Ovington's Bank. Weyman Stanley John

all eyes were on him, and feeling also uncomfortable in his company, took the fence up to which he had been brought. He murmured that he would take one hundred and twenty-five.

      "Excellent!" said Ovington. "And I, on behalf of the bank, propose to take four hundred." Again there was a murmur of applause. "So that before we go to the public we have already one-third of the shares taken up. That being so, I feel no doubt that we shall start at a premium before we cut the first sod."

      There followed a movement of feet, an outburst of hilarity. For this was what they all wished to hear; this was the point. Chairs were pushed back, and Sir Charles, who was as fearful for his prestige as Grounds for his money, recovered his cheerfulness. Even Acherley became good-humored. "Well, here's to the Valleys Railroad!" he cried. "Damme, we ought to have something to drink it in!"

      The banker ignored this, and Sir Charles spoke. "But as to the seventh seat at the Board? We have not arranged that, I think?" He liked to show that nothing escaped him, and that if he was above business he could still, when he condescended, be a business man.

      "No," Ovington agreed. "But I suggest that, with your permission, we hold that over. There may be a big subscriber taking three or four hundred shares?"

      "Quite so, quite so."

      "Somebody may come forward, and the larger the applications the higher the premium, gentlemen."

      Again eyes glistened, and there was a new movement. Woosenham took his leave, bowing to Wolley and Grounds, and shaking hands with the others. Acherley went with him and Ovington accompanied them, bare-headed, to Sir Charles's carriage, which was waiting before the bank. As he returned Wolley waylaid him and drew him into a corner. A conference took place, the banker turning the money in his fob as he listened, his face grave. Presently the clothier entered on a second explanation. In the end Ovington nodded. He called Rodd from the counter and gave an order. He left his customer in the bank.

      When he re-entered the parlor Grounds had disappeared, and Arthur, who was bending over his, papers, looked up. "Wolley wanted his notes renewed, I suppose?" he said. The bank had few secrets for this shrewd young man, who had learnt as much of business in eighteen months as Rodd the cashier had learned in ten years, or as Clement Ovington would learn in twenty.

      The banker nodded. "And three hundred more on his standing loan."

      Arthur whistled. "I wonder you go on carrying him, sir."

      "If I cut him loose now-"

      "There would be a loss, of course."

      "Yes, but that is not all, lad. Where would the Railroad scheme be? Gone. And that's not all, either. His fall would deal a blow to credit. The money that we are drawing out of the old stockings and the cracked tea-pots would go back to them. Half the clothiers in the Valley would shiver, and neither I nor you would be able to say where the trouble would stop, or who would be in the Gazette next week. No, we must carry him for the present, and pay for his railway shares too. But we shall hold them, and the profits will eventually come to us. And if the railway is made, it will raise the value of mills and increase our security; so that whether he goes on or we have to take the mills over-which Heaven forbid! – the ground will be firmer. It went well?"

      "Splendidly! The way you managed them!" The lad laughed.

      "What is it?"

      "Grounds asked me if I did not think that you were like the pictures of old Boney. I said I did. The Napoleon of Finance, I told him. Only, I added, you knew a deal better where to stop."

      Ovington shook his head at the flatterer, but was pleased with the flattery. More than once, people had stopped him in the street and told him that he was like Napoleon. It was not only that he was stout and of middle height, with his head sunk between his shoulders; but he had the classic profile, the waxen complexion, the dominating brow and keen bright eyes, nay, something of the air of power of the great Exile who had died three years before. And he had something, too, of his ambition. Sprung from nothing, a self-made man, he seemed in his neighbors' eyes to have already reached a wonderful eminence. But in his own eyes he was still low on the hill of fortune. He was still a country banker, and new at that. But if the wave of prosperity which was sweeping over the country and which had already wrought so many changes, if this could be taken at the flood, nothing, he believed, was beyond him. He dreamed of a union with Dean's, the old conservative steady-going bank of the town; of branches here and branches there; finally of an amalgamation with a London bank, of Threadneedle Street, and a directorship-but Arthur was speaking.

      "You managed Grounds splendidly," he said. "I'll wager he's sweating over what he's done! But do you think-" he looked keenly at the banker as he put the question, for he was eager to know what was in his mind-"the thing will succeed, sir?"

      "The railroad?"

      "Yes."

      "I think that the shares will go to a premium. And I see no reason why the railroad should not do. If I did not think so, I should not be fostering it. It may take time and, of course, more money than we think. But if nothing occurs to dash the public-no, I don't see why it should not succeed. And if it does it will give such an impetus to the trade of the Valleys, three-fourths of which passes through our hands, as will repay us many times over."

      "I am glad you think so. I was not sure."

      "Because I led Grounds a little? Oh, that was fair enough. It does not follow from that, that honesty is not the banker's only policy. Make no mistake about that. But I am going into the house now. Just bring me the note-issue book, will you? I must see how we stand. I shall be in the dining-room."

      But when Arthur went into the house a few minutes later he met Betty, who was crossing the hall. "Your father wanted this book," he said. "Will you take it to him?"

      But Betty put her hands behind her back. "Why? Where are you going?"

      "You have forgotten that it is Saturday. I am going home."

      "Horrid Saturday! I thought that to-night, with father just back-"

      "I wouldn't go? If I don't my mother will think that the skies have fallen. Besides, I am riding Clement's mare, and if I don't go, how is he to come back?"

      "As you go at other times. On his feet."

      "Ah, well, very soon I shall have a horse of my own. You'll see, Betty. We are all going to make our fortunes now."

      "Fortunes?" – with disdain. "Whose?"

      "Your father's for one."

      "Silly! He's made his."

      "Then yours-and mine, Betty. Yours and mine-and Clement's."

      "I don't think he'll thank you."

      "Then Rodd's. But, no, we'll not make Rodd's. We'll not make Rodd's, Betty."

      "And why not Mr. Rodd's?"

      "Never mind. We'll not make it," mischievously. "I wonder why you've got such a color, Betty?" And as she snatched the book from him and threatened him with it, "Good-bye till Monday. I'm late now, and it will be dark before I am out of the town."

      With a gay nod he vanished through the door that led into the bank. She looked after him, the book in her hand. Her lip curled. "Rodd indeed!" she murmured. "Rodd? As if I should ever-oh, isn't he provoking!"

      CHAPTER II

      The village of Garthmyle, where Arthur had his home, lay in the lap of the border hills more than seven miles from Aldersbury, and night had veiled the landscape when he rode over the bridge and up the village street. The squat church-tower, firm and enduring as the hopes it embodied, rose four-square above the thatched dwellings, and some half-mile away the rider could discern or imagine the blur of trees that masked Garth, on its sister eminence. But the bounds of the valley, in the mouth of which the village nestled, were obscured by darkness; the steep limestone wall which fenced it on one side and the more distant wooded hills that sloped gently to it on the other were alike hidden. It was only when Arthur had passed through the hamlet, where all doors were closed against the chill of a January night, and he had ridden a few paces down the hillock, that the lights of the Cottage broke upon his view. Many a time had they, friendly beacons of home and rest, greeted him