SUSPENSE.
Lewis soon became a more important person in the Berkeley family than
any member of it had anticipated, or than it would have been at all good
for the boy himself to have known. Anxieties were multiplying; the
banking business was in a very doubtful state; and the most sagacious
practical men could not pretend to foresee what was likely to follow the
transition from a long and burdensome war to peace. The farmers had
begun to complain some time before. After several unfavourable seasons,
during which they had been growing rich, their fields began to be as
productive as they had ever been; and the difficulties in the way of the
importation of corn were, about the same time, lessened by the peace; so
that the prices of corn fell so rapidly and extensively as to injure the
landed interest, and cause ruin to some, and a very general abatement of
confidence.
The banks, of course, suffered immediately by this; and there was too
much reason to fear that the last days of many were at hand. Bank paper
was now at its lowest point of depreciation; the difference between the
market-price of gold and the legal value of guineas being thirty per
cent.; and there was no prospect of a safe and quiet restoration of
paper to the value of gold, by a gradual contraction of its issues on
the part of the Bank of England. If there had been no law to prevent its
notes passing at their true value in the market, the Bank would have
been warned by what was daily before its eyes to regulate its issues
according to the quantity of money wanted. When its notes were at a
discount, its issues could have been quietly contracted; or, on the
other hand, cautiously enlarged, if its notes should have happened to
bear a premium. But this had been put out of the question some time
before by the law which ordained bank notes to bear a fixed value in
relation to gold; which law was occasioned by the just demand of a great
landholder to be paid his rents in an undepreciated currency. If all
other parties to a contract had insisted on the same thing,
inconvertible bank paper would have been everywhere refused; therefore
the law was passed that Bank of England notes must neither be refused in
payment, nor taken at less than the value they professed to bear. This
law encouraged the Bank to put out more notes than could safely
circulate; and so one evil brought on another,—all of which might be
traced back to the Restriction Act, but whose results it was not so easy
to anticipate.
That the Bank and the Government were aware of the decrease in the value
of their paper, was evident by their sending it abroad whenever a
favourable opportunity offered for passing large quantities of it in
distant places, where it was not expected that people would be too
curious about its value. The Irish proved impracticable. They were too
near home, and knew very well what ought to be thought of Bank of
England paper in comparison with guineas, which were openly bought and
sold, till the law above referred to was extended to that country. The
Canadians were tried next, bundles of paper-money being sent out to pay
the army, and everybody else with whom Government had to do. But,
instead of taking them quietly, as Englishmen were compelled to do, they
consulted together upon the notes, appraised them, and used them in
exchange at a discount of thirty per cent. This being the case in any
part of the world, was enough to render any other part of the world
discontented with bank paper; and set the people in England looking
about them to see how many banks they had, and what was the foundation
of their credit. There was little comfort in the discovery that, while
scarcely any gold was forthcoming, the number of banks had increased,
since Bank of England notes had been rendered inconvertible, from about
280 to above 700; and that a great many of these were watching the
fortunes of the farming interest with a nervous anxiety which did not
tell at all well for their own.
Mr. Berkeley now never missed going to D—— on market days; and the girls
found themselves more interested than they could once have conceived
possible in the accounts Henry Craig brought them of what was said of
the state of the times in the farm-houses he visited, and by Mr. Martin
when he returned from making his sales in the county. It appeared that
there was quite as much speculation abroad respecting the stability of
the banks as about the supply of corn; and the bank at D—— and Mr.
Cavendish’s concern did not, of course, escape remark.
Mr. Cavendish had, to Horace’s surprise, got over his difficulties about
the license. He had quietly paid the fines, and gone on; being observed,
however, to undersell more and more, and drive his business more quickly
and eagerly every day; so as to afford grounds of suspicion to some wise
observers that he was coming to an end of his resources. It was
impossible but that he must be carrying on his business at a tremendous
loss, and that a crash must therefore be coming.—Mr. Berkeley’s
disapprobation and dislike of this man and his doings grew into
something very like hatred as times became darker. He knew that
Cavendish’s failure must cause a tremendous run on the D—— bank; and
these were not days when bankers could contemplate a panic with any
degree of assurance. As often as he saw lighters coming and going, or
stacks of deals being unbuilt, or coals carted on Cavendish’s premises,
he came home gloomy or pettish; and yet, as Melea sometimes ventured to
tell him, the case would be still worse if there was nothing stirring
there. If busy, Cavendish must be plunging himself deeper in
liabilities; if idle, his resources must be failing him: so, as both
aspects of his affairs must be dismal, the wisest thing was to fret as
little as possible about either.—These were the times when Lewis’s
presence was found to be a great comfort. His uncle was proud of
him,—his aunt fond of him; the occupation of teaching him was pleasant
and useful to his cousins; and there was endless amusement to them all
in the incidents and conversations which arose from his foreign birth
and rearing. None of them could at present foresee how much more
important a comfort this little lad would soon be.
Rather late in the autumn of this year, Fanny left home for a week to
pay a long-promised visit to a friend who lived in the country, ten
miles from Haleham. This promise being fulfilled, she and Melea and
Lewis were to settle down at home for a winter of diligent study, and of
strenuous exertion to make their own fireside as cheerful as possible to
the drooping spirits of their father and mother. If they could but get
over this one winter, all would be well; for Mr. Berkeley had laid his
plans for withdrawing from the bank at Midsummer; preferring a retreat
with considerable loss to the feverish anxiety under which he was at
present suffering. His pride was much hurt at his grand expectations of
his banking achievements having come to this; but his family, one and
all, soothed him with reasonings on the sufficiency of what he expected
to have remaining, and with assurances that his peace of mind was the
only matter of concern to them. He believed all they said at the time;
but present impressions were too much for him when he was at business;
and whatever might be his mood when his daughters parted from him at the
gate in the morning, it was invariably found, when he came back to
dinner, that he had left his philosophy somewhere in the road, and was
grievously in want of a fresh supply. Mrs. Berkeley already began to
count the months till Midsummer; and Melea’s eyes were full of tears
when Fanny was mounting her horse for her little journey. Melea did not
think she could have so dreaded one week of her sister’s absence.
The first day passed pretty comfortably, no news having arrived of the
stoppage of any bank in town or country, and nothing reaching the ears
of the Berkeleys respecting any transactions of the Cavendishes. On the
next, Lewis, who had been amusing himself with sweeping away the dead
leaves to make a clear path for his uncle up to the house, came running
in, broom in hand, to announce that Mr. Berkeley was coming, full
gallop, by the field way from D——. Before Mrs. Berkeley knew what to
make of this strange news, her husband burst in, in a state of nervous
agitation from head to foot.
“What _is_ the matter?” cried everybody.
“Lewis, go and finish your sweeping,” said his uncle, upon which the
dismayed boy was withdrawing.—“Lewis, come back,” was the next order,
“and stay with your aunt all day. Have nothing to say to the servants.”
“The bank has failed?” said Melea, inquiringly.
“No, my dear; but there is a run upon it, and to-morrow is market-day. I
must be off to town instantly; but no one must see the least sign of
alarm.—Get on your habit, Melea. Your horse will be at the door in
another minute.”
“Mine, father!”
“Yes. We go out for our ride;—leisurely, you know, leisurely, till we
are past Cavendish’s, and out of sight of the town; and then for a
gallop after the mail. I think I may overtake it.”
When Melea came down, dressed in a shorter time than ever horsewoman was
dressed before, her mother had stuffed a shirt and night-cap into Mr.
Berkeley’s pocket, replenished his purse, promised to be at D—— to meet
him on his return from town in the middle of the next day, and summoned
a smile of hope and a few words of comfort with which to dismiss him.
The groom was ordered to fall back out of earshot; and during the
tedious half mile that they were obliged to go slowly, Melea learned a
few particulars. She asked the nature of the alarm, and whether the old
story of the forgeries had anything to do with it.
“Nothing whatever. It is pure accident. The most provoking thing in the
world! The merest accident!”
“People’s minds are in a state to be acted upon by trifles,” observed
Melea. “I hope it may soon blow over, if it is not a well-founded
alarm.”
“No, no. Such a hubbub as I left behind me is easy enough to begin, but
the devil knows where it will end. It was that cursed fool, Mrs. Millar,
that is the cause of all this.”
“What! Mrs. Millar the confectioner?”
“The same,—the mischievous, damned old—”
The rest was lost between his teeth. Melea had never thought Mrs. Millar
a fool, or mischievous, and knew she was not old, and had no reason for
supposing the remaining word to be more applicable than the others.
Perceiving, however, that they were just coming in sight of Cavendish’s
premises, she supposed that her father’s wrath might bear a relation to
them, while he vented it on the harmless Mrs. Millar. He went on:—
“A servant boy was sent to Mrs. Millar’s for change for a £5 note of our
bank; and the devil took him there just when the shop was full of
people, eating their buns and tarts for luncheon. The fool behind the
counter—”
“And who was that?”
“Why, who should it be but Mrs. Millar?—never looked properly at the
note, and gave the boy a pound’s worth of silver. When he showed her
that it was a five, she took it up between her hands, and with her
cursed solemn face said, ‘Oh, I can’t change _that_ note.’ The boy
carried home the story; the people in the shop looked at one another;
and the stupid woman went on serving her buns, actually the only person
that did not find out what a commotion she had begun. The bun-eaters all
made a circuit by our bank in their walk, and one of them came in and
gave us warning; but it was too late. In half an hour, the place was
besieged, and to avoid being observed, I had to make my way out through
Taylor’s garden at the back.”
“Poor Mrs. Millar!” said Melea “I am as sorry for her as for anybody.”
“O, you never saw any one in such a taking—as she deserves to be. She
came, without her bonnet, into the middle of the crowd, explaining and
protesting, and all that; with not a soul to mind what she said now,
though they were ready enough to snap up her words an hour before. She
caught a glimpse of me, when she had made her way up the steps, and she
actually went down on her knees to ask me to forgive her; but I swore I
never would.”
“O father!” cried Melea, more troubled than she had yet been. At the
moment, she received a signal to look as usual while the Broadhursts’
carriage passed, but on no account to stop to speak. Whether her father,
with his twitching countenance, could look as usual, was Melea’s doubt.
Doubting it himself, he teazed his horse, and made it bolt past the
carriage on one side, while his daughter saluted the Broadhursts on the
other.
“Well carried off, child!” he cried.
“Take care, Sir. They are looking after us.”
“Aye; pronouncing me a wonderful horseman for my years, I dare say; but
I must put that matter to the proof a little more before I get quietly
seated in the mail.—Well; I may be off now, I think; and here we part.
God bless you, my dear! Thank God we have not met Cavendish or any of
his tribe! I should have rode over the children, depend upon it. Fare
well, my love!”
“Not yet,” said Melea, settling herself as if for a feat. “I can gallop
as well as you, and I must see you into the mail,—for my mother’s sake.”
“You will soon have had enough; and when you have, turn without speaking
to me. George, follow your mistress, and never mind me, or where I take
it into my head to go. Now for it!”
The gallop lasted till George wondered whether master and young mistress
were not both out of their right minds. At length, the mail was seen
steadily clearing a long reach of hill before them. George was shouted
to to ride on and stop it; a service which he could scarcely guess how
he was to perform, as it had been all he could do to keep up with his
charge for the last four miles. The mail disappeared over the ridge
before the panting horses had toiled half way up the long hill; but it
was recovered at the top, and at last overtaken, and found to have just
one place vacant inside. Mr. Berkeley made time for another word.
“I charge you, Melea, to let Fanny know nothing of this. Not a syllable,
mind, by message or letter, before she comes home. Time enough then.”
Remonstrance was impossible; but Melea was much grieved. She mourned
over the prohibition all the way home; but she was particularly glad
that Henry had not been mentioned. She was sure her mother would desire
that he should come to them, and help them to support one another during
the inevitable suspense, and the misfortunes which might follow.
When Melea reached home, she found her mother preparing to set off for
D——, where (as the run would probably continue for some days, requiring
the presence of all the partners) it was her intention to take a
lodging, in order that the few hours of rest which her husband would be
able to snatch might be more undisturbed than they could be in a
friend’s house. Melea begged hard that Mrs. Millar might be allowed to
accommodate them, in sign of forgiveness and regard; and as her dwelling
was conveniently placed with respect to the bank, and she was known to
have everything comfortable about her, Mrs. Berkeley had no objection to
make the first application to the grieved and penitent cause of all this
mischief.
Melea and Lewis must stay at home. Painful as it was to separate at such
a time, the effort must be made; for, besides that it was better for Mr.
Berkeley to have no one with him but his wife, it was necessary that no
difference in the proceedings of the family should be perceived in
Haleham. The house must be seen to be open, the family on the spot, and
all going on, as nearly as possible, in the common way.—The mother and
daughter did not attempt to flatter each other that all would end well.
They were both too ignorant of the extent of the alarm, as well as of
the resources of the bank, to pretend to judge. They were firm,
composed, and thoughtful; but self-possession was the best thing they at
present wished and hoped for. When the silent parting kiss had been
given, and the sound of wheels died away in the dusk, Melea sank down on
the sofa, and remained motionless for a time which appeared endless to
poor Lewis. He stood at the window, looking out, long after it was too
dark to see anything. He wished Melea would bid him ring for lights. He
was afraid the fire was going out, but he did not like to stir it while
Melea had her eyes fixed upon it. He could not steal out of the room for
his slate, because he had been bidden to stay where he was for the rest
of the day. When he was too tired and uneasy to stand at the window any
longer, he crept to the hearth-rug, and laid himself down on his face at
full length.
Melea started up, stirred the fire into a blaze, and sat down beside
Lewis, stroking his head, and asking him whether he thought he could be
happy for a few days with only herself to be his companion after school
hours; and whether he could keep the secret of his aunt’s absence, and
of his uncle’s not coming home to dinner as usual. While Lewis was
conscientiously measuring his own discretion, patience, and fortitude,
previous to giving his answer, Mr. Craig was shown in.
Henry did not come in consequence of any alarm, as Melea saw by the
lightness of his step and the gaiety of his manner of entering the room.
He presently stopped short, however, on seeing only two of the family,
sitting by firelight, at an hour when music and merry voices were
usually to be heard in the bright, busy room. “Is any body ill?” “What
then is the matter?” were questions which led to a full
explanation.—Henry was very sorry that Fanny could not be sent for. He
thought the prohibition wrong; but, as it existed, there was nothing to
be done but to obey it. He would, however, do all he could to supply
Fanny’s place to Melea. After a long consultation about matters of minor
moment, the most ample review of past circumstances, and the steadiest
mutual contemplation of what might be in prospect, the friends
parted,—Henry uncertain whether there was most joy or sorrow in his full
heart,—(joy in Melea, and sorrow for this trial,)—and Melea relying upon
the support that his promised visits would afford her. She would see
him, he had told her, two or three times a day while the suspense
lasted; and he should not set foot out of Haleham while there was a
chance of her sending him notice that he could be of the slightest
service.