Weyman Stanley John
Ovington's Bank
The sight wrung Clement's heart with pity, and he seized a news-lad by the arm. "What is that place?" he shouted in his ear. In that babel no man could make himself heard without shouting.
The man looked at him suspiciously. "Yar! Yer kidding!" he said. "Yer know as well as me!"
Clement shook him in his impatience. "No, I don't," he shouted. "I'm a stranger! What is it, man? A bank?"
"Where d'yer come from?" the lad retorted, as he twisted himself free. "It's Everitt's, that's what it is! They closed an hour ago! Might as well ha' never opened!"
He went off hurriedly, and Clement went too, plunging into the maelstrom that divided him from Cornhill. But as he buffeted his way through the throng, the faces of the ruined men went with him, coming between him and the street, and with a sinking heart he fancied that he read, written on them, the fate of Ovington's.
CHAPTER XXXV
It was to Clement's credit that, had his object been to save his father's bank, instead of to do that which might deprive it of its last hope, he could not have struggled onward through the press more stoutly than he did. But though the offices for which he was bound, situate in one of the courts north of Cornhill, were no more than a third of a mile from the point at which he had dismissed his chaise, the city clocks had long struck twelve before, wresting himself from the human flood, which panic and greed were driving through the streets, he turned into this quiet backwater.
He stood for a moment to take breath and adjust his dress, and even in that brief space he discovered that the calm was but comparative. Many of the windows which looked on the court were raised, as if the pent-up emotions of their occupants craved air and an outlet even on that December day; and from these and from the open doors below issued a dropping fire of sounds, the din of raised voices, of doors recklessly slammed, of feet thundering on bare stairs, of harsh orders. Clerks rushing into the court, hatless and demented, plunged into clerks rushing out equally demented, yet flew on their course without look or word, as if unconscious of the impact. From a lighted window-many were lit up, for the court was small and the day foggy-a hat, even as Clement paused, flew out and bounded on the pavement. But no one heeded it or followed it, and it was a passing clerk who came hurrying out a little less recklessly than his fellows, whom Clement, after a moment's hesitation, seized by the arm. "Mr. Bourdillon here?" he asked imperatively-for he saw that in no other way could he gain attention.
"Mr. Bourdillon!" the man snapped. "Oh, I don't know! Here, Cocky Sands! Attend to this gentleman! Le' me go! Le' me go. D' you hear?"
He tore himself free, and was gone while he spoke, leaving Clement to climb the stairs. On the landing he encountered another clerk, whom he supposed to be "Cocky Sands," and he attacked him. "Mr. Bourdillon? Is he here?" he asked.
But Mr. Sands eluded him, shouted over his shoulder for "Tom!" and clattered down the stairs. "Can't wait!" he flung behind him. "Find some one!"
However, Clement lost nothing by this, for the next moment one of the partners appeared at a door. Clement knew him, and "Is Mr. Bourdillon here?" he cried for the third time, and he seized the broker by the button-hole. He, at any rate, should not escape him.
"Mr. Bourdillon?" The broker stared, unable on the instant to recall his thoughts, and from the way in which he wiped his bald and steaming head with a yellow bandanna, it was plain that he had just got something of moment off his mind. "Pheugh! What times!" he ejaculated, fanning himself and breathing hard. "What a morning! You've heard, I suppose? Everitt's are gone. Gone within the hour, d-n them! Oh, Bourdillon? It was Bourdillon you asked for? To be sure, it's Mr. Ovington, isn't it? I thought so; I never forget a face, but he didn't tell me that you were here. By Jove!" He raised his hands-he was a portly gentleman, wearing a satin under-vest and pins and chains innumerable, all at this moment a little awry. "By Jove, what a find you have there! Slap, bang, and tip to the mark, and no mistake! Hard and sharp as nails! I take off my hat to him! There's not a firm," mopping his heated face anew, "within half a mile of us that wouldn't be glad to have him! I'll take my Davy there are not ten men in country practice could have pushed the deal through, and squeezed eleven thousand in cash out of Snell & Higgins on such a day as this! He's a marvel, Mr. Ovington! You can tell your father I said so, and I don't care who says the contrary."
"But is he here?" Clement cried, dancing with impatience. "Is he here, man?"
"Gone to the India House this-" he looked at his watch-"this half-hour, to complete. He had to drop seven per cent. for cash on the nail-that, of course! But he got six thousand odd in Bank paper, and five thou. in gold, and I'm damned if any one else would have got that to-day, though the stuff he had was as good as the ready in ordinary times. My partner's gone with him to Leadenhall Street to complete-glad to oblige you, for God knows how many clients we shall have left after this-and they've a hackney coach waiting in Bishopsgate and an officer to see them to it. You may catch him at the India House, or he may be gone. He's not one to let the grass grow under his feet. In that case-"
"Send a clerk with me to show me the Office!" Clement cried. "It's urgent, man, urgent! And I don't know my way inside the House. I must catch him."
"Well, with so much money-here, Nicky!" The broker stepped aside to make room for a client who came up the stairs three at a time. "Nicky, go with this gentleman! Show him the way to the India House. Transfer Office-Letter G! Sharp's the word. Don't lose time. – Coming! Coming!" to some one in the office. "My compliments to your father. He's one of the lucky ones, for I suppose this will see you through. It's Boulogne or this-" he made as if he held a pistol to his head-"for more than I care to think of!"
But Clement had not waited to hear the last words. He was half-way down the stairs with his hand on the boy's collar. They plunged into Cornhill, but the lad, a London-bred urchin, did not condescend to the street for more than twenty yards or so. Then he dived into a court on the same side of the way, crossed it, threaded a private passage through some offices, and came out in Bishopsgate Street. Stemming the crowd as best they could they crossed this, and by another alley and more offices the lad convoyed his charge into Leadenhall Street. A last rush saw them landed, panting and with their coats wellnigh torn from their backs, on the pavement on the south side of the street, in front of the pillared entrance, and beneath the colossal Britannia that, far above their heads and flanked by figures of Europe and Asia, presided over the fortunes of the greatest trading company that the world has ever seen. Through the doors of that building-now, alas, no more-had passed all the creators of an oriental empire, statesmen, soldiers, merchant princes, Clive, Lawrence, Warren Hastings, Cornwallis. Yet to-day, the mention of it calls up as often the humble figure of a black-coated white-cravated clerk with spindle legs and a big head, who worked within its walls and whom Clement, had he called a few months earlier, might have met coming from his desk.
Here Clement, had he been without a guide, would have wasted precious minutes. But the place had no mysteries for the boy, even on this day of confusion and alarm. Skilled in every twist and turning, he knew no doubt. "This way," he snapped, hurrying down a long passage which faced the entrance, and appeared to penetrate into the bowels of the building. Then, "No! Not that way, stupid! What are you doing?"
But Clement's eyes, as he followed, had caught sight of a party of three, who, issuing from a corridor on the right at a considerable distance before them, had as quickly disappeared down another corridor on the left. The light was not good, but Clement had recognized one of them, and "There he is!" he cried. "He has gone down there! Where does that lead to?"
"Lime Street entrance!" the lad replied curtly, and galloped after the party, Clement at his heels. "Hurry!" he threw over his shoulder, "or they'll be out, and, by gum, you'll lose him! Once out and we're done, sir!"
They reached the turning the others had taken and ran down it. The distance was but short, but it was long enough to enable Clement to collect his wits, and to wonder, while he prepared himself for the encounter that impended, how Arthur would bear himself at the moment of discovery. Fortunately, the party pursued had paused for an instant in the east vestibule before committing themselves to the street, and that instant was fatal to them. "Bourdillon!" Clement cried, raising his voice. "Hi! Bourdillon!"
Arthur turned as if he had been struck, saw him and stared, his mouth agape. "The devil!" he ejaculated.
But to Clement's surprise his face betrayed neither the guilt nor the fear which he had expected to see, but only amazement that the other should be there-and some annoyance. "You?" he said. "What the devil are you doing here? What joke is this? Did your father think that I could not be trusted to see things through? Or that you were likely to do better?"
"I want a word with you," said Clement. He was in no mood to mince matters.
"But why are you here?" with rising anger. "Why have you come after me? What's up?"
"I'll tell you, if you'll step aside."
"You can tell me on the coach, then, for I have no time to lose now. I mean to catch the three o'clock coach, and-"
"No!" Clement said firmly. "I must speak to you here."
But on that the broker interposed, his watch in his hand, "Anyway, I can stop," he said. "Who is this gentleman?"
"Mr. Ovington, junior," Arthur said, with something of a sneer. "I don't know what he has come up for, but-"
"But, at any rate, he'll see you safe to the coach," the other rejoined. "And I must be off. I give you joy of it, Mr. Bourdillon. Fine work! Fine work, by Jove! And I shall tell Mr. Ovington so when I see him. You're a marvel! My compliments to your father, young gentleman," addressing Clement. "Glad to have met you, but I can't stay now. Fifty things to do, and no time to do 'em in. The world's upside down to-day. Good morning! Good morning!" With a wave of the hand, his watch in the other, he turned on his heel and strode back towards the main entrance.
The two looked at one another and the third, who made up the party, a burly man in a red waistcoat and a curly-brimmed Regency hat, surveyed them both. "Well, I'm hanged," Arthur exclaimed, reverting sourly to his first surprise. "Is everybody mad? Must you all come to town? I should have thought that you'd have had enough to do at the bank without this! But as you must-" then to the officer, who was carrying a small leather valise, the duplicate of one which Arthur held in his hand-"wait a minute, will you? And keep an eye on us. We shall not be a minute. Now," drawing Clement into a corner of the lodge, five or six paces away, where, though a stream of people continually brushed by them, they could talk with some degree of privacy. "What is it, man? What is it? What has bought you up? And how the deuce have you come to be here-by this time?"
"I posted."
"Posted? From Aldersbury? In heaven's name, why? Why, man?"
Clement pointed to the bag. "To take that over," he said.
"This? Take this over?" Arthur turned a deep red. "What-what the devil do you mean, man?"
"You ought to know."
"I?"
"Yes, you," Clement retorted, his temper rising. "It's stolen property, if you will have it." And he braced himself for the fray.
"Stolen property?"
"Just that. And my father has commissioned me to take charge of it, and to restore it to its owner. Now you know."
For one moment the handsome face, looking into his, lost some of its color. But the next, Arthur recovered himself, the blood flowed back to his cheeks, he laughed aloud, laughed in defiance. "Why, you-you fool!" he replied, in bitter contempt, "I don't know what you are talking about. Your father-your father has sent you?"
"It's no good, Bourdillon," Clement answered. "It's all known. I've seen the Squire. He missed the certificates yesterday afternoon-almost as soon as you were gone. He sent for you, I went over, and he knows all."
He thought that that would finish the matter. To his astonishment Arthur only laughed afresh. "Knows all, does he?" he replied. "Well, what of it? And he found out through you, did he? Then a pretty fool you were to put your oar in! To go to him, or see him, or talk to him! Why, man," with bravado, though Clement fancied that his eyes wavered and that the brag began to ring false, "what have I done? Borrowed his money for a month, that's all! Taken a loan of it for a month or two-and for what? Why, to save your father and you and the whole lot of us. Ay, and half Aldersbury from ruin! I did it and I'd do it again! And he knows it, does he? Through your d-d interfering folly, who could not keep your mouth shut, eh! Well, if he does, what then? What can he do, simpleton?"
"That's to be seen."
"Nothing! Nothing, I tell you! He signed the transfer, signed it with his own hand, and he can't deny it. The rest is just his word against mine."
"No, it's Miss Griffin's, too," Clement said, marvelling at the other's attitude and his audacity-if audacity it could be called.
But Arthur, though he had been far from expecting a speedy discovery, had long ago made up his mind as to the risk he ran. And naturally he had considered the line he would take in the event of detection. He was not unprepared, therefore, even for Clement's rejoinder, and, "Miss Griffin?" he retorted, contemptuously, "Do you think that she will give evidence against me? Or he-against a Griffin? Why, you booby, instead of talking and wasting time here, you ought to be down on your knees thanking me-you and your father! Thanking me, by heaven, for saving you and your bank, and taking all the risk myself! It would have been long before you'd have done it, my lad, I'll answer for that!"
"I hope so," Clement replied with biting emphasis. "And you may understand at once that we don't like your way, and are not going to be saved your way. We are not going to have any part or share in robbing your uncle-see! If we are going to be ruined, we are going to be ruined with clean hands! No, it's no good looking at me like that, Bourdillon. I may be a fool in the bank, and you may call me what names you like. But I am your match here, and I am going to take possession of that money."
"Do you think, then," furiously, "that I am going to run away with it?"
"I don't know," Clement rejoined. "I am not going to give you the chance. I am going to take it over and return it to the owner; it will not go near our bank. I have my father's authority for acting as I am acting, and I am going to carry out his directions."
"And he's going to fail? To rob hundreds instead of borrowing from one money that you know will be returned-returned with interest in a month? You fool! You fool!" with savage scorn. "That's your virtue, is it? That's your honesty that you brag so much about? Your clean hands? You'll rob Aldersbury right and left, bring half the town to beggary, strip the widow and the orphan, and put on a smug face! 'All honest and above board, my lord!' when you might save all at no risk by borrowing this money for a month. Why, you make me sick! Sick!" Arthur repeated, with an indignation that went far to prove that this really was his opinion, and that he did honestly see the thing in that light. "But you are not going to do it. You shall not do it," he continued, defiantly. "I'll see you-somewhere else first! You'll not touch a penny of this money until I choose, and that will not be until I have seen your father. If I can't persuade you I think I can persuade him!"
"You'll not have the chance!" Clement retorted. He was very angry by now, for some of the shafts which the other had loosed had found their mark. "You'll hand it over to me, and now!"
"Not a penny!"
"Then you'll take the consequences," was Clement's reply. "For as heaven sees me, I shall give you in charge, and you will go to Bow Street. The officer is here. I shall tell him the facts, and you know best what the result will be. You can choose, Bourdillon, but that is my last word."
Arthur stared. "You are mad!" he cried. "Mad!" But he was taken aback at last. His voice shook, and the color had left his cheeks.
"No, I am not mad. But we will not be your accomplices. That is all. That is the bed-rock of it," Clement continued. "I give you two minutes to make up your mind." He took out his watch.
Rage and alarm do not better a man's looks, and Arthur's handsome face was ugly enough now, had Clement looked at it. Two passions contended in him: rage at the thought that one whom he had often out-manœuvred and always despised should dare to threaten and thwart him; and fear-fear of the gulf that he saw gaping suddenly at his feet. For he could not close his eyes, bold and self-confident as he was, to the danger. He saw that if Clement said the word and made the thing public, his position would be perilous; and if his uncle proved obdurate, it might be desperate. His lips framed words of defiance, and he longed to utter them; but he did not utter them. Had they been alone, it had been another matter! But they were not alone; the Bow Street man, idly inquisitive, was watching him, and a stream of people, immersed each in his own perplexities, and unconscious of the tragedy at his elbow, was continually brushing by them.
To do him justice, Arthur had hitherto seen the thing only by his own lights. He had looked on it as a case of all for fortune and the rest well lost, and he had even pictured himself in the guise of a hero, who took the risks and shared the benefits. If the act were ill, at least, he considered, he did it in a good cause; and where, after all, was the harm in assuming a loan of something which would never be missed, which would be certainly repaid, and which, in his hands, would save a hundred homes from ruin? The argument had sounded convincing at the time.
Then, for the risk, what was it, when examined? It was most unlikely that the Squire would discover the trick, and if he did he could not, hard and austere as he was, prosecute his own flesh and blood. Nay, Arthur doubted if he could prosecute, since he had signed the transfer with his own hand-it was no forgery. At the worst, then and if discovery came, it would mean the loss of the Squire's favor and banishment from the house. Both of these things he had experienced before, and in his blindness he did not despair of reinstating himself a second time. He had a way with him, he had come to think that few could resist him. He was far, very far, from understanding how the Squire would view the act.
But now the mists of self-deception were for the moment blown aside, and he saw the gulf on the edge of which he stood, and into which a word might precipitate him. If the pig-headed fool before him did what he said he would, and preferred a charge, the India House might take it up; and, pitiless where its interests were in question, it might prove as inexorable as the Bank had proved in the case of Fauntleroy only the year before. In that event, what might not be the end? His uncle had signed the transfer, and at the time that had seemed enough; it had seemed to secure him from the worst. But now-now when so much hung upon it, he doubted. He had not inquired, he had not dared to inquire how the law stood, but he knew that the law's uncertainties were proverbial and its ambages beyond telling.
And the India House, like the Bank of England, was a terrible foe. Once launched on the slope, let the cell door once close on him, he might slip with fatal ease from stage to stage, until the noose hung dark and fearful before him, and all the influence, all the help he could command, might then prove powerless to save him! It was a terrible machine-the law! The cell, the court, the gallows, with what swiftness, what inevitableness, what certainty, did they not succeed one another-dark, dismal stages on the downward progress! How swiftly, how smoothly, how helplessly had that other banker traversed them! How irresistibly had they borne him to his doom!
He shuddered. The officer of the law, who a few minutes before had been his servant, fee-bound, obsequious, took on another shape. He grew stern and menacing, and was even now, it might be, observing him, and conceiving suspicion of him. Arthur's color ebbed at the thought and his face betrayed him. The peril might be real or unreal-it might be only his imagination that he had to fight. But he could not face it. He moistened his dry lips, he forced himself to speak. He surrendered-sullenly, with averted eyes.
"Have it your own way," he said. "Take it." And with a last attempt at bravado, "I shall appeal to your father!"
"That is as you will," Clement said. He was not comfortable, and sensible of the other's humiliation, his only wish was to bring the scene to an end as quickly as possible. He took up the bag and signed to the officer that they were ready.
"It's some hundreds short. You know that?" Arthur muttered.
"I can't help it."
"He'll be the loser."
"Well-it must be so." Yet Clement hesitated, a little taken aback. He did not like the thought, and he paused to consider whether it might not be his duty to return to the brokers' and undo the bargain. But it would be necessary to repeat all the formalities at a cost of time that he could not measure, and it was improbable that he would be able to recoup the whole of the loss. Rightly or wrongly, he decided to go on, and he turned to the officer. "I take on the business now," he said, sharply. "Where is the hackney-coach? In Bishopsgate? Then lead the way, will you?" And, the bag in his hand, he moved towards the crowded street.
But with his foot on the threshold, something spoke in him, and he looked back. Arthur was standing where he had left him, gloom in his face; and Clement melted. He could not leave him, he could not bear to leave him thus. What might he not do, what might he not have it in his mind to do? Pity awoke in him, he put himself in the other's place, and though there was nothing less to his taste at that moment than a companionship equally painful and embarrassing, he went back to him. "Look here," he said, "come with me. Come down with me and face it out, man, and get it over. It's the only thing to do, and every hour you remain away will tell against you. As it is, what is broken can be mended-if you're there."
Arthur did not thank him. Instead, "What?" he cried. "Come? Come with you? And be dragged at your chariot wheels, you oaf! Never!"
"Don't be a fool," Clement remonstrated, pity moving him more strongly now that he had once acted on it. He laid his hand on the other's arm. "We'll work together and make the best of it. I will, I swear, Bourdillon, and I'll answer for my father. But if I leave you here and go home, things will be said and there'll be trouble."
"Trouble the devil!" Arthur retorted, and shook off his hand. "You have ruined the bank," he continued, bitterly, but with less violence, "and ruined your father and ruined me. I hope you are content. You have been thorough, if it's any satisfaction to you. And some day I shall know why you've done it. For your honesty and your clean hands, they don't weigh a curse with me. You're playing your own game, and if I come to know what it is, I'll spoil it yet, d-n you!"
"I don't mind how much you curse me, if you will come," Clement answered, patiently. "It's the only thing to be done, and when you think it over in cold blood, you'll see that. Come, man, and put a bold face on it. It is the brave game and the only game. Face it out now."
Arthur looked away, his handsome face sullen. He was striving with his passions, battling with the maddening sense of defeat. He saw, as plainly as Clement, that the latter's advice was good, but to take it and to go with him, to bear for many hours the sense of his presence and the consciousness of his scorn, his gorge rose at the thought. Yet, what other course was open to him? What was he going to do? He had little money with him, and he saw but two alternatives: to blow out his brains, or to go, hat in hand, and seek employment at the brokers' where he was known. He had no real thought of the former alternative-life ran strong in him and he was sanguine; and the latter meant the overthrow of all his plans, and a severance, final and complete, from Ovington's. His lot thenceforth would, he suspected, be that of a man who had "crossed the fight," done something dubious, put himself outside the pale.
Whereas if he went with Clement now, humiliation would indeed be his. But he would still be himself, and with his qualities he might live it down, and in the end lose nothing.
So at last, "Go on," he said, sulkily. "Have it your own way. At any rate, I may spoil your game!" He shut his eyes to Clement's generosity. If he gave a thought to it at all, he fancied that he had some purpose to serve, some axe of his own to grind.
They went out into the babel of the street, and, deafened by the cries of the hawkers, elbowed by panic-stricken men who fancied that if they were somewhere else they might save their hoards, shouldered by stout countrymen, adrift in the confusion like hulks in a strange sea, they made their way into Bishopsgate Street. Here they found the hackney-coach awaiting them, and drove by London Wall to the Bull and Mouth. A Birmingham coach was due to start at three, and after a gloomy wrangle they booked places by it, and, while the officer guarded the money, they sat down in the Coffee Room to a rare sirloin and a foaming tankard. They ate and drank in unfriendly silence, two empty chairs intervening; and more than once Arthur repented of his decision. But already the force of circumstances was driving them together, for the thoughts of each had travelled forward to Aldersbury-and to Ovington's. What was happening there? What might not already have happened there? Hurried feet ran by on the pavement. Ominous words blew in at the windows. Scared men rushed in with pallid, sweating faces, ate standing and went out again. Other men sat listless, staring at the table before them, eating nothing, or here and there, apart in corners whispered curses over their meat.
