MR. GREY
It was now nearly a year since the great run, as it was called. The
story of the part Louie had in it had gotten abroad, and at first the
people had some misgivings with regard to the solidity of a bank which,
but for the novel help given it, might have toppled over. But this
feeling gradually died out, and the National came up like a strong ship
out of a storm which had scarred, but not weakened it. Many of its
patrons returned to it, and others didn’t. Godfrey Sheldon still held
his grudge, and two thousand dollars of his money still reposed, or were
supposed to repose, in the Grey Bank, which gave no sign of bursting up,
as the judge had predicted it would. To all human appearances, Mr. Grey
was more prosperous than ever, and no one in Merivale spent money as
freely as he did. He gave to everything; he drove a finer carriage than
Judge White, and his bays were far handsomer than the judge’s blacks.
His coachman wore a dark grey livery and tall hat. He had made his wife
a Christmas present of an exquisite set of diamonds; Louie had a new
Steinway, which cost seven hundred dollars, and a diamond ring whose
value was estimated anywhere from three hundred to five hundred dollars.
There were frequent visits to Boston and New York, where the family
stopped at the Touraine and the Waldorf. There was to be a trip to
Narragansett Pier for the month of August, and a suite of rooms was
engaged at one of the most expensive hotels. For this trip several
costumes were being made in Boston and Worcester for Mrs. Grey and
Louie, who, Mr. Grey said, should not be behind anyone in dress, if
money could buy it.
In the midst of her prosperity Louie did not lose her head at all, but
was the same bright, friendly girl, with a pleasant, familiar word for
every one. She was too familiar, Herbert thought, trying to repress her.
But here he failed. It did not hurt her, she told him, to talk with
Nancy Sharp and people like her, and she should do it for all of him! In
this respect she was like her father, who never forgot to be polite to
every one, and his good-morning to Nancy Sharp was just as cordial as to
Judge White.
But gradually a change had come over Mr. Grey; a feeling of depression
which he could not shake off, and which was more perceptible at home
than when mixing with people outside. There was nothing much the matter,
he said to his wife and Louie when questioned as to what ailed him. He
had some indigestion and was tired of business and wanted to get away
from it awhile, that was all.
“There is nothing the matter with the business, is there? No trouble, I
mean?” Louie asked.
“Trouble!” he repeated quickly, with a sharp glance at her. “Of course
not. What trouble can there be? I am having deposits all the time; not
large ones, but every little helps.”
Louie had learned a good deal of the workings of a bank since the White
run, and she continued:
“And these deposits are loaned on good securities? They are safe?”
“Safe! Of course they are safe! Did you think they were not?” her father
replied.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I only wanted to be sure, and if these securities
should fail you still have enough to pay the depositors if they should
run on you as they did on Judge White?”
What ailed the girl? She was certainly a little disagreeable in her
questioning, and for almost the first time in his life her father
answered crossly, “Pay! Of course I could! What are you worrying about?
I can manage the bank.”
After that he tried to seem more natural and cheerful, but it was at
last a dismal failure. His headaches were more frequent. He could not
sleep; he ate scarcely anything, and would sometimes sit for an hour
without speaking, with his eyes closed, as if thinking intently. His
trips to New York were more frequent. He was consulting a physician for
nervous dyspepsia, he said, but he usually returned worse than when he
went. To his wife’s and Louie’s inquiries he would answer lightly that
he would be all right with a change of air. Narragansett Pier and sea
baths would bring him up at once, and days came and went, and in the
social atmosphere of Merivale there was no sign of the impending storm
which would make the great run seem like a bubble.
The beginning of the end came one Saturday afternoon when the bank was
to close earlier than usual. Knowing this, Nancy Sharp hurried to get in
a few dollars she had been laying by, and which she thought too large a
sum to be quite safe in her house over Sunday. Her example was followed
by Widow Brown and two or three more, one of whom made a deposit of a
hundred dollars which he said he should want on Monday.
There was a strange look in Mr. Grey’s eyes, and he seemed half
uncertain whether to take the money, but as he could give no good reason
why he should not, he took it, but put Nancy’s five dollars in the box
where he had kept her twenty marked dollars. The rest went into the
common fund, and then the work of the day was done.
Wilson, who had been in the bank since it started, closed the doors, put
up the shutters and went out for his few hours’ holiday, leaving both
keys with Mr. Grey, who was alone but not idle. Every account was gone
over again and again, every dollar counted, and some of it transferred
from the safe to his pocket.
“I shall put it back on Monday, of course,” he said to himself; “but I
must have something to pay bills to-night and for church to-morrow. I
have never failed to put a dollar on the plate. I shall pay it Monday.”
He kept repeating this, “I shall pay it Monday. Help will surely come
then, or to-morrow.”
Many a time during the last few weeks he had said, “Help will come
to-morrow,” and he had waited with feverish impatience for the morrow
and the help which did not come. He was usually among the first at the
post-office, his pulse throbbing and his heart beating, as he waited for
his mail. As he took his letters from his drawer, and glancing at the
addresses, knew that the one he wanted was not among them, there always
came over him a feeling of nausea and blackness for a moment, and he
stumbled against the people jostling him as the eager crowd came in.
Then with a mighty effort which made every nerve quiver, he recovered
himself, bowed to every one he knew, and with a pleasant word passed out
into the fresh air where he could breathe more freely. This had been
repeated for days and days, and the strain was becoming unbearable.
“Better know the worst than endure this suspense any longer,” he said on
the Saturday when matters were reaching a crisis.
A few small depositors who wanted their money, took it out in the
morning, and he could have shouted for joy when they did so.
“There will be less to consign me to perdition when the crash comes,” he
thought, and was sorry for any fresh deposit made that day.
Nothing could help him now but the aid so long looked for. Why had
fortune turned against him so persistently when she had once been so
lavish with her favors that he had only to try his luck and win. Now it
was constant loss until this last venture, which had promised so much
and must bring success, or he be ruined with many who had trusted him
and looked upon him as a soul of honor and integrity. No one stood
higher in Merivale than he did, or would fall lower if he fell. He
thought of the mob which had surrounded White’s Bank during the run, and
said to himself, “That was a ripple compared to the storm which will
beat against me when all is known. Then there was a chance to get
something, for it was a run; with me it will be a total failure, with no
hope of payment, and so many of them are my personal friends.”
He almost knew the list of depositors by heart, but he went over it
again, and, strong man that he was, his tears fell like rain as he saw
the names of those whose little all, which meant so much hard work, had
been trusted to him. Among the names was Louie’s. She had thought it a
fine thing to have a bank account, and from the liberal allowance paid
to her weekly she had saved and deposited one hundred and fifty dollars,
and had nearly tormented his life out with asking where it was invested
and what per cent. it was paying him.
“Poor little Louie! She shall not lose,” he said, and going again to his
safe he took out one hundred and fifty dollars, and putting it in the
box with Nancy Sharp’s marked silver, charged it to Louie as withdrawn,
and then his work was done and he sat down in his rear office, conscious
of a great weakness and throbbing of his heart in his throat, giving him
a sensation of smothering.
He had felt this before when returning from New York, or waiting for
news from that city. But the feeling had never been quite as intense as
it was now, nor quite as painful, making him gasp and put his hands to
his throat, which felt as if swelling to twice its usual size. The room
was dark with the heavy shutters drawn, and the gas extinguished, but
the future outlook was darker still, with no ray to lighten it unless it
came in the morrow’s mail, or Monday’s. He had reason to expect it on
the morrow.
“And it will come; it must,” he said, his natural hopefulness beginning
to assert itself. “To-morrow will put things right, and then, as I hope
for heaven, I’ll do business on the square. I’m not naturally a bad man,
nor a dishonest one. It is this infernal disease born in me, which has
mastered me.”
He heard the town clock strike five, and started up quickly. They were
expecting him home to drive, but it was so late now he might as well be
later, and pay the weekly bills. There was the butcher and baker and
grocer and fruit-stall, and very likely there was something at the candy
store, for Louie was fond of candy, and never bought an inferior kind.
Then he remembered with a start that his quarter’s rent was due on
Monday. Should he pay that, or let it take its chance?
“I’ll risk it,” he said. “Judge White can stand a loss better than the
trades-people.”
Once he thought of going to the judge for a loan. But he put that aside
with a laugh which sounded strangely in the silent, shadowy room.
“I could not bear his exultant sneer as he refused. I’d rather face the
mob,” he said, and began to put on his coat which he had laid aside.
Very slowly he went around the rooms, sitting a moment in his chair near
the window, standing next where he had so often stood to receive or pay
out money, and then where the depositors stood when they paid it in or
received it. Thousands and thousands had passed through that opening.
Where was it now?
“Gone like the dew,” he whispered, involuntarily stretching out his
hands as if to take something from an unseen presence.
Then, relighting the gas, he went a second time to the safe, counting
what was there to see if he had not made a mistake, and feeling the
tears in his eyes again because there was so little.
“I must go now,” he said. “Good-by, old bank! I shall know the worst or
best perhaps when I am here again.”
He shut the safe, put out the gas, and went out into the sunshine, with
a feeling that he had closed the door on all that was respectable in
Thomas Grey. Every one he met had for him a cheery good-afternoon, which
he returned, as cheerily, but with a feeling that he ought not to be
spoken to in this way. Once, as he walked, he found himself stooping
from sheer humility, as he thought what he was and what the world would
know him to be erelong if help did not come. He paid the butcher and the
baker and the grocer and the confectioner, and a small bill at his
tailor’s, which he remembered had been owing for some little time. Then
he started for home, where he found his wife anxious to know what had
detained him, and Louie absorbed in the contents of two express boxes
which had just arrived from Boston and contained the finery intended for
Narragansett Pier.
“Isn’t this be-u-tiful!” she said to him, holding up an evening dress of
silk and lace and chiffon. “Only it cost twice as much as I thought it
would. Look,” and she handed her father a bundle of bills, which had
come with the express packages, and which made Mr. Grey gasp for a
moment.
Then he smiled and said: “Nearly a thousand dollars for gewgaws! That is
pretty steep. But never mind; they will be paid like the rest. And now
give me some strong, clear coffee. My head is splitting.”
He looked very pale, and said he could not go to dinner, but would lie
on the couch in his den. Headaches were very frequent with him now, but
this seemed worse than usual, and at an early hour he retired to his
room, saying sleep would do him good, and he should be all right in the
morning.
He was all right, or seemed so, when he went down to breakfast, and to
Louie’s question, “How did you sleep?” he replied:
“Sleep? Why, there was not a single break from the time I put my head
upon the pillow until I heard Jane open the blinds.”
He did not explain that the “no break” was in wakefulness rather than in
sleep, for he had not closed his eyes. Once, when he knew by his wife’s
breathing that she was sleeping soundly, he arose, and going to the
drawer where he kept his revolver, took it out and examined it
carefully, holding it once to his head, and thinking how easy it would
be to end everything in this world so far as he was concerned.
Then there came before him the picture of a ghastly face he had once
seen with a bullet-hole in the temple. He could not subject his wife and
Louie to that horrid sight, and, returning the revolver to its place, he
crept back to bed, shivering with cold, although the night was hot and
sultry and a storm was coming up. He could hear the faint mutterings of
thunder, and listened as it grew nearer and nearer, until the house
shook with the terrific peals and every corner of the room was ablaze
with electricity.
“If it would only strike me!” he thought; and, going to the window, he
watched the storm with a wish that the forked flame darting so viciously
through the sky and seeming so near would take him with it—somewhere, he
cared not where, so that he escaped what by some premonition he felt
sure awaited him on the morrow.
It was to-morrow now, for as the storm passed, the early summer morning
broke in all its fresh loveliness, and he thought how beautiful were the
grounds around his house, with the raindrops on flower and shrub and
grass. When he built the house he had deeded it to his wife, and was
glad he had done so. The law could not touch that—nor his horses, nor
carriage, nor piano. All were his wife’s and Louie’s, unless they gave
them up, as perhaps they would. Well, it didn’t matter. Nothing would
matter much if things went wrong. It was Sunday, and in a few hours he
would know what that day would bring him. He should go to church, of
course, he said, and sit once more in his pew, for which he paid nearly
as much as Judge White paid for his.
He went to church behind his handsome bays, and never stood straighter,
or read louder, or seemed more devout, or paid stricter attention to the
sermon, although during the last of it his ears were strained to catch
the first rumble of the train which was to bring him heaven or hell.
He heard the scream of the engine as it stopped at the station, heard it
as it went on, heard the ‘bus as it passed the church with the mail,
which he saw in fancy opened in the office, and saw the letters put into
his drawer—four of them—he could have sworn there were four, but only
one had any interest for him, and that lay on the top. He did not know
whether he were in a trance or not, with a gift for far-seeing. He only
knew he was at the office and at the church, too. He was very conscious
of that last fact, and conducted himself becomingly—stood when he ought
to stand, bowed his head when he ought to bow it, and dropped his silver
dollar on the plate with a thud, which made the judge, who was passing
it, frown disapprovingly.
“Blowing his own trumpet—thinks, maybe, he is setting me an example,” he
thought, as he placed his quarter more quietly upon the plate.
Church was out at last, and Mr. Grey was among the first to reach the
door.
“Take us to the post-office,” he said to his coachman, who, with the
smart carriage and prancing bays, was waiting for him.
Joe touched his hat and drove to the post-office where the mail was
distributing. Mrs. Grey and Louie did not alight, but waited while Mr.
Grey went in, unlocked his drawer, and found, as he had expected, four
letters, the one on the top bearing the New York postmark and directed
in the handwriting he knew so well.
He could not wait till he reached home before knowing the truth, and,
tearing open the envelope, he read that his worst fears were fulfilled.
There was no hope from any quarter. He was absolutely ruined, and for a
moment everything turned black, and he felt blindly for something to
lean upon. There was a deadly nausea at his stomach, and the people’s
voices sounded like the hum of a swarm of bees which once settled on a
tree over his head when he was a boy. Then he rallied, and wondered that
he could be so calm—that he didn’t feel anything. Something had benumbed
him completely, so that his head was just as erect and his smile as
pleasant as of old, as he made his way through the crowd and out to the
street, where his high-mettled horses were pawing the road, anxious to
be off. Two or three times he stopped to speak to people—to Godfrey
Sheldon, and Nancy Sharp. She went to the office for the excitement,
rather than because she expected anything. The sight of Mr. Sheldon gave
him a twinge, but Nancy’s money was safe and his “Hallo, Nancy!” was
more hearty than usual.
“Hallo, Mr. Grey! Will you be wantin’ your bank cleaned this week?” was
Nancy’s rejoinder.
“Perhaps so. I’ll let you know,” Mr. Grey replied, as he walked past her
to his brougham, where Herbert White stood talking to Louie of a
moonlight sail on the river the next night, and saying he should call
for her at half-past seven.
Mr. Grey had suspected that there was, or might be something serious
between the young man and his daughter, and he found himself wondering
if the trouble would end it.
“Probably,” he said to himself, but greeted Herbert cordially and
invited him to go home with them to dinner.
Herbert might have accepted but for his father, who came puffing from
the post-office, his hands full of letters, one of which he handed to
his son, saying:
“It’s from Fred, and I have one from Esther. They sailed yesterday for
Europe, where they are to join Miss Percy. Come, hurry; I want to get
home out of this heat. How are you, Grey?”
This last was in response to Mr. Grey’s cordial, “Good-afternoon, judge.
Hot day, isn’t it?”
Herbert bowed to Mrs. Grey and Louie, and walked toward his carriage,
but the Grey brougham was ahead of it, sending back clouds of dust which
made the judge sneeze and choke and wipe his eyes as he wondered “Why in
thunder Grey wanted to drive so fast and raise such an infernal dust!”
“Don’t he know it’s blowing right in my face, or don’t he care?—the
upstart, with livery!”
No dust could have been so bad as the Grey dust, and the judge went on
grumbling until the obnoxious carriage turned into a by-street, leaving
the road unobstructed.
Arrived at home, Mr. Grey tried to seem natural, and joked Louie about
her new dresses, which she could not help looking at, if it were Sunday;
but there was a glitter in his eyes and a drawn look about his mouth
which his wife remembered afterward and understood. When dinner was over
he said he was going for a walk, to see if it would not clear his head,
which felt a little heavy. Taking a circuitous route, he came at last to
the house of Lawyer Blake, a personal friend whom he could trust, and
who had done business for him. There was no hesitancy now on his part,
and his manner was cool and collected as he began:
“I am totally ruined! Bank will be closed to-morrow, and I have come to
you for advice.”
Mr. Blake looked at him in astonishment, as he went on; “I don’t know
much about such matters, but I suppose there must be an assignee, and I
want you for that and want you to see to things generally. There’ll be a
terrible row—worse than the White’s—and I feel as if I were losing my
mind.”
The lawyer asked no questions as to how it had happened. He thought he
knew, and promised to do whatever he could.
“Have you thought of preferred creditors? Are there none whom you wish
to have paid in full?” he asked.
“It is a farce to name any,” Mr. Grey replied. “There is so little that
to select a big depositor would be wrong. But, yes”—and in his eyes
there was a laugh as he saw the absurdity of what he was about to
suggest—“I will name one—old Nancy Sharp.”
“Nancy Sharp!” the lawyer repeated in surprise. “Are you crazy?”
“Very nearly so,” Mr. Grey replied; “but Nancy shall be the one. She
took twenty dollars from White’s Bank, and put them into mine, where she
already had a small sum. I have them intact yet, with her private mark
upon them, and I want you to pay her back the same dollars. She has
added small sums from time to time—put in five dollars yesterday—and now
has in all some seventy-five dollars. I have quite a regard for Nancy.
She’ll lead the mob, if there is one, and show fight, too!”
Nothing the lawyer said could dissuade Mr. Grey from his purpose, and he
gave it up, and Nancy’s name went in as the sole preferred creditor.
For an hour or more the interview lasted, and at its close the
preliminary steps for the closing of the bank had been decided; the
assignment was drawn ready for execution the next morning, and Mr. Grey
went home in quite a cheerful state of mind.
Now that he had made a beginning, and the burden was in a way shifted
from his shoulders to another’s, he felt better. It was not often that
Mrs. Grey attended service in the evening, and as it was so warm, Louie
decided to remain at home. Mr. Grey, however, went, and shook hands with
a good many people, and appeared so affable and friendly and talked and
laughed so much that it was commented upon by his friends and remembered
afterwards as a sign that he was a little off in his brain. When service
was over, he walked part way home with a neighbor, then saying
good-night, he went to his bank, and, locking the door and lighting the
gas, took a sheet of foolscap, and with a blue crayon wrote upon it in
letters which could be read across the street: “THIS BANK CLOSED FOR THE
PRESENT.”
He made two or three copies before he was suited. “I want it so plain
that he who runs may read,” he said, holding the paper off to get the
effect. “This will do. This will catch their eyes the first thing in the
morning,” he said, and pinning the paper on the wall sat staring at it
until the letters were like blue tongues before his eyes. Many times he
repeated the words, “THIS BANK IS CLOSED FOR THE PRESENT,” until they
burned like fire in his brain, and he laughed aloud as he thought of the
consternation they would produce and the rapidity with which the news
would spread, and the crowd it would bring to the spot. He could not put
the paper outside that night, for the moonlight would betray him. It
must be done in the early morning, before anyone was up.
“And I shall be here at the opening of the play,” he said, as with a
last glance at the blue letters he put out the gas, locked the door and
started for home, wondering why his legs trembled so and why he felt so
weak.
Once he sat down on a bench by the side of the road near his home with a
feeling that his strength was gone.
“This will never do. If I die, I’ll die game,” he said at last, and
rousing up and pulling himself together he walked very steadily to his
house, finding both his wife and Louie waiting for him with a tempting
little lunch on the dining-room table.
“Service was either very long, or you have been somewhere. It is nearly
ten o’clock,” Louie said, as she gave him the cup of cocoa which he
usually had on Sunday nights after church.
“I’ve been somewhere,” he said, taking the cocoa and compelling himself
to eat and to talk and seem natural, and when lunch was over, he asked
Louie to sing him something before she retired.
“What shall it be?” she said, seating herself at the piano.
“Oh, anything,” he answered. “Or, yes, I think I’d like
‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.’
That will suit my case.”
Louie did not hear the last remark, and her sweet, clear voice rang out
in the evening air with the song her father had chosen. Sometimes he
sang with her, but now he only whispered to himself, “Yes, the darkness
deepens, and it is so dark, and I don’t believe the Lord would abide
with me if I asked him to. It’s too late for that.”
It was almost a prayer, and whether God heard or not there stole over
the wretched man a sense of quiet and rest. The tension of his nerves
relaxed. His head drooped, and when Louie finished singing and turned
towards him, she saw that he was asleep.
“Poor, tired father,” she said, rousing him very gently, while he looked
at her in a bewildered kind of way and asked, “Is it to-morrow yet, and
has the mail come?”
“Almost to-morrow, as it is nearly eleven, and time you were in bed.
Mother went long ago,” Louie replied.
He was fully awake now, and getting up from his chair he stooped over
Louie to give her the good-night kiss which he never omitted.
“God bless you, daughter,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders
and looking her steadily in the face; “God bless you, and whatever
happens, remember I thought only of your happiness and your mother’s.
Good-night.”
He kissed her again, and went slowly to his room, while Louie looked
after him wonderingly.
“Something is the matter. He is not well. I must speak to mother in the
morning and have him see a doctor,” she thought, as she, too, went to
her room and was soon asleep, with no suspicion of what the morrow was
to bring.
Mr. Grey could not sleep. There was work for him to do, and it must be
done early, before the town was awake.
Fortunately his wife slept very soundly, and did not hear him when, just
as the day was dawning, he rose stealthily and made his way to the bank,
meeting no one but a half-drunken man reeling home after a night’s
debauch. He recognized Mr. Grey, and half staggering against him
hiccoughed out, “Evenin’, Mr. Grey. Been on a lark same’s I have. Wall,
all right. I ‘low, and everybody ‘lows you are a good feller” (the man
prefixed an adjective to the good, which made it sound like an oath);
“good, honest feller. Yes, sir. My wife Sally has some money in your
bank and knows it’s safe. Yes, sir, she does. Wall, good-night. I must
be goin’, or Sally will lam me for bein’ late; but if I tell her I met
Mr. Grey it’ll be all right. Yes, sir, all right. Sally swears by you,
she does. By-by.”
The man moved on a few rods and then fell sprawling upon the walk, where
he lay like a log. For an instant Mr. Grey looked at him, half resolving
to go to his aid. But time was passing, and he had work to do before the
sun was up. The man’s words of commendation and assurance of Sally’s
trust in him stung him to the quick. Everybody trusted him, but that
trust was soon to be destroyed, and Sally, who he knew was a
hard-working woman, would lose her little hoard.
“It is such people I am most sorry for,” he said, clenching his fists in
an agony of remorse and trembling so that he could hardly unlock the
door of the bank. It was dark inside, but he did not need a light. He
knew where the blue words were. There were tacks and a hammer in one of
the drawers, and the paper which was to fire the town was soon fastened
upon one of the outside doors.
“I’ll stay and see it begin,” he said, and, returning to the office and
locking the door, he took out the revolver he had brought with him, and
again asked himself if he should end it all, as he could do in a second.
When before he had been thus tempted it was a dead face which stopped
him. Now it was Louie’s, his fair, sweet daughter. What would she say to
find him there, with his brains bespattering the floor, and where would
he be when she found him?
“No, I can’t do it,” he said. “Better State’s prison than hell, where
suicides go. Maybe I can repent and be forgiven, and maybe it won’t be
State prison. I’ll risk it, anyway.”
He returned the pistol to his pocket and lay down upon the couch,
wondering who would be the first to see the words which danced before
his eyes like the blue flames of perdition.
He had not slept well for weeks, and for two nights he had not slept at
all except the few minutes when Louie was singing to him. Nature could
endure no longer, and he fell at last into a sleep so heavy that he did
not waken until there was the sound of many voices outside, and he knew
the mob was there, clamoring to get in. Sick with fear, he thought again
of his revolver, when he heard Louie calling to him:
“Father, father! are you here? Let me in. It is Louie.”