Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

And Ovington, as he sat over his books, or peered from time to time from a window, knew this, and felt it. He would not have been human if he had not thought with longing of that twelve thousand, the use of which had so nearly been his; ay, and with passing regret—for after all was not the greatest good for the greatest number sound morality?—of the self-denying ordinance which had robbed him of it. But harassed and heavy-hearted as he was, he remained master of himself, and his bearing was calm and dignified, when at a quarter to four, he showed himself, for the first time that day, in the bank.

It was still half-full, and the approach of closing time and the certainty that they could not all be paid that day, along with the fear that the doors would not open on the morrow, mightily inflamed those who were not in the front rank. They clamored to be paid, brandishing their books or their notes. Some tried prayers, addressing Rodd by name, pleading their poverty or their services. Others reproached him for his slowness, and swore that it was purposeful. And they would not be still, they pushed and elbowed one another, rose on tiptoe and shuffled their feet, quarrelled among themselves.

Their voices filled the bank, passed beyond it, were heard in the street. Rodd worked on bravely, but the perspiration stood on his brow, while the clerks, flurried and nervous, looked now at the clock and now at the malcontents whose violence and restlessness seemed to treble their numbers.

Then it was that Ovington came in, and on the instant the noise died down, and there was silence. He advanced without speaking to within a few feet of the counter. He was cold, composed, upright, dignified. And still he did not speak. He surveyed his customers, his spectacles in his hand. His eyes took in each. At length, “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “there is no need for this excitement. You will all be paid. We are shorthanded to-day, but I had no reason to suppose that those who know me as well as most of you do know me—and there are some here who have known me all my life—would distrust me. However, as we are shorthanded, the bank will remain open to-day until half-past four. Mr. Rodd, you will see, if you please, that the requirements of those now in the room are met. I need not add that the bank will open at the usual time to-morrow. Good-day, gentlemen.”

They raised a feeble cheer in their relief, and in the act of turning away, he paused. “Mr. Ricketts,” he said, singling out one, “you are here about those bills? They are important. If you will bring them through to me—yes, if you please?”

The man whom he had addressed, a banker’s clerk, followed him thankfully into the parlor. His uneasiness had been great, for, though he had not joined in his neighbors’ threats, his employers’ claim exceeded those of all the rest put together.

“We daren’t wait, Mr. Ovington,” he said apologetically. “Our people want it. I take it, it is all right, sir?”

“Quite,” Ovington said. “You have them here? What is the total?”

“Eighteen hundred and twenty-eight, six, eight, sir.”

Ovington examined the bills with a steady hand and wrote the amount on a slip of paper. He rang the bell, and the younger clerk came in. “Bring me that,” he said “as quickly as you can.” Then to his visitor, “My compliments to Mr. Allwood. Will you tell him that his assistance has been of material use to me, and that I shall not forget it? I was sorry to hear of Gibbons’ failure.”