs to meet the genial heat and sank lower in his chair he could have purred in his thankfulness. Things had fallen out well, after all; he saw rosy visions in the fire. Schemes which had lain dormant in his mind awoke. His London agents had failed, but others would compete for his business, and on better terms. The Squire who had so marvellously come to his aid would bring back his account, and his example would be followed. He would extend, opening branches at Bretton and Monk’s Castle and Blankminster, and the railroad? He was not quite sure what he would do about the railroad; possibly he might decide that the time was not ripe for it, and in that case he might wind up the company, return the money, and himself meet the expenses incurred. The loss would not be great, and the effect would be prodigious. It would be a Napoleonic stroke—he would consider it. He lost himself in visions of prosperity.

And it would be all for Clement and Betty. He looked across the hearth at the girl who sat knitting under the lamp-light, and his eyes caressed her, his heart loved her. She would make a great match. Failing Arthur—and of late Arthur and she had not seemed to hit it off—there would be others. There would be others, well-born, who would be glad to take her and her dowry. He saw her driving into town in her carriage, with a crest on the panels.

It was she who cut short his thoughts. She looked at the clock. “I can’t think where Clement is,” she said. “You don’t think that there is anything wrong, dad?”

“Wrong? No,” he answered. “Why should there be!”

“But he disappeared so strangely. He said nothing about missing his dinner.”

“He was to check some figures with Rodd this evening. He may have gone to his rooms.”

“But—without his dinner?”

But the banker was not in the mood to trouble himself about trifles. The lamp shone clear and mellow, the fire crackled pleasantly, a warm comfort wrapped him round, the port had a flavor that he had not perceived in it of late. Instead of replying to Betty’s question he measured the decanter with his eye, decided that it was a special occasion, and filled himself another glass. “Ovington’s Bank,” he said as he raised it to his lips. But that to which he really drank was the home that he saw about him, saved from rain, made secure.

Betty smiled. “You’re relieved to-night, dad.”

“Well, I am, Betty,” he admitted. “Yes, I am—and thankful.”