and among banks, Ovington's at Aldersbury was neither of long standing nor of more than local repute.
Mr. Ovington led the way into the house, and had barely removed his hat when a girl flew down the wide oak staircase and flung herself upon him. "Oh, father!" she cried. "Here at last! Aren't you cold? Aren't you starving?"
"Pretty well for that," he replied, stroking her hair in a way that proved that, whatever he was to others, he had a soft spot for his daughter. "Pretty well for that, Betty."
"Well, there's a good fire! Come and warm yourself!"
"That's what I can't do, my dear," he said, taking off his great coat. "Business first."
"But I thought you had done all that in London?" pouting.
"Not all, but some. I shall be an hour, perhaps more."
She shot a mutinous glance at Arthur. "Why can't he do it? And Mr. Rodd?"
"You think we are old enough, Betty?"
"Apprentices should be seen, and not heard!" she snapped.
Arthur's position at the bank had been hardly understood at first, and in some fit of mischief, Betty, determined not to bow down to his pretensions, had christened him the "Apprentice."
"I thought that that proverb applied to children," he retorted.
The girl was a beauty, dark and vivid, but small, and young enough to feel the gibe. Before she could retaliate, however, her father intervened. "Where's Clement?" he asked. "I know that he is not here."
"Tell-tale!" she flung at Arthur. "If you must know, father," mildly, "I think that he's-"
"Mooning somewhere, I suppose, instead of being in the bank, as he should be. And market day of all days! There, come, Bourdillon, I mustn't keep Sir Charles and Acherley waiting." He led the way to the rear of the hall, where a door on the left led into the bank parlor. Betty made a face after them.
In the parlor which lay behind the public office were two men. One, seated in an arm-chair by the fire, was reading the Morning Post. The other stood at the window, his very shoulders expressing his impatience. But it was to the former, a tall, middle-aged man, stiff and pompous, with thin sandy hair but kindly eyes, that Ovington made the first advance. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir Charles," he said. "Very sorry. But I assure you I have not wasted a minute. Mr. Acherley," to the other, "pardon me, will you? Just a word with Sir Charles before we begin."
And leaving Bourdillon to make himself agreeable to the impatient Acherley, Ovington drew Sir Charles Woosenham aside. "I have gone a little beyond my instructions," he said in a low tone, "and sold your Monte Reales."
The Baronet's face fell. "Sold!" he ejaculated. "Parted with them? But I never-my dear sir, I never-"
"Authorized a sale?" the banker agreed suavely. "No, perfectly right, Sir Charles. But I was on the spot and I felt myself responsible. There was a favorable turn and-" forestalling the other as he would have interrupted-"my rule is little and sure-little and sure, and sell on a fair rise. I don't think you will be dissatisfied with the transaction."
But Sir Charles's displeasure showed itself in his face. He was a man of family and influence, honorable and straightforward, but his abilities were hardly on a par with his position, and though he had at times an inkling of the fact it only made him the more jealous of interference. "But I never contemplated," he said, the blood rising to his face, "never for a moment, that you would part with the stocks without reference to me, Mr. Ovington."
"Precisely, precisely-without your authority, Sir Charles-except at a really good profit. I think that four or five hundred was mentioned? Just so. Well, if you will look at this draft, which of course includes the price of the stocks-they cost, if I remember, fourteen hundred or thereabouts-you will, I hope-I really hope-approve of what I did."
Sir Charles adjusted his glasses, and frowned at the paper. He was prepared to be displeased and to show it. "Two thousand six hundred," he muttered, "two thousand six hundred and twenty-seven!" his jaw dropping in his surprise. "Two thousand six-really! Ah, well, I certainly think-" with a quick change to cordiality that would have amused an onlooker-"that you acted for the best. I am obliged to you, much obliged, Mr. Ovington. A handsome profit."
"I felt sure that you would approve," the banker assented gravely. "Shall Bourdillon put the draft-Arthur, be good enough to place this draft to Sir Charles Woosenham's account. And tell Mr. Wolley and Mr. Grounds-I think they are waiting-to come in. I ask your pardon, Mr. Acherley," approaching him in turn.
"No plum for me, I suppose?" growled that gentleman, whom the gist of the interview with Sir Charles had not escaped. He was a tall, hatchet-faced, dissipated-looking man, of an old family, Acherley of Acherley. He had been a dandy with Brummell, had shaken his elbow at Watier's when Crockford managed it, had dined at the Pavilion; now he vegetated in the country on a mortgaged estate, and on Sundays attended cock-fights behind the village public-house.
"Well, not to-day," Ovington answered pleasantly. "But when we have shaken the tree a little-"
"One may fall, you think?"
"I hope so. You will be unlucky if one does not."
The two men who had been summoned came in, each after his fashion. Wolley entered first, endeavoring to mask under a swaggering manner his consciousness that he stood in the presence of his betters. A clothier from the Valleys and one of Ovington's earliest customers, he had raised himself, as the banker had, and from the same stratum; but by enlarging instead of selling his mill. During the war he had made much money and had come to attribute his success a little more to his abilities and a little less to circumstances than was the fact. Of late there were whispers that in the financial storm of '16, which had followed the close of the war, he had come near the rocks; but if so he had put a bold face on the crisis, and by steadily putting himself forward he had impressed most men with a belief in his wealth. "Afternoon, Sir Charles," he grunted with as much ease as he could compass. "Afternoon," to Acherley. He took a seat at the table and slapped down his hat. He was here on business and he meant to show that he knew what business was.
Grounds, who followed, was a man of a different type. He was a maltster and had been a dairyman; a leading tradesman in the town, cautious, penurious, timid, putting pound to pound without saying much about it, and owning that respect for his superiors which became one in his position. Until lately he had hoarded his savings, or put them into the five per cents.; he had distrusted even the oldest bank. But progress was in the air, new enterprises, new discoveries were the talk of the town, the interest on the five per cents. had been reduced to four, and in a rare moment of rashness, he had taken a hint dropped by Ovington, had ventured, and won. He still trembled at his temerity, he still vowed in wakeful moments that he would return to the old safe road, but in the meantime easy gains tempted him and he was now fairly embarked on modern courses. He was a byword in Aldersbury for caution and shrewdness, and his adhesion to any scheme would, as Ovington well knew, commend it to the town.
He hung back, but, "Come, Mr. Grounds, take a seat," said the banker. "You know Sir Charles and Mr. Acherley? Sir Charles, will you sit on my right, and Mr. Acherley here, if you please? Bourdillon, will you take a note? We are met, as you know, gentlemen, to consider the formation of a Joint Stock Company, to be called" – he consulted a paper-"the Valleys Steam Railroad Company, for the purpose of connecting the woollen business of the Valleys with the town, and of providing the public with a superior mode of transport. The Bill for the Manchester and Liverpool Railroad is on the point of passing, and that great enterprise is as good as carried through. The Bill for the London and Birmingham Railroad is before the House; a Bill for a line from Birmingham to Aldersbury is preparing. Those projects are, gentlemen, in stronger hands than ours, and it might seem to some to be too early to anticipate their success and to provide the continuation we propose. But nothing is more certain than that the spoils are to those who are first in the field. The Stockton and Darlington Railway is proving what can be done by steam in the transport of the heaviest goods. There a single engine draws a load of fifty tons at the rate of six miles an hour, and has been known to convey a load of passengers at fifteen miles. Higher speeds are thought to be possible-"
"I'll never believe it!" Wolley growled, anxious to assert