Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

“Pooh, pooh!” said the Squire again. “I’m an old man, and it is useless to talk to me in that strain. I’ve spoken my mind, and——”

“Ay, and you horse two of the coaches!” Acherley retorted. “And make a profit by that, dirty or no! But where’d your profit be, if your father who rode post to London had stood pat where he was? And set himself against coaches as you set yourself against the railroad?”

That was a shrewd hit and the Squire did not meet it. Instead, “Well, right or wrong,” he said, “that’s my opinion. And right or wrong, no railroad crosses my land, and that’s my last word!”

“We’ll see about that,” Acherley answered, bubbling with rage. “There are more ways than one of cooking a goose.”

“Just so. But——,” with a steady look at him, “which is the cook and which is the goose, Acherley? Perhaps you’ll find that out some day.” And the Squire clapped on his hat—he had already put on his shabby old driving coat. But he had still a word to say. “I’m the oldest man here,” he said, looking round upon them, “and I may take a liberty and ask no man’s pleasure. You, Woosenham, and you gentlemen, let this railroad alone. If you are going to move at twenty-five miles an hour, then, depend upon it, more things will move than you wot of, and more than you’ll like. Ay, you’ll have movement—movement enough and changes enough if you go on! So I say, leave it alone, gentlemen. That’s my advice.”

He went out with that and stamped down the stairs. He had not sought the encounter, and, now that he was alone, his knees shook a little under him. But he had held his own and spoken his mind, and on the whole he was content with himself.

The same could not be said of those whom he had warned. Acherley, indeed, abused him freely, but the majority were impressed, and Sir Charles, who respected his opinion, was sorely shaken. He put no trust in Acherley, whose debts and difficulties were known, and Ovington was not there to reassure him. He valued the good opinion of his world, and what, he reflected, if the Squire were right? What if in going into this scheme he had made a mistake? The picture that Griffin had drawn of town and country pointing the finger at him rose like a nightmare before him, and would, he knew, accompany him home and darken his dinner-table. And Ovington? Ovington was doubtless a clever man and, as a banker, well versed in these enterprises. But Fauntleroy—Fauntleroy, with whose name the world had rung these twelve months past, he, too, had been clever and enterprising and plausible. Yet what a fate had been his, and what losses had befallen all who had trusted him, all who had been involved with him!

Sir Charles went home an unhappy man. He wished that Griffin had not warned him, or that he had warned him earlier. Of what use was a warning when his lot was cast and he was the head and front of the matter, President of the Company, Chairman of the Board?

Meanwhile the Squire stood on the steps of the Court House, cursing his man. The curricle was not there, Thomas was not there, it was growing dark, and a huge pile of clouds, looming above the roofs to westward, threatened tempest. The shopkeepers were putting up their shutters, the packmen binding up their bundles, stall-keepers hurrying away their trestles, and the Market Place, strewn with the rubbish and debris of the day, showed dreary by the failing light. In the High Street there was still some traffic, and in the lanes and alleys around candles began to shine out. A one-legged sailor, caterwauling on a crazy fiddle, had gathered a small crowd before one of the taverns.

“Hang the man! Where is he?” the Squire muttered, looking about him with a disgusted eye, and wishing himself at home. “Where is the rogue?”