Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

“Rodd?” Clement eyes sparkled. “God bless him! He’s a Trojan, and I shan’t forget it! Bravo, Rodd!”

The banker nodded, but in a perfunctory way. “That’s the position,” he said. “If Owen and Jenkins hold off—but there’s no hope of that—we may go on till four o’clock. But if either comes in we must close. Close,” bitterly, “for the lack of three thousand or four thousand pounds!”

Clement sighed. Young as he was he was beginning to feel the effect of his exertions, of his double journey, and his two sleepless nights. At last, “No one will lose, sir?” he said.

“No, no one, ultimately and directly, by us. And if we were an old bank, if we were Dean’s even—” there was venom in the tone in which he uttered his rival’s name “—we might resume in a week or a fortnight. We might reopen and go on. But,” shrugging his shoulders, “we are not Dean’s, and no one would trust us after this. It would be useless to resume. And, of course, the sacrifices that we have made have been very costly. We have had to rediscount bills at fifteen per cent., and sell a long line of securities at a loss, and what is left on our hands may be worth money some day, but it is worthless at present.”

“Wolley’s Mill?”

“Ay, and other things. Other things.”

Clement looked at the floor, and again the longing to say something or do something that might comfort his father pressed upon him. To himself the catastrophe, save so far as it separated him from Josina, was a small thing. He had had no experience of poverty, he was young, and to begin the world at the bottom had no terrors for him. But with his father it was different, and he knew that it was different. His father had built up from nothing the edifice that now cracked and crumbled about them. He had planned it, he had seen it rise and grow, he had rejoiced in it and been proud of it. On it he had spent the force and the energy of the best twenty years of his life, and he had not now, he had no longer, the vigor or the strength to set about rebuilding.

It was a tragedy, and Clement saw that it was a tragedy. And all for the lack—pity rose strong within him—all for the lack of—four thousand pounds. To him, conversant with the bank’s transactions, it seemed a small sum. It was a small sum.

“Ay, four thousand!” his father repeated. His eyes returned mechanically to the money at his feet, returned and fixed themselves upon it. “Though in a month we may be able to raise twice as much again! And here—here”—touching it with his foot—“is the money! All, and more than all that we need, Clement.”

Then at last Clement perceived the direction of his father’s gaze, and he took the alarm. He put aside his reserve, he laid his hand gently on the elder man’s shoulder, and by the pressure of his silent caress he strove to recall him to himself, he strove to prove to him that whatever happened, whatever befell, they were one—father and son, united inseparably by fortune. But aloud, “No!” he said firmly. “Not that, sir! I have given my word. And besides——”