Ovington's Bank by Stanley J. Weyman — Read

In Aldersbury there had been a simmering of excitement through all the hours of that Monday. At the corner of the Market Place on which the little statue of the ancient Prince looked down, in the shops on Bride Hill, in the High Street under the shadow of St. Juliana's, knots of people had gathered, discussing, some with scared faces and low voices, others with the gusto of unconcern, the rumors of troubles that came through from Chester, from Manchester, from the capital; that fell from the lips of guards in inn-yards, and leaked from the boots of coaches before the Lion. Gibbon's, one of the chief banks at Birmingham, had closed its doors, Garrard's had stopped payment at Hereford, there was panic on the stones in Manchester, a bank had failed at Liverpool. It was reported that a director had hung himself, a score had fled to Boulogne, dark stories of '15 and '93 were revived. It was asserted that the Bank of England had run out of gold, that cash payments would be again suspended. In a dozen forms these and wilder statements ran from mouth to mouth, gathered weight as they went, blanched men's faces and turned traders' hearts to water. But the worst, it was agreed, would not be known until the afternoon coaches came in and brought the mails from London. Then-ah, then, people would see what they would see!

Idle men, with empty pockets, revelled in news which promised to bring all to their level. And malice played its part. Wolley, who had little but a debtor's prison in prospect, was in town and talking, bent on revenge, and the few who had already withdrawn their accounts from Ovington's were also busy; foxes who had lost their tails, they felt themselves marked men until others followed their example. Meanwhile, Purslow and such as were in his case lay low, sweated in their shop-parlors, conned their ledgers with haggard faces, or snarled at their womenfolk. Gone now was the pride in stock and scrip, and bounding profits! Gone even the pride in a directorship.