CERTAINTY.
Mrs. Millar was only too happy in being permitted to atone, by her most
devoted attentions, for the evil she had caused by an expression,
inadvertently dropped and completely misunderstood. Her lodgings
happened to be empty; but, if they had not been so, she would have given
up her own sitting-room, and all the accommodation her house could
afford, to secure to Mr. Berkeley the repose he would so much want,
after the fatigues he was undergoing. She left the shop to the care of
her servants while she herself assisted Mrs. Berkeley in the needful
preparations for Mr. Berkeley’s comfort, on his return from his journey;
a return which was made known by strangers before the anxious wife heard
of it from himself.
The streets of D—— were full of bustle from an hour before the bank
opened in the morning. News was brought by customers into Mrs. Millar’s
shop of expresses which had been seen going and returning, it was
supposed, from the other banks which must necessarily be expecting a
run. Everybody had something to tell;—what a prodigious quantity of gold
and silver there was in large wooden bowls on the bank-counter; how such
and such a carrier had left the market early to elbow his way into the
bank, and demand cash, being afraid to carry home notes to his employer;
how there was no use in going to market without change, as a note might
travel the whole round of butchers’ stalls without finding a hand to
take it; how some of the folks would receive Bank of England notes, and
others would be content with nothing short of gold. There were many
laughs about the ignorance of certain of the country people respecting
the causes and nature of the panic: of the young woman who carried Bank
of England notes to be changed for those of the D—— bank; of the old
woman who was in a hurry to get rid of her guineas for notes, because
she was told the guinea-bank was in danger; and of the market-gardener
who gladly presented a note of a bank which had failed a year before,
expecting to get cash for it. Later in the day, remarks were heard on
the civility and cheerfulness of the young gentleman, the son of one of
the partners, just arrived from London, it was said, and who seemed to
understand the thing very well, and to be quite easy about everybody
having his own. With these were coupled criticisms on the young
gentleman’s father, who was fidgetting about, trying to joke with the
country people, but as cross as could be between times: to which
somebody answered that he might well be cross when an old friend and
business connexion, from whom he might have expected some consideration
and gratitude, had sent his porter with two 10_l._ and one 5_l._ note to
be cashed. No wonder Mr. Berkeley said, loud enough for everybody to
hear, that Mr. Briggs ought to be ashamed of himself: for it was true
that he ought.—A new comer explained that Mr. Briggs had nothing to do
with it; and that he had, on learning what a liberty his porter had
taken with his name, sent a note to Mr. Berkeley, explaining that he had
issued strict orders to all his people, early that morning, not to go
near the bank the whole day; and that the porter was dismissed his
service, and might obtain employment, if he could, from the persons who
had no doubt sent him to get change for their notes, because they did
not choose to appear in the matter themselves.
From the moment that Mrs. Berkeley heard of the arrival of her husband
and son, she endeavoured to persuade herself that all would be well, and
that the great danger was over, since the bank did not stop before
supplies could be obtained from town. She sat by the window, and counted
the hours till six o’clock, the time when the bank usually closed.
Half-past six came, and the street appeared fuller of bustle than even
in the morning; a circumstance which she could not understand, till Mrs.
Millar came up to tell her that the bank was kept open an hour later
than usual. This looked well, and did more to compose the anxious wife
than all the slips of paper she had had from her husband during the
afternoon, each of which assured her that there was no cause for
uneasiness. As her spirits were thus somewhat raised, it was a grievous
disappointment to see her husband come in with a miserable countenance,
and even Horace looking more grave than she had ever seen him.
“And now Horace, no more pretence,” said Mr. Berkeley when he had sunk
down on a sofa, apparently transformed by the events of the last
twenty-four hours into a feeble old man. “We have been hypocritical
enough all day; now let us look as wretched as we are.”
“Some tea, mother,” said Horace. “My father’s hard day’s work is done;
but I must go back to the bank, and possibly to London. They keep us
terribly short of gold. We must get more out of them before noon
to-morrow, or I do not know what may have become of us by this time in
the evening.”
Mrs. Berkeley began to protest against the cruelty of stinting the
supplies of gold at such a time.
“They cannot help it, mother,” replied Horace. “They are hourly
expecting a run themselves—”
“A run on the London banks! Where will all this end?” Horace shook his
head. He then observed, that if they could get through the next day, he
should be tolerably easy, as it was not probable that the mistrust of
the people would outlast a well-sustained run of two days and a half. If
they had none but small amounts to pay, he should have little fear;—if
it was certain that no more rich customers would come driving up in
carriages to take away their seven thousand pounds in a lump.
“Why, who could have done that?” Mrs. Berkeley inquired.
“Who!” said her husband. “Who should it be but the sister of that fellow
Longe! There he was with her in the carriage, grinning and kissing his
hand when he caught a glimpse of me within. It was his doing, I’ll
answer for it. He would not let pass such an opportunity of annoying
us.”
“The sister is evidently an ignorant person, who does not perceive the
mischief she is doing,” observed Horace. “I should not wonder if it
strikes her, and she brings her seven heavy bags back again to-morrow.”
“Then she may carry them away a second time,” said Mr. Berkeley. “I am
longing to write to tell her, when this bustle is over, that we have
closed accounts with her for ever.”
Horace wished they might be justified in spurning the seven thousands
the next day. Nobody would enjoy the rejection more than himself, if
they could safely make it; but seven thousand pounds would go a good way
in paying small demands.
“I suppose your bank is solvent?” timidly asked Mrs. Berkeley. “You are
quite sure of this, I hope.”
Before there was time for an answer, the door was jerked open; and Mr.
Cavendish appeared, nursing his white hat, and apologising for the
rudeness of finding his own way up stairs, against the will of Mrs.
Millar, who was not aware what an intimate friend he was, and how
impossible it was to him to keep away from the Berkeleys at such a time.
Horace made a rapid sign to his father to command himself, and then
coolly took a cup of tea from his mother, sugaring it with great
exactness, and leaving it to Mr. Cavendish to begin the conversation.
Mr. Berkeley saw the necessity of behaving well, and kept quiet also.
“I hope you enjoy your sofa, Sir,” observed Cavendish. “It must be very
acceptable, after having been on your legs all day.”
At another time, Mr. Berkeley might have criticised the grammar; but he
now vented his critical spleen on the accommodations at the bank.
“By the way, Horace,” said he, “there’s a confounded draught from under
those doors. One does not mind it in common; and I have really forgotten
it since last winter, till to-day. But the eternal opening and shutting
of the outer door caused a perpetual stream of air, going and returning.
It is that which has made my ancles ache so to-night.”
“And the fatigue, no doubt,” added Cavendish. “You must have had a very
busy,—an extremely harassing day, Sir.”
“Very indeed, and,”—yawning,—“as we are likely to have just such another
to-morrow, I must go to bed presently. It is a great comfort, (for which
I am obliged to my wife,) that I have not to ride as far as you have
to-night, or to be up particularly early in the morning. We shall open
an hour earlier than usual, but this leaves time enough for sleep, even
to lazy folks like me.”
“An hour earlier! Indeed! Well, Sir, I hope you will sleep sound, I am
sure.”
“It will be odd if I do not,” said Mr. Berkeley, yawning again. Mr.
Cavendish proceeded,—
“I trust, Sir, you support yourself pretty well. There is something so
harassing in a bustle of this nature; so provoking;—so, if I may say so,
exasperating! I hope this has no effect upon you;—you keep yourself
calm,—you——”
“I, Sir! Lord bless you, I am as cool as a cucumber.” Seeing an exchange
of glances between Horace and Mrs. Berkeley, he went on, “There was I
behind the counter, you know. That was my place.”
“True: so I understood.”
“Behind the counter, where I could talk with the country people as they
came in; and, upon my soul, I never heard any thing so amusing. To hear
what they expected, and how they had been bamboozled! To see what a
hurry they were in to squeeze their way up to the counter, and, after
talking a minute or two, and handling their gold, how they thought the
notes were more convenient to carry, after all; and they would have them
back again, with many apologies for the trouble they had given us.”
“Ha! ha! very good. Apologies indeed! They ought to apologise, I think.
And do you, really now, open accounts again with them?”
“With such as knew no better, and will know better another time; but not
with any who ought to keep ten miles off on such a day as this, and come
clamouring for their five or seven thousand guineas.”
“Is it possible? You don’t say so!”
“I do, though. And they may go and seek a beggarly banker who cares more
for their trumpery bags than we do. We will not blister our fingers any
more with their cursed gold. We will teach them——”
“No more tea, thank you, mother,” said Horace, rising and buttoning up
his coat. “Mr. Cavendish, will you walk? I have just to go down the
street, and it is time we were leaving my father to rest himself, which,
as you observe, he needs.”
“With pleasure, Mr. Horace; but I have first a little matter to speak
about,—a little suggestion to make,—and I am glad, I am sure, that you
are here to give us the benefit of your opinion. It occurs to me, you
see, that one friend should help another, at a time of need. There is no
knowing, you perceive, what may happen in these extraordinary times to
any of us,—bankers especially. Even I myself may be in a condition to be
glad of the credit of my friends.”
“Very probably,” observed Mr. Berkeley.
“Well, then, my dear sir, allow me to make use of my credit on your
behalf. It will give me the greatest pleasure to bring you through.”
Though Mr. Berkeley looked as if he would have devoured him on the spot,
Cavendish went on pressing his offers of service, of patronage, of
support, and ended with a pretty broad hint that he would take charge of
Mr. Berkeley’s estate on condition of raising the funds needful at
present. In the midst of his rage, Mr. Berkeley was for a moment
disposed to take him at his word, for the amusement of seeing how
Cavendish would contrive to back out of a bargain which all parties were
equally aware he could not fulfil; but having just discretion enough to
see the mischief which such a joke must bring after it, he adopted a
different air; bowed his haughtiest bow, was very sensible of Mr.
Cavendish’s motives, would ask for the patronage of the Haleham bank
when he needed it, and was, meanwhile, Mr. Cavendish’s very humble
servant.
When Horace and the tormentor were gone, and Mr. Berkeley had vented his
spleen against the impudent upstart, the coxcomb, the swindler, and
whatever pretty terms besides he could apply to Cavendish, Mrs. Berkeley
obtained some account of the events of the day, and was glad to find
that there were instances of generosity and delicacy to set against the
examples of Mr. Longe’s sister and of Cavendish. A merchant had appeared
at the counter to pay in a large sum; and a servant-maid, who had nursed
Miss Melea, came to the bank in search of her husband, and carried him
off without the change he went to seek. These, and a few other heroes
and heroines, furnished Mr. Berkeley with subjects for as vehement
praise as others of blame; and he retired to his chamber at war with not
much more than half his race.
The most urgent messages and incessant personal applications failed to
procure such a supply of gold from the corresponding bank in London as
would satisfy the partners of the D—— bank of their ability to meet the
run, if it should continue for some days. It did so continue; relaxing a
little on the third day, becoming terrific on the fourth, and obliging
the partners to hold a midnight consultation, whether they should
venture to open their doors on the fifth. The bank did not this day
remain open an hour after the usual time: it was cleared almost before
the clock struck six; and though some of the people outside were
considerate enough to remember that the clerks and partners must all be
weary, after so many days of unusual toil, and that this was reason
enough for the early closing of the shutters, there were others to shake
their heads, and fear that the coffers were at length emptied of their
gold.
For the first two hours in the morning, the partners congratulated
themselves on their resolution to take the chance of another day. The
tide was turned: people were ashamed of their panic, and gold flowed in.
A note to say this was sent to Mrs. Berkeley, who immediately began her
preparations for returning home before night. The messenger, who went to
and fro between D—— and Haleham, was charged with good news for Melea;
and all seemed happy again, when the fearful tidings arrived that the
corresponding banking-house in London was exposed to a tremendous run,
and required all the assistance it could obtain, instead of being in any
condition to send further funds to its country correspondent.
All attempts to keep this intelligence secret were vain. Within an hour,
everybody in D—— had heard it, and it was impossible to obviate the
effects of the renewed panic. The partners did not defer the evil moment
till their coffers were completely emptied. As soon as the tide had once
more turned, and gold began to flow out a second time, they closed their
bank, and issued a notice of their having stopped payment.
Horace was the main support of his family at this crisis. When he had
communicated the intelligence to his mother, silenced the lamentations
of the miserable Mrs. Millar, and brought his father home to his lodging
after dusk, he went over to Haleham for an hour or two, to give such
poor satisfaction to his sisters as might be derived from full and
correct intelligence. Fanny had not yet returned; and as she was not
there, with her matured and calm mind, and greater experience of life,
to support her young sister under this blow, Horace could scarcely bring
himself to communicate to his little Melea tidings so completely the
reverse of those which she evidently expected. Though many years
younger, Melea was not, however, a whit behind her sister in strength of
mind. She also understood more of the nature of the case than her
brother had supposed possible; so that she was capable of as much
consolation as could arise from a full explanation of the state and
prospects of the concern, and of the family fortunes as connected with
it.
Melea would have inquired into all these circumstances if only for the
sake of the relief which it appeared to afford to Horace to fix his
attention upon them; but she was also anxious to qualify herself to
satisfy Fanny in every particular, on her return the next day: for her
brother brought a message from Mrs. Berkeley, requesting that Melea
would not think of joining her parents at D——, but would stay to receive
Fanny, and to prepare for the return of the rest of the family, whenever
Mr. Berkeley might feel himself justified in seeking the retirement of
his own house.
“Is there anything else that I can do?” asked Melea. “Any letters to
write,—any inventories to make out?” she continued, casting a glance
round her at the bookshelves, the piano, and the Titian which had long
been her father’s pride. “Anything which can best be done before my
mother comes home?”
“If you think, dear, that you can write letters without too much effort,
it would be very well that three or four should be dispatched before my
mother returns. There is no occasion for anything more, at present. Be
careful, Melea, about making too much effort. That is the only thing I
fear for you. Remember that you must reserve your strength for our poor
father’s support. He will need all you can afford him; and we must
expect even my mother to give way when he no longer depends wholly on
her. Do not exhaust yourself at once, dearest.”
Melea could not realize the idea of her being exhausted, though she made
no protestations about it. She supposed that there might be something
much worse in such a trial than she could at present foresee, and she
therefore refrained from any talk of courage, even to herself; but, at
present, she did not feel that she had anything to bear, so
insignificant did her relation to the event appear in comparison with
that which was borne by her parents and brother. She was full of dread
on her father’s account, of respectful sorrow for her mother, and of
heart-wringing grief for her manly, honourable brother, to whom
reputation was precious above all things, and who was just setting out
in life with confident hopes of whatever might be achieved by exertion
and integrity. For Horace she felt most; for Fanny and herself least:
for Fanny, because she was another self in her views of life, in
capacity for exertion, and in preparation for that reverse of fortune
with which they had occasionally been threatened from the days of their
childhood.
“Can I do nothing for you, Horace?” asked Melea. “While we are all
looking to you, we should like to think we could help you. Is there
nothing to be done?”
“Nothing, thank you. Whatever responsibility rests upon me cannot be
shared. Only make me the bearer of some message to my mother, and of any
little thing you can think of to show her that you are calm and
thoughtful. Such a proof will be better than anything I can say.”
“I am going to write while you eat these grapes,” said Melea, who had
observed that her brother was teazed with thirst. While Horace ate his
grapes, and made memoranda, Melea wrote to her mother.
“Dearest Mother,—The news which Horace has brought grieves me very much.
My great trouble is that I am afraid Fanny and I know too little at
present what will be the extent of such a trial to feel for my father
and you as we ought. We are aware, however, that it must be very great
and long-continued to one who, like my father, has toiled through a
life-time to obtain the very reverse of the lot which is now appointed
to him. There is no dishonour, however, and that, I think, is the only
calamity which we should find it very difficult to bear. Your children
will feel it no misfortune to be impelled to the new and more
responsible kind of exertion of which their father has kindly given them
frequent warning, and for which you have so directed their education as
to prepare them. Fanny and I are too well convinced that the greatest
happiness is to be found in strenuous exertion on a lofty principle, to
repine at any event which makes such exertion necessary, or to dread the
discipline which must, I suppose, accompany it. I speak for Fanny in her
absence as for myself, because I have learned from her to feel as I do,
and am sure that I may answer for her; and I have written so much about
ourselves, because I believe my father in what he has so often
said,—that it is for our sakes that he is anxious about his worldly
concerns. I assure you we shall be anxious only for him and you and
Horace. Horace, however, can never be long depressed by circumstances;
nor do I think that any of us can. I mean to say this in the spirit of
faith, not of presumption. If it is presumption, it will certainly be
humbled: if it is faith, it will, I trust, be justified. In either case,
welcome the test!
“I expect Fanny home by the middle of the day to-morrow; and I hope we
shall see you in the evening, or the next day at farthest. My father may
rely on perfect freedom from disturbance. I shall provide that nobody
shall come farther than the white gate, unless he wishes it I send you
some grapes, and my father’s cloth shoes, which I think he must want if
he has to sit still much at his writing. I shall send you more fruit
to-morrow; and the messenger will wait for any directions you may have
to give, and for the line which I am sure you will write, if you should
not be coming home in the evening.
“Lewis, who has been a very good and pleasant companion, sends his love,
and his sorrow that anything has arisen to make you unhappy.
“Farewell, my dear father and mother. May God support you, and bring
blessings out of the misfortune with which He has seen fit to visit you!
With His permission, your children shall make you happy yet.—Your
dutiful and affectionate daughter,
“MELEA BERKELEY.
“P.S.—No one has been so anxious about you as Henry Craig. If he thought
it would be any comfort to you to see him, he would go over to D—— on
the instant. He said so when we were only in fear. I am sure he will now
be more earnest still. As soon as Horace is gone, I shall write, as he
desires, to Reading, and Manchester, and Richmond. If there are any
more, let me know to-morrow. I hope you will not exert yourself to write
to anybody at present, except Fanny or me.”
When Fanny turned her face homewards the next morning, ignorant (as it
grieved her sister to think) of all that had happened during the week,
she was charged by the friends she was leaving with two or three
commissions, which she was to execute on her way home through Haleham,
in order that the servant who attended her might carry back her
purchases. She accordingly alighted from her horse at the entrance of
the town, in order to walk to some shops. The first person she met was
Mr. Longe, walking arm-in-arm with a young man, whom she did not know.
She saw a significant sign and whisper pass between them, such as she
had observed on sundry occasions of meeting the rector since her
rejection of him; but she was not the less taken by surprise with the
rudeness which followed. Of the two gentlemen, one—the stranger—took up
his glass to stare, the other gave no sign of recognition but a laugh in
her face; and both resolutely turned her off the narrow
pavement,—looking back, as the servant declared, as if to find out what
she thought of the manœuvre. She thought nothing but that it was very
contemptible, till she saw Henry Craig coming towards her in great
haste, and beckoning as she was about to enter the shop.
“Let me help you upon your horse, Miss Berkeley,” said he, much out of
breath from haste or some other cause.
“Thank you; but I must go to a shop first. Have you seen my family this
morning? And how are they all?”
Henry answered that they were all well; that he was going there with her
now; and that he wished she would dismiss the groom, with the horses,
and walk with him by the field way, Fanny was about to object, but she
saw that Henry was earnest, and knew that he was never so without cause.
She let him give such orders to the servant as he thought fit, draw her
arm within his own, and turn towards the field-path. When she looked up
in his face, as if wishing him to speak, she saw that he was pale and
agitated. She stopped, asking him so firmly what was the matter, that he
gave over all idea of breaking the intelligence gradually.
“It is said,” he replied,—“but I do not know that it is true,—it is said
that there is some derangement in your father’s affairs,—that the D——
bank has stopped payment.”
“You do not know that it is true?”
“Not to this extent. I know that there has been some doubt,—that there
have been difficulties during the last week; but of the event I have no
certain knowledge. Alarm yourself as little as you can.”
“I have no doubt it is true,” replied Fanny. “Such an event is no new
idea to us. I have no doubt it is true.” And they walked on in silence.
“One thing, Henry, I must say before I know more,” continued Fanny,
after a long pause. “Let what will have happened, I am certain that the
honour of my father and brother will come out clear. If it were not for
this confidence in them——”
“And I,” said Mr. Craig, “am equally certain that there will be but one
opinion among all who have ever known you;—that no family could have
less deserved such a reverse, or could be more fitted to bear it well.
No family——”
He could not go on. When he next spoke, it was to tell her that her
parents were absent, and to give her a brief account of the events of
the week, as far as he knew them; that is, up to the previous afternoon.
“You have not seen Melea or Lewis to-day, then? Not since they heard the
news?”
“No. I left Melea cheered,—indeed relieved from all anxiety, yesterday
afternoon, and did not hear till this morning the report of a reverse. I
have not ventured to go, knowing that she would probably be fully
occupied, and that you would be with her early to-day. I did walk up as
far as the gate; but I thought I had better meet you, and prevent your
going where you might hear it accidentally. I sent in a note to Melea,
to tell her that I should do so.”
“Come in with me,” said Fanny, when they had reached the gate, “you know
you will be wretched till you have heard what the truth is. You must
come in and be satisfied, and then you can go away directly.”
Melea heard their steps on the gravel, and appeared at the parlour-door
when they entered the hall. She looked with some uncertainty from the
one to the other, when the sisterly embrace was over.
“Now, love, tell me how much is true,” said Fanny. “We know there is
something. Tell us what is the matter!”
“Nothing that will take you by surprise. Nothing that will make you so
unhappy as we used to imagine we must be in such a case. Indeed, we
could not have imagined how much hope, how many alleviations there would
be already. I have had _such_ a letter from my mother this morning! Very
few will suffer, she hopes, but those who are best able to lose; and
even they only for a short time. They have great hopes that everything
will be paid. And such generosity and consideration they have met with!
And everybody seems to honour Horace. I had no idea he could have been
so appreciated.”
“And when may we be all together again?”
“My father cannot come home for two or three days yet; and my mother
thinks it will be better to reserve our society for him till he settles
down here. Indeed he is too busy to be much even with her.”
“I wonder what we ought to do next,” said Fanny.
“I will tell you,” replied Melea, “all I know about the affairs, and
then you will be better able to judge. Nay, Henry, stay and listen. If
all this was a secret, I should not have known it. You must not go till
you have heard from us what anybody in Haleham could tell you before
night.”
And she gave a brief and clear account of the general aspect of the
affairs, as viewed by Horace. It was certainly very encouraging as to
the prospect of every creditor being ultimately paid.
“If that can but be accomplished!” said Fanny. “Now, Melea, now the time
is come that we have talked of so often. Now is the time for you and me
to try to achieve a truer independence than that we have lost. I have a
strong confidence, Melea, that energy, with such other qualifications as
our parents have secured to us, will always find scope, and the kind of
reward that we must now seek. We will try.”
Henry Craig started up, feeling that he was more likely to need comfort
than to give it. He bestowed his blessing, and hurried away.
There was little for the sisters to do previous to Mr. and Mrs.
Berkeley’s return. Melea had already taken measures to prevent a
situation as governess—in which she believed her services would be
acceptable, and which offered many advantages—from being filled up:
though without mentioning the name, or committing herself till she
should have consulted her family. She had been at a loss about what to
say to the servants, one of whom seemed, through her long service, to be
entitled to confidence, while the others could not, she thought, be
trusted to behave well upon it. Fanny had no doubt that they knew all by
this time; not only from the affair being generally talked of in the
town, but through the messenger who had brought Mr. Berkeley’s letter.
It proved not to be so, however. The servant who had been to D—— had had
no heart to tell the tidings; and the astonishment of the domestics was
as complete as their dismay, when they were at length made to understand
the fact. Melea blamed herself for injustice to some of them when she
found neither threats nor murmurs, nor even questionings about what was
to become of them.
The next day was Sunday; anything but a day of rest to those of the
Berkeleys who remained at D——. Of the Haleham people, some were touched,
and others (especially the Cavendishes) were shocked to see Fanny and
Melea at church, and filling their places in the Sunday-school as usual.
While, in the eyes of some people, it was unfeeling, unnatural,
altogether too like defiance, the young ladies did not perceive why
their own anxieties should make them neglect an office of benevolence,
or exclude them from those privileges of worship which they needed more
instead of less than usual.