CHAPTER IX.

A FUTURE DAY.

“Is it all settled?—completely settled?” asked Henry Craig of Horace,

just when the latter was about to mount the coach to London, after a

short visit of business, a few weeks after the stoppage of the D—— bank.

“And your sisters both leave us immediately?”

“Certainly, and immediately. But ask them about it; for they can bear

the subject better than I.”

“I knew their intentions from the beginning; but so soon,—so very soon.

I did not wish to believe it till I heard it from one of yourselves. I

am grieved for you, Horace, almost as much as for Mr. and Mrs.

Berkeley.”

“And for yourself,” thought Horace, who was now fully aware of Mr.

Craig’s interest in one member of his family. “Do not think, Henry,” he

continued, “that I blame my sisters for what they have done. They took

this step as a matter of course,—as a necessary consequence of my

father’s misfortune; and though I do not think I could have encouraged

them to it, I cannot bring myself to say they are wrong. Yet if I had

known——”

“I thought you always knew. I was fully aware what they would do.”

“If I had thought them in earnest——”

It was indeed true that Horace’s sisters could bear this subject better

than he. If they had been less grateful for his brotherly pride and

affection, they would have called him weak for regretting that they

should, like him, wish and work for independence.

“We leave Lewis behind, you know,” said Melea, smiling at the grave boy

who was timidly listening to what Mr. Craig was saying, the next day,

about his cousins going to live somewhere else. “Lewis has made his

uncle and aunt very fond of him already; and when he is son and

daughters and nephew to them at once, they will have more interest in

him still. Lewis’s being here makes us much less uneasy in leaving home

than anything else could do.”

While Melea went on to show how wrong it would be to remain a burden

upon their father in his old age and impaired circumstances, Lewis stole

out of the room to hide his tears.

“And now, Melea,” said Henry Craig, “Lewis is out of hearing of your

lesson, and you know how perfectly I agreed with you long ago about what

you are doing. Do not treat me as if I had not been your friend and

adviser throughout. Why all this explanation to me?”

“I do not know; unless it was to carry off too strong a sympathy with

Lewis,” replied Melea, smiling through the first tears Henry Craig had

seen her shed. “But do not fancy that I shrink. I am fond of children, I

love teaching them; and if I could but form some idea of what kind of

life it will be in other respects——”

“You know, Melea,” Henry continued, after a long pause, “you know how I

would fain have saved you from making trial of this kind of life. You

have understood, I am sure——”

“I have, Henry. I know it all. Say no more now.”

“I must, Melea, because, if we are really destined to be a support to

each other, if we love so that our lot is to be one through life, now is

the time for us to yield each other that support, and to acknowledge

that love.”

“We cannot be more sure than we were before, Henry. We have little that

is new to tell each other.”

“Then you are mine, Melea. You have long known that I was wholly yours.

You must have known——”

“Very long; and if you knew what a support—what a blessing in the midst

of everything—it makes me ashamed to hear any thing of my share in this

trial.”

Henry was too happy to reply.

“It is only a delay then,” he said at length. “We are to meet, to part

no more in this world. You are mine. Only say you are now already mine.”

“Your own, and I trust God will bless our endeavours to do our duty,

till it becomes our duty to——. But it will be a long, long time first;

and my having undertaken such a charge must prove to you that I am in

earnest in saying this. I would not have said what I have done, Henry,

nor have listened to you, if I had not hoped that our mutual confidence

would make us patient. We shall have much need of patience.”

“We shall not fail, I trust. I feel as if I could bear any thing

now:—absence, suspense,—whatever it may please Heaven to appoint us. But

I feel as if I could do every thing too; and who knows how soon——Oh,

Melea, is there really no other difficulty than our own labours may

remedy? Your father—Mrs. Berkeley——”

“Ask them,” said Melea, smiling. “I have not asked them, but I have not

much fear.”

Though Henry and Melea had long been sure that they had no reserves from

each other, they now found that there was a fathomless depth of thoughts

and feelings to be poured out; and that it was very well that Fanny was

detained in the town, and that Lewis was long in summoning courage to

show his red eyes in the dining-room. Its being Saturday was reason

enough for the young clergyman’s going away without seeing the rest of

the family; and that Monday was the day fixed for her departure

accounted for Melea’s gentle gravity. She intended to open her mind

fully to her mother before she went; but she must keep it to herself

this night.

Every one was struck with the fervour of spirit with which the curate

went through the services of the next day. Melea alone knew what was in

his heart, and understood the full significance of his energy.

It was not till Fanny and Melea were gone, and there was dullness in the

small house to which their parents had removed, and it was sometimes

difficult to cheer Mr. Berkeley, and wounding to hear the

school-children’s questions when the young ladies would come back again,

that Henry Craig could fully realize the idea of the necessity of

patience. He was still too happy when alone, and too much gratified by

Mrs. Berkeley’s confidence in him as in a son, to mourn over the events

which had taken place as if they involved no good with their evil. Some

of the dreariness of the family prospects belonged to his; but he had,

in addition to their steady and lively hope of the due recompense of

honourable self-denial and exertion, a cause of secret satisfaction

which kept his spirit poised above the depressing influences of suspense

and loneliness. He still believed that, happen what might, he could,

without difficulty, be patient. According to present appearances, there

was every probability that this faith would be put to the proof.

END OF PART THE FIRST.

BERKELEY THE BANKER.

PART II.

BERKELEY THE BANKER.

PART II.

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CHAPTER I.

THE WIFE’S JOURNEY.

Hester had been married four years, and had scarcely seen the face of an

old friend in all that time. Mr. Pye had once been obliged to visit

London on business, and Mrs. Parndon took advantage of his escort to

visit her daughter, which she had not previously appeared inclined to

do. Her visit was, however, very short, as she declared that she always

pined for home,—that she was bewildered with the bustle of London,—that

she could not sleep well in any house but her own; and that, in short,

Haleham was the best place for her. Hester anxiously endeavoured to find

out whether there was anything in the ways of her household which was

displeasing to her mother. Edgar happened to be absent—gone down to

Brighton for a holiday—which was very well, as it was certain that there

was much in his habits which would astonish and terrify his good

mother-in-law. His wife feared that Mrs. Parndon’s visit being concluded

before his return, was too plain a sign that she was aware of his

domestic conduct being such as it would be painful to her to witness; it

being unlikely, as the still loving wife said to herself, that anybody

but herself should understand Edgar’s reasons for all that he did, and

make allowance for the practices that young men fall into when they are

thrown together as clerks in a public establishment are. Since

irregularity of hours had become far from the most trying circumstance

in Edgar’s way of life, Hester had carefully concealed even that one

from her mother; and Mrs. Parndon made no reference to it during her

stay: yet her hurry to be gone looked as if she might know it, and with

it, much more; and this suspicion prevented Hester from saying anything

about a repetition of her visit. Her voice was lost in tears when she

saw her mother preparing with alacrity to depart, and when she

remembered how long it might be before she should again be cheered by

the sight of a Haleham face, or by conversation about the concerns of

her early friends; concerns which were more interesting to her than ever

as her own grew less and less pleasant in the contemplation.

Invitations were given, from time to time, to go down among these old

friends;—invitations which she would fain have accepted, but on which

Edgar made but one reply, as often as they were communicated to him—that

he could not spare her. Her consolation in this answer was, that it

would keep up his credit with the Haleham people as an attached husband;

but it could not but appear strange to herself that he found it so

difficult to spare her when he dispensed with as much of her society as

he could at home, and seized every opportunity of running down into the

country, or taking a flight to the seaside without her. She could not

help thinking, as she sat solitary, with the dusty beams of an August

sun shining into her close parlour, that it would not have cost so very

much to have taken a week’s trip to Haleham;—not so much as any one of

Edgar’s many trips elsewhere, which were paid for, she supposed, out of

the earnings of her pencil. She would not have troubled him for the

money; she would have made a great effort to work harder, if he would

have let her go. The prospect of once more beholding the harvest-fields

and green lanes, the church-tower, and quiet, clean market-street of

Haleham, would give her strength for an unusual effort; while it was

really very difficult to draw every day and all day long, with nothing

better under her window than the hot rattling street, and with nobody to

speak to but Philip, who yawned incessantly between his counter and his

bed.

Such a train of thought happened to pass through her mind one day when

Edgar was no farther off than the Mint. She had been drawing all the

morning—she had been drawing for two hours since dinner; and was now

sitting with her hands pressed to her dazzled aching eyes. It was

somewhat startling to feel a pair of hands folded over her own, and her

cheek and forehead repeatedly kissed before she could recover the use of

her eyes. It was only Edgar; but what joy that Edgar should be playing

such a trick as this once more, after years of a most business-like

gravity of deportment!

“Your poor head is aching, I am sure,” said he. “And this little hand is

whiter than it should be. You are not well, Hester.”

“It is very foolish to sit down to draw directly after dinner in such

hot weather as this,” observed Hester, struggling with tears which would

come, she could scarcely have told why.

“My dear little woman, you are quite nervous and overworked and ill. You

must go down to your mother, and see if she and Haleham cannot set you

right again.”

Hester looked up at her husband, with a cheek no longer pale. He went

on,—

“No time like the present. I will send and have your place taken by the

early morning coach.”

“O, how very good you are!” cried Hester. “You cannot think—I am sure it

will do me more good than—O, Edgar, you do not know how I have longed

this summer to see those meadows again!”

“Well; you shall see them before to-morrow evening.”

“Had it not better be one day later?” inquired Hester, timidly, knowing

that her husband did not like being opposed in any of his

determinations. “It might be an inconvenience to my mother to have me go

without notice; and I cannot get all my things together to-night; and

one day more will finish these drawings.”

Edgar said if she meant to go at all, it must be the next morning.

“I should be paid for these to-morrow, if I carried them home myself,”

once more urged Hester, thus intimating at the same time that she was

bare of cash.

“Leave all that to me,” replied Edgar, good-humouredly. “I will take

care and get your due out of your employer.”

Hester had no doubt of this. Her husband went on more to the purpose.

“You must want money, I know; and here is a supply for you. Aye, you

look surprised to see such a parcel of notes, but they are all ones. I

took care to bring you ones, because the Haleham people have been

terribly pinched for small money since the crash. You would have found

it difficult to get change for tens or fives.”

“How very kind of you to think of such little things, when you were

planning this journey for me!” exclaimed the grateful wife. “But here is

far more money than I can possibly want in a week.”

“Why should you stay only a week? So seldom as you leave home, I should

be sorry to hurry you back again. My trips are short enough, to be sure;

but you have no business at the Mint to bring you back just when you are

beginning to enjoy yourself; and I am sure I should be sorry to hurry

you.”

“But, Edgar, if I were to stay a month, I could not spend all this

money.”

“Not on yourself, little woman, I dare say; for you are not one of the

wives who like to see their husbands work hard that they may spend in

idleness. You work as hard as I do; and if you do not bring me quite

such a bundle of notes as this, neither do you bedizen yourself like

half your neighbours in this street. But, Hester, we have carried our

economy a little too far.”

“I am so glad to hear it!” cried Hester. “But I did not know how much we

might spend; and it is always safer to spend too little than too much.”

“True; but now is a good time to be setting ourselves up with some

things that we want. Get yourself a new gown or two, my dear, and a

bonnet, and whatever else you think you really want.”

“I will go this moment, there is time before dark, and I can take my

place myself,” cried Hester, hastily putting away her drawing materials;

but her husband laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder.

“You shall do no such thing. You have enough to do to pack up, and make

arrangements for the time of your absence; and I am sure we had both

rather that you should spend your little money among your old Haleham

friends. Philip will spare his boy to run and take your place, I am

sure.”

The boy came for orders, and Hester was giving him a note out of her new

treasure, when Edgar stopped her hand. He gave the boy a sovereign from

his own pocket, observing that she should carry her little fund with her

untouched.

“And while you are spending,” he went on, “you may as well get a few

more things that we want very much.”

“My mother and I can make you some new shirts,” observed Hester.

“Yes; and I have always meant that you should have a more complete stock

of house-linen than I could afford when we were married. That

table-cover is terribly stained and shabby. I am nearly out of

writing-paper too: you may get as large a stock of stationery as you

please from your old friend Pye.”

“Do you mean that I am to get all these things at Haleham? Will not the

Haleham people laugh at a Londoner going down to buy the goods they get

from London?”

“Never mind if they do. Tell them you had rather have accounts with old

acquaintance than with new. You can take boxes that will hold your

purchases; and if not, I shall not grumble at a little extra expense for

carriage. And now go and pack up; for I have no doubt of there being a

place for you.”

Hester felt as if in a dream. The journey might be a reality; the bundle

of bank notes might be no illusion; but Edgar’s consideration for her

convenience, and for the gratification of the Haleham people, was wholly

astonishing. She was haunted with a dread that a change would yet come

over her happy prospects. When assured that her place was taken, she

trembled at her husband’s approaching footstep, lest he should be coming

to recall his permission. When she went to bed, scarcely able to stand

from fatigue, but too excited to expect immediate sleep, she was certain

of not waking in time for the coach. Every thing seemed more probable

than that she should, by the same hour the next night, be in the little

light-green room, with its white curtains, and eastern window open to

the moon, where she had slept the happy sleep of childhood and youth.

Such enjoyment was, however, actually in store for her. Edgar did not

change his mind, but rather seemed eager that nothing should delay her

departure. She did not sleep too late, but, on the contrary, started up

when the first brick-red reflection from the opposite chimnies entered

her chamber. She had a full quarter of an hour to wait in the morning

shadows of the inn-yard, amidst the shouts of the ostlers, the clatter

of horses’ hoofs, the stare of yawning loungers, and the importunities

of porters. When fairly off the stones, and bowling over the smooth

roads, she felt as much inclined to talk and be merry as any school-girl

going home for the holidays. Her companions not looking particularly

exhilarated, however, she kept her spirits to herself, and sat, with her

face close to the open window, letting the dewy hedges and the flowery

banks whirl away amidst a dreamy kind of half notice, watching for

glimpses into the green lanes which led to retired farm-houses, and

feeling disposed to nod to every meek-faced sheep that looked up from

its browsing as the coach passed by. She was going back to Haleham a

happy wife; for Edgar’s revived attention was felt in combination with

the delicious associations awakened by the scenery of a summer morning

in the country; her many long days of disappointment, and nights of

weary watching were forgotten; and all sense of pain and injury was lost

in her present emotions of grateful pleasure.

What a bustle was there in Mrs. Parndon’s house that afternoon! There

was dinner to be brought up again, when the little maid had nearly

finished what her mistress had left; and the sheets to be aired, and the

hanging of the tent-bed to be put on; and Mrs. Price, the mantua-maker

and milliner, to be sent for to take orders about improving Hester’s

shabby wardrobe with all possible speed; and a hundred reasons for this

shabbiness to be invented,—such as London dust in the summer—leaving

handsome winter things behind—and so forth. When Mrs. Price had been

duly impressed with the necessity of her apprentice working all night,

in order to Hester’s genteel appearance before the old acquaintances who

would certainly call; when the newest fashion of a morning cap had been

sent over, approved, and purchased, and a bonnet promised by the time

Mrs. Morrison should want to show herself in town in the middle of the

day,—that is, by the time the mother’s vanity was catered for—she began

to think of indulging a mother’s affection.

“Well, my dear,” said she, “I believe you are right, and we will keep

snug for to-day, unless Mr. Pye should happen to go past. You will not

object to his coming in; and he will never observe your gown being so

much faded, depend upon it. Now, rest yourself on my bed. We can easily

beat it up again; and I will sit beside you, and rub up your straw

bonnet a-bit, while we talk. I think I can get off some of the tan, and

I have a ribbon that is better than this; and then you can go out in it

early in the morning, or in the gray of the evening, till Mrs. Price

sends home your new one. Come, lie down; and I will get my work-basket

in a minute.”

Hester was not at all tired. She had rather sit by the window and look

at the London Pride in the court, and at the town’s-people as they

passed by. There was one corner of the window-seat too, whence she could

catch an angle of the church tower.

Just as she pleased; only it would be as well not to let herself be seen

over the blind till dusk. Could not she be just quilling up a frill or a

collar while they sat, that would look a little better than the one she

had on? Well, well: to be sure she might not be inclined for work, and

there would be plenty of time, perhaps, when the bonnet was done. Whom

or what did Hester want to hear about first?

Everybody. Everything. How was Mr. Pye?

“O very well, in all respects but his hearing. Poor man! Everybody sees

that his deafness is growing upon him sadly; but he does not like to

have it noticed, and I am afraid it would hurt him very much to mention

such a thing as his using a trumpet; but how he is to get on in his

shop, all by himself, without it, I don’t see. It was but last week I

was there when a lady from the country was buying a little book; and

while he was tying it up, she asked him what the bells were ringing for,

forgetting that it was a royal birth-day. ‘What are the bells ringing

for, Mr. Pye?’ says she. ‘Eighteen-pence, Madam,’ said he. ‘No,—the

bells are ringing. Do you know what it is for?’ says she. ‘One and

sixpence, Madam,’ said he. If it goes on so, ladies will not like coming

to his shop; but he will never be persuaded to get a trumpet.”

“If we get him one,—if one came down from London on purpose for him,

would he not use it? I think he would hardly refuse any gift from me.”

“If he thanked you, he would just put it by, and we should see no more

of it.”

“Then he should have somebody to wait in his shop.”

“Aye: or somebody to be at his elbow to help him when he is puzzled.

When he comes here of an evening, he has all sorts of ways of trying to

find out what he is at a loss about, without exactly saying that he is

at a loss. You cannot think what work I have sometimes to help him to

guess out what people’s orders can mean, when he has caught only half of

them.”

“What weakness! What a pity he should give so much trouble to himself

and everybody else! However, I suppose there is one good consequence of

this false shame. He does not teaze his next neighbour to tell him all

that every body says.”

“No. I am generally with him when there is conversation going on; and he

knows I tell him all that is worth hearing. Only, it is rather a pity

that he pretends to have heard it the first time. However, we none of us

know,—we might do the the same; and there is not a more upright, or a

kinder man than Mr. Pye;—except, indeed, that he need not speak quite so

sharply, sometimes when he happens to have heard what was said, and one

repeats it all for his sake. But, as I said, we none of us know. I do so

wonder whether he will come to-night! It is seldom he misses; especially

since he has been a little out of spirits about his business.”

Hester was very sorry to hear of this. She had hoped that Mr. Pye’s

old-established concern had been one of the least likely to suffer from

the changes of the times.

“After such a crash as Cavendish’s,” replied the widow, “all concerns in

the neighbourhood must feel a great difference. But, besides bad debts

and much loss of custom, you would hardly believe how Mr. Pye’s business

has suffered only from the scarcity of small change. The great country

folks come to buy children’s books as they used to do, and they let

their bills run up to a large even sum. But the middling and poor

people, who do not run bills, have mostly left off sending for their

little supply of stationery, and their cheap tracts, and even their

almanacks. You may be in the shop the whole morning, and not a customer

will come for a penny sheet of paper; which is a thing I should not have

believed five years ago. Mr. Pye laughs, poor man, and says that if

love-letters are written in Haleham now, it must be on the backs of old

letters; for none of the Haleham lovers seem to have any pence to

spare.”

“How do the grocers and drapers and butchers get on?” asked Hester. “The

same inconvenience must affect them.”

“There is nothing for it but letting bills run, or serving two or three

customers together, who pay each other afterwards as they may agree.

Some of our shopkeepers excuse a small part of the price in

consideration of being paid in change. They are very unwilling to take

large notes. A ten will rarely change for any thing but two fives; and

five may go round the town for days before any one will take it for a

small payment.”

“It is very well,” observed Hester, “that my husband remembered this,

and gave me only ones. To be sure he is the person to be aware of such

things if any body is, for the Mint has been very busy lately coining

bank tokens. But if small change bears a premium, I suppose much that

has disappeared will soon come back again.”

The widow wished it might; and that it would bring with it the credit

and the plenty of money in which Haleham had formerly rejoiced. Hester

observed, that the credit must co-exist with the abundance of money in

order to make it of any use; and that credit would be now of some use,

she supposed, in compensating for the scarcity of money, if its

diminution had not unfortunately been the cause of such scarcity. She

was surprised, however, to find her mother, an annuitant, sighing for

the days of high prices. She thought she must now find her income go

much farther than during the time when Cavendish’s bank was flourishing.

This was very true; and Mrs. Parndon’s sighs were for Enoch and not for

herself. She brightened when reminded to relate how the little matters

of her house-keeping had grown cheaper since her daughter left her. When

the list was gone through, Hester remarked that the recollection of this

comforted her about the Berkeleys. Edgar had told her that the partners

of the D—— bank were living on allowances made by the creditors, while

the affairs of the bank were being wound up. It was pleasant to think

that such an allowance became worth more as money grew scarcer; and she

hoped that what she at first thought a very poor income for Mr. and Mrs.

Berkeley, might by this time have been proved enough to make them very

comfortable. The young ladies too had salaries; and these were days when

salaries were very advantageous.

“You forget, my dear, how far the debts of the family exceed the

allowance and the earnings on which they live. The D—— bank incurred

these debts when money was cheap, and has to pay them now that money is

dear; which adds to the difficulties of the partners in a way that

nobody could have foreseen. It is a subject that poor Mr. Berkeley

cannot bear. He is forever complaining of the injustice of it, though

nobody can help him now.”

“It would be very well, however, if every body complained, mother; for

there would be more care in future how money was made too plentiful at

one time and too scarce at another. You know you used to lament very

much when not only nobody could help you, but very few were inclined,

because there was a great appearance of prosperity while Haleham was

filled with Cavendish’s notes. But how is Mrs. Berkeley? for I always

liked her better than the old gentleman; and the young ladies, whom I

love best of all? It will be a sad blank not to see them here.”

“There is somebody who feels the blank more than you, Hester, and will

help to fill it up some day. We all look to Mr. Craig to bring Miss

Melea among us again, you know. He always gives me pleasant accounts

about the young ladies, when I venture to ask him; and I am sure, from

what he says, that they are in no wise down-hearted about a way of life

that nobody at one time thought of their following.”

“Did they look so when they came in the spring?”

“By no means. Miss Melea has a grave look in her sweet face now; but

that would be natural from her prospects, you know. And she laughs as

merrily as ever when she is with the children at their play, and sings

like an angel. She is fonder of children than ever, which is a very good

sign of her being happy, so much more as she has to do with them now.”

“She always was fond of children, from the time she used to run races

with the little Martins in the hay-field, outstripping them every one;

and if she lives to be an old lady, sitting in her easy chair from

morning to night, depend upon it she will always be the first person in

the room that the children will run to.”

“Bless her bright face! one can hardly fancy it with the eyes dim and

the hair grey; but the smile will never leave her. It will be the same

if she lives to eighty. Pray Heaven she may! Here comes master Lewis, I

declare. Well; you will have seen one person to-night, though not an old

acquaintance. Come in, master Lewis, and see my daughter, Mrs. Edgar

Morrison.”

When the introduction had been properly gone through, Lewis told his

errand. He could not find Mr. Pye at home, and came to seek him here, to

tell him that the schoolmaster was very wroth at a set of copy-books,

which had been expected and inquired for for several days, not having

made its appearance; and some of the boys had been obliged to have a

fragment of a holiday this afternoon from this cause. They had been upon

the heath to fly kites and play cricket, whence Lewis had brought the

bunch of broom, heath, and harebells which Hester had been devouring

with her eyes while he was telling his story. Lewis observed that the

boys were agreeably surprised at having gained a half holiday by Enoch’s

fault about the copy-books, instead of being punished for it as they had

expected.

Hester was surprised at this; she thought the schoolmaster had been a

remarkably good-tempered person. Lewis remembered that he had considered

him so at first; but the master had been an altered man from the day of

Cavendish’s failure. He had not only lost four pupils, and the prospect

of more, by that failure, but a great deal of money. He, like every one

else, had been paid in Cavendish’s notes; and Lewis remembered the awful

morning when the master came into the school, as white as a sheet with

passion, and called out the four Master Cavendishes to stand in a row

before his desk, out of which he took a handful of bank-notes, held them

up in the face of the whole school, declared them as worthless as if

they had been forged, denounced their issuer as a swindler, and ordered

the four little boys to march off, and never show their faces to him

again, since they bore the disgrace of being their father’s

children.—Mrs. Parndon reminded Lewis that he should not have repeated

this story, as the master was long ago ashamed of the cruel conduct into

which his sense of injury had goaded him.—Hester would have wondered

that Lewis was allowed to go to school any more to a man who could thus

give way to his passion, but that she knew that the circumstance was

totally unlike the general character of the man; and she now learned

that Lewis went to him for the inferior parts of his education only,

studying the classics and some still better things under Mr. Craig.

“Was nothing left of all the grand show the Cavendishes made to pay the

creditors with?” asked Hester. “Was it a dead loss to everybody?”

“There was about seven-pence in the pound,” replied her mother; “so they

left few people to care what became of them. But it comes across my mind

sometimes how that poor little tribe is fed. Nobody can conceive how

they are living.”

“And the premises here stand empty?”

“Yes. They are in bad repute, from nobody having kept them long

together. They look so desolate!”

Hester observed that it was growing dusk, that her straw bonnet was

beautified nearly as much as it could be, and that it would be very

refreshing to walk out a little way. Why should not they just go and

peep about at Cavendish’s, and see what kind of a state the place was

in?

They were presently there, and Lewis shewed them a sly way of obtaining

entrance into the yards. He had been before with many a boy to play

see-saw on the two or three timbers that were left, or to fish from the

wharf, or to salute the lingering pigeons.

These pigeons had, as slyly, found entrance into the deserted granary,

which, though called empty, contained wherewith to support a flock of

pigeons through many a year of neglect. At the sound of voices, they

came peeping out of their hole, flapping their wings prodigiously, and

perking their heads, and twisting their bright necks, while they eyed

the strangers from the housetop. The very sound of their wings, and the

feel of the weedy soil was luxury to Hester after four years of London

canaries and London pavement. She was running towards the timbers with a

view to see-saw, when a ripple of the water caught her eye. She turned

to the steps of the staithe, stood on the lowest above the stream, now

touching it with the extremity of her shoe, and now stooping to look for

the minnows. It made her thirsty to watch the weeds waving in the clear

water when Lewis switched the surface, and to listen to the lapse of the

stream.

While she was settling with Lewis that she would go and see him fish one

day, and asking whether it was permitted now to loiter among the clumped

alders a little way down the other bank, or to sit and read in the boat

that was moored under their shade, the widow was walking round the

house, trying what she could see through the windows, that were too

thickly coated with dust to allow much revelation of matters within. She

put on her spectacles to read the weather-stained board which told that

these premises were to be sold or let: she lifted the knocker, in spite

of the rust, and knocked, just to see that nobody would come: lastly,

having pulled out the rickety handle of the door in trying whether it

was fastened, and broken off a large splinter of the rotten window-sill

in raising herself to look in, she stuck in the one and stuck on the

other, with a guilty look round her, and went to tell Hester that it was

quite time to be going home.

Just then the clock struck, and Hester could not move till she had

listened to its last stroke;—its sound was so different, coming through

the still evening air, from that of any London clock heard amidst the

din of the streets. They had, however, kept Lewis from home too long,

and Mrs. Parndon was secretly fidgeting lest Mr. Pye should have called

in their absence. She could not object to see Lewis home, especially as

the circuit would bring her back by her favourite way.

Hester asked fifty questions about the houses they passed, and walked

slowly by wherever there were lights within, while the shutters were yet

unclosed. Again and again she longed to walk in where there were girls

at work round a table, or some whom she had known as girls, hushing a

baby to sleep, or tying on the night-caps of ruddy-faced, drowsy boys.

She did not know the apothecary’s apprentice who was lighting the lamps

behind the red and green jars; but every drawer with its gilt label was

familiar to her. The butcher was shutting up shop; and the catch and

snap of his shutters was exactly what she remembered it. There was, just

as formerly, a crate and a litter of straw before the door of the

crockery shop; and, as she looked in at the second-rate mantuamaker’s

window, she saw the curl-papered apprentice sweeping together the

scattered pins, and doubling up the tapes and measures, preparatory to

putting on her bonnet and shawl for a turn and a breath of fresh air.

“Now, Master Lewis, run home. We shall see you in from this corner, you

know. Our respects at home, and my daughter will do herself the honour

of calling within a day or two. Be sure you remember, Master Lewis.”

“O, I forgot all about the copy-books,” cried Lewis.

“Never mind! We are going past, and I will remind Mr. Pye.—This way,

Hester. You forget your way, child.”

No. Hester was only exploring the extent of the dwelling. Was this

small, ugly, upright red brick house, with a formal little garden in

front, really the abode of the Berkeleys? When she remembered how Mr.

Berkeley used to stretch himself out in his resting chair in the large

bay window that overlooked his rosary and an expanse of meadows beyond,

she could not imagine him breathing at his ease in a little parlour with

only one window, and that within sight of the road.

“Why, there is Mr. Pye, I declare!” cried the widow, when she had peeped

through the interstices of the picture books with which the window was

decorated. “And I do not believe he has been beyond his door this

evening.”

It was very true that he had not. He had got hold of his favourite

newspaper, which told of all the religious meetings, and all the good

publications of the week; and this refreshment of his spirit Enoch could

not forego, even for Mrs. Parndon. He either would not or did not hear

the tinkle of the shop-door bell: perhaps he thought that a customer who

came so late must be one who might wait till he had finished his

paragraph: but Hester made bold to project her face over the top of his

tall newspaper, and the next moment repented having thus surprised the

nervous old man. He upset his single candle with his elbow, and when

more light was brought, looked by no means certain whether he should see

a ghost or a form of flesh and blood. He jerked his spectacles about

wonderfully for some minutes, and could remember nothing at first about

the order for copy-books. When he began to recover himself, he threw

Hester into distress by asking in his simple, unceremonious way, whether

Providence had blessed her as she deserved in husband and in home; and

whether she was not come to show her young companions what rewards in

marriage attend dutiful and diligent children. The best thing she could

do,—and it quite satisfied him,—was to tell the story of her sudden

journey. Then how Edgar’s praises resounded through the shop, and into

the little back parlour where the maid of all work was lingering to

overhear the fine moral lesson of a London husband being the appropriate

reward of filial duty! It was very well for her morals that it reached

her thus; for she would not have found it in any of the books she was

sometimes employed to dust in the window; and it is certain that Mr.

Craig never preached it in church.

When Enoch had been brought to give a shy promise that he would look in

at the widow’s at spare hours, Hester was hurried home and to rest by

her happy mother.

“How fagged you must be, my dear!” she cried, as she saw her daughter

stopping before some palings, and supposed it was to rest.

“Very little indeed,” replied Hester. “This mignionette smells so sweet

in the night air, I must try whether it is not within reach. That in my

window at home is always either black with smoke or brown with dust: and

what is dew in London?”

So saying, she stole a few sprigs through the paling, promising to call

and confess the next day.

“I am so glad we went out!” said she, at bed-time, cherishing her

mignionette till the last moment before putting out her light. “It would

have been a pity to lose one whole evening out of a single week.”

“And will you stay no more than a week? We shall not let you go so soon

as that, I rather think.”

Hester kept down a sigh, hoped that Edgar’s indulgent mood might last,

and went to sleep to dream that she was called home the very next day.

CHAPTER II.

THE WIFE’S HOLIDAY

So complete a revulsion in the affairs of individuals had taken place

throughout Haleham, that it would have been surprising if, while all

other people were busy talking about the state of the currency, the

Haleham folks had not been pre-eminently occupied with it. A grand

crisis was thought to be at hand, and those who had profited and those

who had suffered by past changes were equally eager, the one party to

look forward, the other to look back, in order to gain some degree of

insight into their state and prospects. All had dearly purchased the

knowledge that bank-paper is not all alike, however carelessly one sort

or another may pass from hand to hand. Everybody in Haleham now knew the

difference between a paper currency that depends on confidence, and one

that rests on authority. Both are in fact circulating credit; but the

credit of Bank of England notes is avouched by government authority, and

that of private banks rests only on private confidence. It was pretty

clear that confidence had been in both cases betrayed. The Bank of

England had not wisely regulated its issues, and had thereby impaired

the sanction of government authority. Cavendish had acted knavishly, and

thus injured commercial credit. Out of the evils of the system it arose

that the honourable, and (at the time) solvent firm of the D—— bank had

stopped, and been thus compelled to aggravate the decline of public

confidence. The consequences of these shocks tended to ruin the classes

who had kept their ground during the former alterations in the currency,

while they could not be said to repair former injuries. Some people were

at first very ready to say, that the sudden reduction of the quantity of

money was a fine thing, because all who had suffered from there being

too much would now win back again what they had lost; but this was soon

found not to be the case, so far as to make the new change anything but

an evil. In many instances, the suffering parties had suffered beyond

the reach of reparation. Besides those who had died, and those who had

failed, and those who had mortgaged and sold their property, there were

multitudes whose contracts (originally advantageous and ultimately

ruinous) had expired; and multitudes more whose loss of credit precluded

them from sharing the advantages of a change in the amount of currency.

Nobody had suffered more in proportion than the owners of house

property, during the superabundance of money: but they did not profit by

the reduction of its amount, for it was difficult to let houses at such

a time of wavering credit; and house-rents fell with the prices of other

things. All who had incurred debts through the previous rise of prices

were injured anew by their fall; because, though their income might be

increased, their debts were increased in the same proportion; and the

injury outweighed the advantage by so much exactly as the debts exceeded

the portion of income which was spared from consumption to pay them. A

capricious good fortune attended those who had just made new contracts;

but this was at the expense of the other party to the contracts.

Annuitants and stipendiaries were richer than before, and thought it all

very fair, in return for their season of adversity; but the productive

classes felt it to be very unfair: and this very difference of opinion

and feeling, by giving a new shock to mutual confidence, destroyed the

partial advantages which might otherwise have arisen. Thus, while

manufacturers, who had bought their raw material dear, and now had to

sell it, in its manufactured state, cheap, pointed enviously to the

owners of the houses they dwelt in, those owners would have been glad if

things had remained as they were, rather than that they should have the

prospect of lowering their rents, or having their buildings stand empty.

While the shopkeeper, who had bought his stock dear, and was now selling

under prime cost, was grumbling at his physician’s fees, the physician

would have been well pleased to buy as little as formerly with his

guineas, on condition of having as many patients. They declared that the

present was a fine harvest-time for quack doctors; and that the

undertakers were likely to profit by the numbers who killed themselves,

or let themselves die, from not being able to afford a doctor. Few were

contented; and the content of these was of a kind to impair and not

strengthen the security of society; for it did not spring out of the

recompense of toil and prudence. Their prosperity seemed to come by

chance, and had therefore no good effect on themselves or others: while

it weighed light in the balance against the evils which the same

revulsion brought to ten times their number. One action on the currency,

all wise men agreed, is a tremendous evil. A second, though of a

strictly antagonist character, can be no reparation, but only a new

infliction; and a third, if any one could harbour so preposterous an

idea for a moment, can only augment the confusion, and risk the entire

forfeiture of public faith,—the annihilation of commercial credit.

At the then present time, in 1818, it was no longer a question whether a

change should or should not take place. The change was perfectly

involuntary. It had already taken place to a large extent, as the

natural and unavoidable consequence of the previous action on the

currency. The over-issue of former years had caused a tremendous

destruction of bank-paper, and had made all banking firms cautious about

issuing more. Whether there should be a reduction of the quantity of

money was, therefore, no more a matter of debate. There had been, in two

years, such a reduction as had raised bank-paper to within 2½ per cent.

of the value of gold. The only question was, whether advantage should be

taken of this existing reduction to oblige the Bank of England to return

to the old system of convertibility. Many who had prophesied for years

that the Bank of England never would return to cash payments, persisted

still that it was impossible. Others, who believed that to have plenty

of money was to have plenty of everything, protested that the privilege

of inconvertibility ought to remain. Others foretold a dreadful increase

of the crime of forgery, and did not perceive that there would be a

proportionate decrease in that of coining, and an end to the offences of

melting and selling gold coin. Not a few prepared themselves to forget

their chronology, and to declaim in future years on the effect of the

return to cash payments in impoverishing half the traders in the

country; as if this return had not been the consequence instead of the

cause of a reduction in the quantity of the currency. Some who had been

concerned in procuring the Restriction Act, and had borne their share in

that measure with fear and trembling, were now not a little astonished

to find that one party of debaters took what they had meant as merely an

unavoidable expedient to be a permanent improvement in the currency

system; and that they regarded the return to cash payments with an evil

eye, not only as inflicting immediate hardship, but as a going back from

an enlightened to a barbarous system. If all had thought like this

party, the originators of the Restriction measure might have spared

themselves their scruples and apprehensions in introducing a state of

things during which light guineas were worth more, in a legal way, than

heavy ones; during which men were tried, convicted, and punished for

getting less in exchange for a heavy guinea than they might lawfully

have gained for a light one; during which there was no measure for

proportioning the amount of the circulating medium to the quantity of

commodities; during which the most tremendous and incessant fluctuations

of price might take place without any check; during which the commercial

credit of the whole nation rested between the hands of the Directors of

the Bank of England. Some of our legislators thought that nothing but a

desperate state of affairs could have warranted the adoption of so

desperate an expedient; and were simple enough to think that the sooner

it could be obviated, with safety to public credit, the better; and they

would have been amused, if they had not been shocked, at hearing that

the state out of which the currency was then able to emerge, was

actually better than the system of security by checks which they now

wished to substitute.

Among all these differences of opinion, there was abundance of

discussion wherever there were people who were interested in exchanges;

that is, in every corner of England. The children every where grew tired

of the very words “cash payments,” and the women were disappointed at

finding that when their husbands and brothers had exhausted the

argument, whether there should and would be a return to cash payments,

another subject for argument remained;—how this return could and should

be effected: whether a definite time should be fixed, after which the

privilege of inconvertibility should cease; or whether the cessation

should take place, whenever—be it sooner or later—Bank-paper and gold

should be of exactly the same value.

A still further subject of debate was, whether the Bank should pay in

coin, or in metal under some other shape. As paper-money is far more

convenient in use than coined money, and would be liked better by every

body, if it could but be made safe, any plan by which security could be

obtained, while the great expense of coinage is saved, was likely to be

received with much attention. Such a plan had been proposed before this

time, and was now much discussed. It was proposed that the Bank of

England should pay its notes on demand, not in coin, but in bars of

metal, proved to be of the proper fineness, and divided into the proper

weights. The being obliged to pay in precious metal on demand would be

as great a security against an over-issue of paper as if the Bank had

had to pay in coin, while the expense of coinage would be saved, the

danger of runs would be prevented, and the people be kept supplied with

the more convenient kind of currency. Such were the advantages expected

by those who were friendly to the scheme; while such as were averse to

whatever is new, offered all kinds of objections to it; and the

advocates of a metallic currency were perpetually reminding the arguers

that it would be as well to see whether there was any likelihood of the

Bank resuming cash payments at all, before they settled how it was to be

done.

There was talk in every shop in Haleham of bars of bullion; and many

questions were put from one to another about whether any man would like

to have his payment in bullion as well as in coin; and much information

was given about the ease with which these bars might be turned into

coin, by just carrying them to the Mint. Hester was much looked up to,

both as being the wife of a person connected with the Mint, and as the

bringer of a new supply of small notes into the little town. She found

herself admirably served in the shops. The shirting she bought was

warranted strong enough for the mainsail of a man-of-war,

notwithstanding its beautiful fineness. The cover for her parlour table

was of the richest pattern, picked out from an assortment of purple

grounds and orange borders, of green grounds and yellow borders, of

yellow grounds and blue borders. The stationery was of Enoch’s very

best. The writing-paper came from the heights, the account-books from

the depths of his shop; and the pens, in symmetrical bundles, were

brought out from recesses whence they issued as free from dust as if

they had been plucked the hour before. When Hester took out her roll of

notes to pay ready money for whatever she bought, the trades-people and

the loungers who beheld, all agreed that she had indeed made a very fine

match.

“Very busy at the Mint, I trust, Mrs. Morrison,” was the address of many

a shopkeeper to her. “I am sure I hope they mean to send out plenty more

coin yet. There is a terrible scarcity, Ma’am; and it is a sad

hinderance to business. Very little money stirring since the crash of

the banks; and the gold that has come out of holes and hiding-places is

nothing in comparison of the paper that is destroyed. Mr. Morrison is of

my opinion, I hope, Ma’am?”

Hester was not aware what her husband thought of the matter, one way or

other; but she did not say so; and began to think it odd that she, a

Londoner, should know so little about the currency, while in the country

every body seemed full of the subject.

“If there is so little gold and so few notes,” said she, “why is not

more silver used? If the banks break and leave us very little paper, and

if people have hidden, or melted, or sent away their guineas, it is the

most improbable thing in the world that all the silver should be gone

too. Such a quantity of silver would be a little troublesome to carry

about, to be sure; but that would be better than such a stoppage of

business as you are all complaining of from a want of money.”

The shopkeeper supposed that either there was not silver enough, or that

it cost too much to coin it, or something.

“I should have thought you had understood your own affairs better,” said

a voice from behind, which was at once known to be Mr. Craig’s, and he

came forward smiling to join in the conversation. “Where could you have

been in 1816,” he said, addressing the shopkeeper, “not to know that

silver is a legal tender only to the amount of forty shillings? If you,

Mrs. Morrison, had bought three pounds worth of shirting here, your

friend behind the counter might insist on your paying one pound out of

the three in gold. You cannot lawfully pay more than two pounds in

silver; and it is only by mutual consent that a larger payment is ever

made in that kind of money.”

The shopkeeper looked as if this was news to him. Hester thought it a

very absurd and unjust thing for the law to interfere with the kind of

money in which people pay their neighbours. What objection in the world

could there be to people using both gold and silver money to any amount

that they chose to trouble themselves to carry?

“The experiment has been tried,” said Mr. Craig, “in many countries, and

for long periods, and it does not answer; and therefore the law steps in

to declare that gold shall be the only legal tender for any sum

exceeding forty shillings. You know it is necessary to fix the relative

value of gold and silver, and to keep to it, if both are used as money

on equal terms.”

“And such fixed value does not always agree, I suppose, with its natural

value. It may sometimes cost more to obtain gold, and sometimes silver;

and then it is either impossible or injurious to make them keep the

value originally fixed. Is this the reason?”

“This is the great objection to a double standard. If, from any

circumstance, silver became more plentiful than it had been, a man would

be anxious to pay his debts in silver. If he owed 100_l._ to his

landlord, he would pay him 100 sovereigns; he would go and get as much

silver with his sovereigns as would coin into a hundred and ten pounds,

and then pay his landlord the hundred, and keep the ten. Other people

would do the same, and we should be deluged with silver coin, while the

gold went to the melting-pot.”

“And all money would be worth less, from there being much more of it, I

suppose?”

“Yes. There would thus be the two inconveniences of a needless

fluctuation in the value of the currency, and of a new coinage being

necessary as often as the one metal may be more easy to be had than the

other.”

“Yes. If gold were the more plentiful of the two, people would be just

as anxious to pay their debts in gold; and then the silver coin would

disappear.”

“Certainly. Now, why should we expose ourselves to these inconveniences

of a double standard, when a single one does quite as well, except for

small payments?”

“But why may we tender so much as forty shillings in silver? Why more

than twenty?”

“Because it is not worth any body’s while, for the sake of the profit on

payments of forty shillings, to coin more silver than the market will

bear. Up to this amount, and not beyond it, we can reconcile the

advantage of a variety of money with the safety of a single standard.

Surely it is the simplest way to fix one standard, that is, to order

what shall be the legal fineness and weight of coin of one metal, and to

leave other kinds to the natural variations which they cannot be

prevented from sharing with all commodities.”

“Why is gold made the standard? It cannot well be divided into money so

small as shillings and sixpences; and surely, it would be better to have

the legal tender uniform, instead of gold down to two pounds, and then

silver. For that matter, copper would be better still, if it were not so

heavy and bulky.”

“There are different opinions among wise men as to which of the two

superior metals should be the standard. Nobody, I believe, wishes for

copper.”

“But copper is a legal tender, I suppose, up to a shilling; or perhaps

beyond it, as silver is to more than a pound.”

“Copper is a legal tender to the amount of fifteen shillings.”

“Well; I am sure that is enough. Nobody would wish for more. But why

should we not have the easiest kind of legal tender of all,—paper money

of all values? A note for a penny and a note for 100,000_l._ would be

equally convenient; and both more so than any coin whatever.”

It was presently pointed out that paper-money being, in fact,

circulating credit, and not a commodity, could not be made a standard,

though it may represent a standard, and be used as its substitute.

Bank-notes might, Mr. Craig observed, be made a legal tender, if so

strictly convertible that their value should never vary from that of the

metal they represent. No means had yet been found to make such an

identity of value permanent; and while any variation existed, all

dealers in money would be exposed to the evils of a double standard. He

supposed the country had had enough of the legal tender of an

inconvertible paper currency.

“Has paper then ever been made a legal tender in this country?”

“It was rendered so to all practical purposes,—though not under the very

terms,—by the Restriction Act. Bank of England notes were received as

cash in all government transactions, and by almost all individuals after

the crisis of 1797. The effect upon the country was much the same as if

they had been avowedly legal tender; and it is thought that not one man

in twenty was aware of their being any thing else.”

“Nor is, to this day,” observed the shopkeeper. “Every man in this town

who holds Bank of England notes would be confounded if you told him that

his creditors are no more obliged to be satisfied with payment in those

notes than in Cavendish’s rotten rags. Would you have them no longer a

good tender for practical purposes, when the Bank returns to cash

payments?”

“I think one kind of paper might be legal tender for another. Country

bank-notes being made convertible into Bank of England notes instead of

coin, might, as it seems to me, be a very good thing for all parties,

(if the Bank is to continue to hold its present station and

privileges,)—provided, of course, that this Bank of England paper is

strictly convertible into the precious metals.”

“But would not that be hard upon the Bank of England? Should the Bank be

thus made answerable for the issues of the country banks?”

“Nay; the hardship is under the present system; for, according to it,

the Bank of England is made answerable, without having any of that power

of control which it would have under the other system. We know that

country bankers do not keep much coin in their coffers. As soon as a

panic arises, they pledge or sell their government stock, and carry the

notes they receive for it to be changed for gold at the Bank to answer

the demands of their country customers. Thus the Bank is liable to a

drain at any moment, without further limit than the stock held by all

the country bankers. Now, as it need not issue more paper than it can

convert on demand, it is not answerable for any proceedings of the

country bankers, and holds a direct check over the issues of all who are

not careless of their credit.”

Hester had heard her husband tell how hard the Mint was worked during

the panic, three years before. Demands for gold came in from the country

so fast, that, though all the presses were at work, night and day, they

could scarcely turn out coin enough to keep up the credit of the Bank:

and the stock of bullion in the coffers got terribly low. At least, so

it was suspected by the people at the Mint. How much of this outcry for

gold did Mr. Craig think would be superseded by the customers of country

banks being referred to the Bank of England for metal money, instead of

having it of their own bankers?

“As much,” replied Mr. Craig, “as the Bank may choose. It can proportion

its issues to country bankers as it likes. But, in case of the adoption

of this plan, it will be necessary that branch banks should be

established by the Bank of England in all populous districts, so that

the people may have every facility for converting their notes. Much less

business would be done, much less confidence would exist, if there were

delays and difficulties of any kind in converting notes which are

convertible at all.”

“It is, then, only to prevent drains on the Bank of England coffers, and

their consequences, that you would make its notes a legal tender for

country paper? It seems to me odd,—likely to make confusion,—to have the

same money,—the identical notes, legal tender in one sense and not in

another.”

“If any other method of obviating such a drain can be found which

involves less inconvenience, let it be so; but this peril of a drain is

so fearful that it would be worth trying a few experiments to be rid of

it. If means could also be devised for permanently rendering paper the

precise representative of gold, Bank of England notes might become a

uniformly legal tender.”

Hester supposed that to alter the value of the standard would be the

worst measure of all; as its very name conveyed that it ought to be

unchangeable. That which is used to measure the values of all other

things cannot have its own value changed without making confusion among

all the rest. Mr. Craig replied that the necessity of changing the value

of a standard was the great objection, as they had just agreed, to the

use of a double standard, one or other part of which must be changed

from time to time to make them perfectly equal. He went on,

“The most fatal blow that the government of a commercial nation can

inflict upon the people is to alter the standard;—whether by changing

the denominations of money, or by mixing more alloy with the precious

metal of the coins, or by issuing them, not less pure, but smaller. Of

these three ways, the first is the most barefaced, and therefore the

least mischievous in deceiving those who are injured; but the

consequences of all in raising prices, in vitiating contracts, in

introducing injustice into every unfinished act of exchange, and

confusion into every new one, and consequently in overthrowing

commercial credit, are alike fatal in all times, and under all

circumstances.”

“And yet many governments have tried the experiment, after watching the

effects upon their neighbours.”

“Yes. Each hopes to avoid the retribution which has overtaken the

others: but, if they were wise, they would see why such retribution was

inevitable. They would see that the temporary saving of their gold would

soon be dearly paid for by the increased prices of whatever the

government has to buy; and that if they would meet this evil by an

increase of taxation, their design must be baffled by the impoverishment

of the people. They would prepare themselves to behold in every corner

of the land, profligate debtors exulting in their advantage over their

frugal and laborious creditors, the aged servants of society stripped of

the proceeds of their hoarded labour, the young brought up to witness

the violable quality of public faith, and distrust of the government and

of each other striking deep root into the heart of every class.”

“Our government will, surely, never try such an experiment?”

“We are now, you know, suffering under the effects of such an one. When

the Restriction Act passed, nobody said anything about this measure

being, in fact, an alteration of the standard; but as inconvertible

bank-notes are practically a legal tender, and as their value depends on

the price of bullion and on the extent to which they are issued, these

circumstances keep the standard, in fact, in a state of perpetual

variation, instead of its being preserved invariable by law, as it

pretends to be.”

“So, then, my mother suffered from a variation in the standard when her

pension was swallowed up by high prices; and farmer Martin is injured in

the same way by an opposite change in the standard.”

“And you, Mrs. Morrison,” said the shopkeeper, “profit by the same

thing; for, I assure you, I must have obliged you to change one more

note at least for that parcel of shirting, three years ago.”

“Is it possible,” asked Hester, “for the value of money to remain the

same from one century to another?—O no; it certainly cannot; so many new

mines as will be, discovered; and so much difference as there will be,

as the arts improve, in the cost of producing the precious metals, and

all other commodities. The value of metal money will gradually decline

on the whole, I should think.”

“Very likely.”

“Then what will become of creditors? How are they to have their rights?”

“The equitable right of a creditor is only to the quantity of gold for

which he contracted. If he is paid in less than this quantity, through

any arbitrary interference, he is injured, but he must take the chance

of any natural variation between the value of gold and other

commodities. No law need pretend, or could avail, to fix this relative

value, which depends on causes over which laws have no control. If a man

enters into a long contract, he should take into his estimate the

probability of money being worth less at the end than at the beginning

of his bargain, if he satisfies himself that the value of money does, on

the whole, deteriorate: and if he neglects to do this, he alone is to

blame for his loss; for this is not a matter for government to charge

itself with. If it ensures him his quantity, it has done its duty.”

The shopkeeper looked round his shop with a sigh, and wished that, when

he entered upon his lease, and filled his shelves, he had had no further

loss to guard against than the natural decline of money. He had

suffered, and was suffering from the present reverse tendency of money.

He had bought his linens and flannels, his gloves, hose, and ribbons

dear, and was now obliged to sell them cheap, while his rent was, though

nominally the same, very much raised in fact. He was less grieved for

himself, and such as himself, however, than for families like a certain

one in the neighbourhood, which, through fluctuations in the currency,

was reduced, without any fault, to a situation so far below what it

ought to hold. He understood that though the D—— bank was likely to pay

every shilling in time, it might have done so directly, but that the

debts which were contracted in one state of the currency must be paid in

another, while the property in which the partners had invested their

capital had fallen in value, in proportion to the rise of money. It was

too hard that the very crisis which destroyed their credit should have

at the same time almost doubled their debts, and depreciated their

property. He wished to know whether it was true, if Mr. Craig had no

objection to tell him, that there was money owing to Mr. Berkeley from

abroad—a debt which nobody had thought of recovering till lately, and

which Mr. Horace was going into a foreign country to look after? Mr.

Craig believed that there was some truth in what was said about the

debt; but none in the report of Horace’s stirring in the matter. He then

asked for what he came into the shop in search of;—a pair of gloves; and

was furnished with some at what was mournfully declared to be

considerably under prime cost.

Hester at the same time concluded her long task of shopping, and went to

pay her respects to Mrs. Berkeley. She felt very full of wrath at all

tamperers with the currency as she opened the little green gate, and

mounted the single step at the door, and lifted the slender stiff

knocker, and cast a glance over the red front of the house, as she was

waiting for admission. All these things were in sad contrast to the

approach to their former abode.

As she was shown in, she felt how much more she had been at her ease in

old days, when, in visiting them, she found herself in the midst of

unaccustomed luxuries, than now, when their abode was a good deal like

her mother’s. She scarcely knew how to be respectful enough to Mr.

Berkeley when she saw him doing many things for himself that he had been

used to have done for him, and when she heard of his performing his own

little errands in the town, where his servant had of old been daily seen

going to and fro for his bustling master. It was affecting to see Mrs.

Berkeley reviving her knowledge and practice of many things which her

condition of affluence had rendered it unnecessary for her to attend to

for many years past.

She made no hardship of these things. She cheerfully said that she

should want employment in the absence of her daughters if she had not to

attend to her household affairs. Mr. Berkeley was very exact about the

matters of the table, and Mrs. Berkeley did again what she had done in

her youth;—she made such hashes and ragouts and fancy dishes of various

kinds, as no cook she had ever had could pretend to. She kept her work

basket at her elbow almost as constantly as Mrs. Parndon herself; and

with Lewis for a helper, made the most of the shallow poor soil in their

little garden, undeterred by recollections of the beloved green-house

and the flourishing rosary of her late abode. She was encouraged in this

by finding that Mr. Berkeley did not dislike her roses, though they came

out of a garden next the road, instead of his favourite nook.

He now, on seeing Hester in the parlour, came up to the window with a

bunch of roses in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He brought

news that the pyrus japonica looked drooping, and that a company of ants

had found their way to the apricot at the back of the house. There must

be an end to them, or there would be an end to the apricots for this

year.

“You have found nothing so important to us as that in the newspaper, I

dare say,” observed his wife.

Mr. Berkeley threw the paper in at the window, peevishly declaring that

there was nothing in newspapers worth reading now-a-days. He forgot that

he did not think so at noon-time every day, when he was apt to swear at

the offender who happened to be five minutes past the time of bringing

the paper.

“There is one piece of news, by the by,” said he, “unless you have heard

it already from Craig. Longe is married.”

“Indeed! To Miss Egg?”

“No, no. Too good a match for him by half. A fellow who begins looking

about him so impudently as he did, is sure to finish with marrying his

cook.”

“His cook! What, the servant that went from the Cavendishes. It never

can be, surely?”

“Nay; I do not know whose cook she is, or whether any body’s cook. I

only know that such is the way such fellows pair themselves at last.”

Hester was wondering what fellows;—rectors, or Cavendishes’

cousins.—Mrs. Berkeley remarked, that she should wish to think well of

the rector’s lady for Henry Craig’s sake. The curate should never be the

worse off for the marriage of his rector.

“The curate’s wife, you mean, my dear. You are looking forward to little

presents of tithe pigs and apples, and an occasional pheasant. But, mind

you, I will never touch a pheasant that comes out of Longe’s house. I

had rather be in the way of his gun myself.”

Hester took this as a permission to speak of Melea’s prospects,—happy

prospects, as she called them.

“The young people talk of some such thing,” said Mr. Berkeley,

carelessly. “Young people always do, you know. But it is nonsense

talking. Craig is as poor as a rat, and Melea will be long enough

earning her wedding clothes.” And he began hoeing up very diligently the

weeds that were just visible in the border below the window. While he

was not looking, Mrs. Berkeley held up with a smile the work she was

doing. Hester had before observed that the work basket was piled very

high.

“Is this for Miss Melea?” she delightedly enquired. Mrs. Berkeley nodded

assent, and then gave the cautionary explanation that this was no sign

that Melea was to be married soon, but only that a wedding wardrobe was

not so very difficult to earn. She had pleasure in doing this work; it

seemed to hasten the time when she and Mr. Berkeley should have a

daughter near them once more.

Before they had time to pursue the topic, Mr. Berkeley came in,

complaining of the heat. The first thing he did was to pick up the

newspaper he had thrown away, fix himself in his reading light, give the

paper the pat which was necessary to stiffen it in its full length, and

mutter over it, as much at his ease as if nobody was by. Amidst the

mutterings and occasional interjections, the other two carried on their

conversation in an under tone. It was all about the curate, and the

curate’s house, and the curate’s small accession of income, and large

accession of pupils, which was as much for the advantage of Lewis in the

way of companionship, as for Melea’s, in a different way. At the close

of a very cheerful picture of what was to be, Hester looked up and saw

Mr. Berkeley still in reading posture, but looking over his spectacles

at his wife, and evidently listening to what was passing. As soon as he

saw himself observed, he said, “Go on, my dear, pray. There is nobody

here to be taken in by a fancy picture,—no novices that think people are

all born to be married, and nothing else. Mrs. Morrison knows by this

time that this is too cold a world for love to warm every corner of it.

She knows—”

“I wonder you can be so unjust to Henry,” cried Mrs. Berkeley, who saw

that Hester did not altogether relish the appeal made to her. “You know

very well that if Melea’s engagement was at an end to-day, you would

wander about the house like a ghost, and find that the world had grown

much colder all in a moment.”

“When did I ever say a word against Craig, pray?—at least, for more than

three years. What I mean is, that the less people connect themselves, in

such days as these, the better for them. That is the only way to slip

through the world quietly, and to get out of it without having one’s

heart and soul torn to pieces before one’s breath is out of one’s body.”

“You would not have daughters, Sir,” Hester ventured to say. “You had

rather be living all alone, with only your physician to feel your pulse

when you die.”

“Mr. Berkeley’s daughters and Mr. Berkeley’s wife are not like any other

wife and daughters,” said Mrs. Berkeley, smiling; “and Horace is also

unique. Mr. Berkeley’s doctrine is only generally applicable, you know;

so we need not be offended.”

“I never choose to be personal,” observed Mr. Berkeley. “I point out

nobody’s wife and children as the proper ones not to exist. I only mean

that it must be a heavenly thing to have only one’s self to care for.”

“I will believe it, my dear, when I find you in heaven, caring only for

yourself.”

“I only speak to what I know,” replied Mr. Berkeley; “and, depend upon

it, half the soft-hearted people that Craig and Melea are imitating,

would be glad to shake off their vows and their cares together.”

Hester bore his enquiring look very well; for she still loved Edgar. She

smiled, and hoped that these were not the notions Melea was to be

entertained with when she came home to be married.

“I say what I think, let who will be by,” replied Mr. Berkeley. “But it

does not signify whether I hold my tongue or speak. We are all made

romantic when we are young, that we may be broken down with cares, in

time to make room for others to go the same round. I and my children,

like everybody else.—My dear, do send some one to destroy that ants’

nest. They are eating the apricots all this time.—Stay. I’ll do it

myself.”

In another minute, he was busy with the ants, and Hester was left at

liberty to hope that Melea might, by some chance, be happy,

notwithstanding the romance of loving Henry Craig.

Fanny was, she found, pronounced much wiser, and more likely to die a

natural death, as she was not going to be married. It was very true that

she had at present few cares, though she had not yet seriously taken her

father’s advice to care for nobody but herself. She bestowed some little

thought and feeling on her pupils, and on her family. What romance she

had tended that way; but as it afforded no threatening of ultimately

breaking her down with solicitude, her father acquiesced in her cheerful

looks and even spirits, and thought this kind of romance very harmless.

These facts being fully ascertained, Hester took her leave before the

last hapless insect had been hunted from its retreat in the shadow of an

apricot leaf. Soon after she was gone, Mrs. Berkeley missed the apex of

the pyramid of which her work basket formed the base. It was clear that

Hester intended that the bride’s wardrobe should be graced with some of

her handy work. She had, indeed, carried off enough to employ her needle

for as long a time as Edgar was likely to allow her to stay. When Mrs.

Berkeley sent to beg that she would not consume her short leisure in an

employment that she must have quite enough of at home, she replied that

it was a most refreshing rest to her to sit at work by the open window,

in the long summer afternoons, enjoying the smell of the sweet-williams

in the court, and the striking of the old clock, and hearing from her

mother and the neighbours long stories of all that had happened in

Haleham since her wedding-day.

CHAPTER III.

SUSPICION.

Edgar did not send for his wife at the end of a week, as she had

expected. Mrs. Parndon was much pleased at this. The first Sunday had

been so wet that it would have been a pity for Hester to risk spoiling

her new silk, and a still greater pity to have gone back to London

without appearing at church in it. It was earnestly to be desired that

she should stay over a second Sunday. Happily she did so; and yet more

to her astonishment, over a third. There was nothing to make her uneasy

in this extension of indulgence. Her husband wrote to her, kindly, and

often enough to satisfy her mother, and the enquirers at the

post-office, who thought they might contrive, by a little watching and

waiting, thus to learn more of Hester’s domestic position than they

could well ascertain by any questions they could put to her mother or

herself.

As Mrs. Morrison recovered her bloom and spirits, day by day, it was a

settled matter that her paleness, thinness, and odd, startled look, (so

unlike any thing that used to be seen in her face) were all owing to the

heats of a London summer, and that she was indeed the fortunate person

she had been described by all mothers to their daughters for these three

years. Hester herself bestowed as little thought as she could on this

question while at liberty to enjoy air and freedom. She ran in the

meadows as if she had been still a girl; played ducks and drakes on the

Martins’ pond, and tripped along the street with a step which her mother

thought not dignified enough for Mrs. Edgar Morrison.

Forgetting this hint, she was quickly passing Enoch’s door one day, when

she saw a finger, which from its length could not be mistaken, beckoning

between two of the books in the window. She went in, and there was Mr.

Pye, alone, saying several times over that he wished to speak with her,

that he had a trifling thing to mention, a little matter to say between

themselves. He declared himself very scrupulous, but knew she would be

angry if he passed the thing over. What could be the matter? Had she, or

anybody belonging to her, done anything to offend Mr. Pye?—Bless her!

no. How would that be possible? He was only afraid of the offence being

the other way. When compelled to explain, he said he did it directly,

because he supposed, he trusted, he should be saving her from a loss.

Could she remember where she took the 1l. note she had paid him with? He

hoped it was not too late to get it changed; for it was certainly a bad

one.

Indeed! O yes, she remembered perfectly. It was given her by ——. She

stopped short in a fit of prudence, for which she could afterwards

hardly account. No. She would not answer for anything about it, till she

had looked over her stock at home. She would just step home and bring

another directly. Mr. Pye was quite right in supposing that she would

have been angry if he had scrupled to mention it. It was much better to

settle those little mistakes at once, since they do rest on the mind for

a longtime.—Just as she was leaving the shop, in the midst of Enoch’s

assurances that there was no hurry, and that he could not allow her to

go home on purpose, she turned back to ask for the note, saying that she

had always had a great curiosity to see a forged note; and that she

never felt herself safe in taking notes, from her ignorance of the

proper marks.

Mr. Pye liked giving lessons; and he set about his task on the present

occasion in a most orderly manner. Happily, he first made Hester sit

down; and next, he fortunately took such pains to rub and fix his

spectacles, as to have no attention to spare for her face. He then

unlocked his desk, and brought out an honest Bank of England note: then

double unlocked an inner recess, from which issued the offending one.

Both were spread before Hester, and she was told to compare them, and

try whether she could discover any difference.

She could perceive none. The leading marks of each were alike; and

Hester thought they were such as any engraver might imitate. It appeared

to her to signify little, that there were private marks, and water-marks

which were less easy to imitate than the engraved parts. These might

enable the Bank to know its own notes; but were of no use to the

generality of people to whom it is of consequence to distinguish a good

note from a bad one.

“You see,” said Enoch, holding the notes up to the light. “That

water-mark, you observe, is very different from this; and the finish of

that word, you perceive, is not imitated well in the forgery.”

“I see, now you point it out: but I should never have discovered it.

Surely, people in general, shopmen and servants, and market people, do

not know these signs as you do.”

Enoch complacently answered that very few had so practised an eye as

his.

“But that is very wrong, surely?” observed Hester. “It must be possible

to form notes of such a kind of engraving as would be too difficult to

make it worth while to forge; of such a kind too as would strike the eye

at once, so that even those who cannot read may learn to know a good

note. What can look easier than to imitate such a note as this? The very

sight of it is enough to tempt people to forge.”

Enoch observed that it was very true, and that it was proved by the

dreadful increase of convictions on account of the crime of forgery. In

the year of the Restriction Act, there was only one conviction; the

number increased as bank notes became more important as a medium of

exchange; and, in the preceding year, there had been no less than two

hundred and twenty-seven; sixty-two of which had been capital

convictions for the actual commission of the crime, and the others for

having had forged notes in possession.

Hester’s deep but checked sigh attracted Enoch’s attention.

“Ah! you are sighing for the convictions that are yet to come. But, my

dear, they are clever fellows who made this note; and they will keep out

of harm’s way for some time to come, depend upon it. It is a very

superior article indeed; not got up by one or two in a snug way, but

regularly manufactured in a business-like manner. I should not wonder if

they keep themselves safe till the Bank calls in its one and two pound

notes, and puts an end to their trade. I see there is talk of abolishing

the small note circulation.”

“I am glad of it, I am sure. The sooner the better.”

“Well, now, I do not agree with you there. We shall lose a great

convenience in losing these notes. O, I do not mean for a moment to say

that it is worth having sixty men hanged in a year for the sake of it.

God forbid! But there might be means found of preventing so much

forgery. There might be an end of temptation to novices to forge; and as

for those who have learned the trade already, they will not injure

society long.”

“You mean that they will grow honest again when the temptation is

removed.”

Enoch shook his head, and wished he could truly say that this was what

he meant. He meant that people employed in such practices rarely quit

them till they have brought punishment upon themselves. However sorry we

may be for the carelessness and bad management by which temptation was

at first made too strong for them, however we pity them, and make

allowance for their first acts, we may be pretty sure that they will end

by falling into the hands of the law. Hester might well sigh for the

makers of this note; for though new bank regulations should knock up

their paper manufacture, they would turn to something else as

bad,—forging bills of exchange, or stealing and passing them in a

business-like way, or perhaps coining. Having once been used to get a

great deal of money by dishonest means, they would not be satisfied with

the little they could obtain by honest industry.

Hester, not wishing for more speculation of this kind, rose to go; and

with some difficulty, got leave to carry away the bad note, in order, as

she truly said, to study her lesson more carefully at home. Enoch

charged her to bring it back again; but to this she made no reply.

She just returned to say,

“Do not let us mention this to my mother. It will vex her to think of my

having lost a pound in such a way; and I am not at all sure that I can

get the note changed.”

Enoch was quite willing to be silent. Not having made up his mind

himself as to whether he ought to have put up with the loss in quiet for

the sake of an old friend, he was well content that Mrs. Parndon should

not have the opportunity of blaming him.

Hester hurried home, and into her own chamber, bolting the door after

her. At every step on the way, some new circumstance occurred to her

recollection, confirming the horrible suspicion which had entered her

mind. Edgar’s sudden and strange command of money, his unwonted kindness

and liberality, his preventing her sending one of these notes to the

coach-office in payment for her place, his anxiety that she should lay

out the whole in a distant country town for goods which could be better

bought in the street they lived in,—all these circumstances seemed to be

explained only too satisfactorily if the new notion she had in her head

were true. In a paroxysm of resolution she proceeded to put it to the

proof, looking about before she unlocked her money-drawer, to make sure

that no one could see from any corner of the window, or from the

key-hole, what she was about to do. Hester was not, however, very

strong-minded. The first sight of the thin paper made her heart-sick.

She thrust the bad note into the opposite corner of the drawer, and

locked it up, feeling that for this one day she preferred suspense to

certainty. Enoch must be paid. That was something to do. She would run

and pay him directly, if she had but silver enough. She began counting

her silver; in the midst of which operation, some one was heard trying

at the door, and was answered by a long scream from within.

“Mercy on us! what’s the matter?” cried the widow.

“Nothing: why nothing, mother,” said Hester, opening the door, “only you

startled me, that’s all, mother.”

“Startled you indeed! Why, you are shaking all over, child. What could

you be doing? I came just to darn that hole in your window curtain while

you were out, for I thought you were gone to the Martins an hour ago.

What could you be doing, my dear?”

“I was looking out some change. I want some change. Can you lend me half

a crown? No: five shillings I want. No, no, four will do. Can you lend

me four shillings?”

“Indeed I cannot,” replied her mother, laughing. “With all your stock of

money, you can get change from every shop in the town, and I like the

appearance of your sending for it. Nanny shall step to the baker’s in a

minute. Give me a note, and I will send her.”

Hester went into the kitchen, apparently to save her mother the trouble;

but it was to borrow four shillings of Nanny, instead of sending her to

the baker’s for twenty.

Enoch was jocose upon her paying him in silver lest she should make the

same mistake again, though the chances were a thousand to one against

another bad note falling in her way while the small note circulation

lasted.

It was a beautiful day, as fresh as mild, and the country was in the

perfection of its summer beauty. In order to avoid going home, Hester

proceeded to the Martins, and staid till the latest moment she could

without keeping her mother waiting for dinner. The summer wind blew away

half her cares before she reached the farm; and by the time she left it,

she pronounced herself the silliest person in the world for having taken

up such a wild fancy as had terrified her this morning.

Rhoda had not yet left her father’s house, nor was likely to do so at

present. Her lover had employment, but had not yet nearly repaired the

losses which Cavendish’s villany had caused him, and Martin was not now

so well able as formerly to enter into engagements to assist his

daughter. His rent pressed heavily, now that prices had fallen so much;

and the young people must wait. This sentence fell irritatingly upon

Rhoda’s ear, month after month;—every Saturday night, when the farmer

and his wife ascertained how much or how little was ready to go into the

rent-purse, and every Sunday when Chapman brought her home from a long

ramble in the lanes, whose turns and windings had lost the charms they

possessed for her when she began to follow them in his company, four

years ago. She should not have minded, she told Hester, if she had known

from the beginning that they must wait five years: it was the

disappointment, the suspense, that was so cruel; and she sometimes

wished that they had married on Cavendish’s coming. They could but have

been ruined by the failure, like many other people; her little legacy

would have been safe in the shape of furniture; and they could not well

have been more anxious than they were now. Hester sagely took up Mr.

Berkeley’s argument on these occasions, and tried very perseveringly to

persuade Rhoda that she and Chapman were comfortably free from care, and

that they ought to be very glad that they were not married yet Rhoda was

equally sure that Hester could have no cares; how should she, with a

husband so fond of her that he could not part with her oftener than once

in four years, and in possession of a good salaried office, and with no

children to provide for, and all so comfortable about her,—to judge from

her dress, and the money she had spent at Haleham?

Thus these two school companions went forth this morning, arm in arm, to

look after some farm-house pet that had strayed out upon the heath. Each

was old in cares though young in years, and each fully persuaded that

the other must be easy and gay at heart, in comparison with

herself.—Mrs. Martin looked after them from the door of the dairy, as

they took their way from the shady nook in which she stood through the

orchard, and out upon the heath behind. She shook her head as she

watched them, and thought to herself that theirs was not the step with

which she went about her work and her pleasures at their age. There was

little of girlhood remaining in the heavy gait and absent air with which

they walked. There was something wrong in the state of things which took

from life the ease and graces of its prime. It was a pity that Mrs.

Martin was not within sight of the young women half an hour afterwards,

when the summer wind had refreshed their spirits, and made old merry

thoughts chase one another over their minds like the wrinkles on the

surface of the blue pond which lay open to the breeze. If she had seen

them running round the brink to drive the waddling ducks into the water,

or watching the sand-martins to their holes, or cherishing the rich

brown hairy caterpillar that Hester had nearly trodden upon, or

forgetting what they came for in counting how many little orange

butterflies were perched at once upon the same gorse bush, she would

have been satisfied that to be turned loose upon the heath in a west

wind is a certain cure for the cares of the heart. Rhoda had the

impression of being still a school-girl all the while; and Hester forgot

her suspicion for as much as ten minutes at a time; and when she

remembered it again, thought it too absurd to be dwelt upon any more. As

if nobody had ever chanced to take a bad note before! As if it was not

very likely that in so large a parcel as Edgar had given her, there

might be one bad among many good! and at the cheering idea, she gave a

new bound upon the turf, and began another race with the butterflies.

The two mothers were pleased with the aspect of their respective

daughters on their return; Rhoda with her hair blown about her glowing

face, and Hester with an arm full of wild flowers, gathered partly from

the heath, and partly from the hedges and ditches she had skirted on her

way home.

Mrs. Parndon smilingly held up a letter: but Hester did not snatch it as

usual. She received it with an absent look, and carried it into her

chamber without first breaking the seal. In a moment she was heard

saying,

“Don’t put off dinner, mother. I will just take off my bonnet, and read

my letter after wards; and I have kept you waiting already.” And she

actually sat down to dinner without having opened her letter. The sight

of the hand had revived all her painful feelings, and had put it into

her head that if she remained unsatisfied about the notes, and if her

husband should strangely give her further leave of absence, she should

go back at once, and have an end put to her suspense.

The letter was short. Edgar was glad she was enjoying herself in the

country; believed the weather had been very fine and seasonable; did not

see why she should hurry back; was not, for his own part, anxious that

she should; was always willing to accommodate; therefore begged she

would stay where she was; Philip and self quite well. London cursedly

dull; everybody looking blank about the times; and no wonder.—The west

wind did not blow into Hester’s chamber; nor, if it had found a way,

would it now have acted as a cordial. It was too late to get rid of her

suspicions. There was nothing for it but satisfying them. The door was

again bolted, the blind drawn down, a glass of water poured out, and the

locked drawer opened. There was first a nervous and hasty comparison of

all the notes with the forged one; then a more careful examination; then

the most deliberate and studious one. The result of all was the same.

The same deficiencies, the same wrong turns were in all the notes. All

were precisely alike, except that some had been more crumpled and

dirtied than others; and the soil was, she thought, put on

artificially.—She was resolved to go the next morning, and to let it be

supposed that her husband had recalled her.

But what to do for money! She had borrowed four shillings, and had

nothing left but these notes. Asking her mother for some was out of the

question, if she wished to avoid suspicion. Leaving this difficulty to

be met by some bright idea at the moment, she swallowed some cold water,

and re-appeared with her bonnet on, saying that she was going to bespeak

a place in the morning’s coach, as she must be at home before the next

night.

Mrs. Parndon began reproaching Edgar very bitterly for giving such short

notice; from which, of course, his wife very earnestly defended him,

strong on the secret ground that he had given no notice at all. Mrs.

Parndon laid down the law, notwithstanding, that all husbands are alike,

all arbitrary, and fond of showing what their power is; also that she

could not spare her daughter even to go so far as the coach-office;

which errand could be as well discharged by Nanny; no money being wanted

for deposit, as the coach merely passed through instead of starting from

Haleham, and there was no knowing till it drove up whether there would

be a place.

“Now, my dear, before we are interrupted,” said Mrs. Parndon, when Nanny

was out of the house, “I have a little business to settle with you,

which I did not intend to have brought on in such a hurry, but for

Edgar’s choosing to have you at his beck and call in this way. You

know,” (in a whisper,) “that when gold was disappearing some time ago, I

laid by some guineas.”

Hester perfectly remembered. They were either in the cupboard behind the

bed, she believed, or buried in the garden. They had been in both these

hiding places, she knew; but she forgot which last. The widow looked

wise, and said it did not signify where they now were; what she wanted

to say was this. She had always been a cautious woman, having no one to

advise with but Mr. Pye, whom she could not, from motives of delicacy,

inform of her having money laid by; and she had, she feared, let the

occasion pass for disposing of her gold to the greatest advantage. She

should have trusted Philip with it some time ago. She had lately,

however, put the case before Mr. Pye, as from a third unknown party, and

he was decidedly of opinion that there would be no use in hoarding gold

after the Bank had returned to cash payments; and that if any profit was

to be made in such a way, it must be before that time. So she had made

up her mind to trust her daughter with her treasure, in order to its

reaching Philip’s hands; and she should write to him to send her as much

as could be obtained over and above their value as legal coin. It was a

sad pity, to be sure, that she had not done this long and long ago; but

lone women are liable to fall into grievous mistakes in the management

of their affairs. It was not enough even to have such a friend as Mr.

Pye.

As a friend merely,—Hester supposed in her own mind. She was very happy

that so lucky a chance of getting money for her journey had turned up as

to prevent her having to use any of her doubtful notes. She hurried off

with her mother to fetch the guineas, resolving to get two of them

changed at some shop where Mrs. Parndon did not deal, and to send out of

her own earnings what Philip should declare to be their true value.

When the bed-tick had been unripped and properly sewn up again, after

the guineas had been taken out of it, the widow found time and thoughts

for what her daughter might have to do and feel on so sudden a

conclusion of her visit. Could she do anything for her? pay any little

bills after she was gone? pack her things this afternoon? or go and tell

their friends that if they wished to bid her good bye they must come in

after tea?

Hester accepted the offer of packing, in order to be free to go out

herself. She talked of stepping to the washer-woman’s, and of getting as

far as the Berkeleys, to pay her respects, carry home the work she had

finished, and say how sorry she was that she should not see Miss Melea

married, as she had always hoped to do.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Parndon, while they were waiting the next

morning for the coach to drive up, “I wonder when we shall have you

amongst us again!”

Mr. Pye, who was present, saw that Hester’s eyes were full of tears, and

concluding that her mother had said something pathetic, turned to the

bright side, as he thought, and expatiated on the delight that awaited

her that evening in reaching her home again, and how Edgar’s reception

of her would more than make up for the sadness her Haleham friends

caused her by their parting grief.

“You will come to town on business again, Mr. Pye? You will be looking

in upon me some day, I dare say?”

Mr. Pye was ready to own that London was not to him what it used to

appear; or perhaps it might be that he was not so fit for London as he

was. The very walking along Cheapside flurried him, and he was nervous

about the crossings, and people seemed to think him stupid; whereas he

used to be considered tolerably apt at whatever business he had to

transact. Hester understood that this was the irritation of infirmity,

and said no more about his leaving home. Her mother, however, put in her

word.

“O, Mr. Pye, you will be sure to go, one of these days. And you should

be very much flattered at Mrs. Morrison’s saying anything about it. I

assure you, she has not invited me.”

This was the last hint Hester had the pleasure of hearing before she

took her seat, and went on her dreary way.

CHAPTER IV.

THE WIFE’S RETURN.

Even the journey was less dreary than the arrival. Hester had hoped that

Edgar would be out, that she might settle herself, and be ready to give

him a wife-like greeting on his entrance. She trusted much to this for

forgiveness for having come home without leave and without warning.

The house door was open, and there were pails and trestles in the

passage, and a strong smell of paint. Remorse struck instantly upon

Hester’s heart. Edgar was making the house neat and pretty to surprise

her on her return, and she was rewarding him with suspicion and

disappointment.

For one moment she glanced in thought at the possibility of going back

as quietly as she might, and keeping her trip a secret: but this would

have been too remarkable a proceeding to escape painful remark. She must

go on now, and make the best of it.

The first person she met was a foot-boy, who said he belonged to the

house, but who was a stranger to her. It occurred to her that Edgar

might have removed, and she had perceived that a new, stout, oaken-door

had been put up some feet within the passage; an alteration scarcely

likely to occur as desirable to a man so perpetually absent from home as

Edgar, and who lived up stairs. The boy, however, declared that his

master’s name was Morrison, and that he was now in the house, taking his

wine with a gentleman, after dinner.

“Philip, no doubt,” thought Hester, hastily dismissing the porter, and

running up to the dining-room before her courage failed. She was not

sorry that Philip would be there to act as a restraint on their meeting.

Edgar’s back was towards her as she softly opened the door; and as he

concluded it could be nobody but the boy, he did not dislodge his legs

from the chair on which they reposed, or cease picking his strawberries.

Opposite to him, sitting bolt upright, and his little face looking

fierce in a pair of huge black whiskers, sat Cavendish! His start and

stare first roused Edgar.

“What the deuce——” he began. “Did not you get my letter? You must have

got my letter, bidding you—telling you that you might stay longer.”

“I did; but ... I will tell you all about it by and by. I beg your

pardon for bursting in: but I did not know you had any one with you,

except Philip. I will go up stairs till you are at liberty.”

“Aye, do.”

Before the door was well shut, however, she was called back and told

that she would scarcely know her away about the house after all that the

work-people had been doing. She had better come in and sit down till she

could be instructed how to turn herself about in her own home. She sat

down accordingly by the window, thinking it would best please Edgar that

she should not be in full view of Cavendish’s face. When she had been

offered wine and strawberries, and accepted the latter in consideration

of her burning thirst, the two at the table seemed to have nothing more

to say to each other. They dropped a few words now and then, which each

left it to Hester to answer; and, in a quarter of an hour, Cavendish

rose to go. Edgar whispered with him for some time outside the door, and

then, to his wife’s terror, came in and shut it. She could not help

fixing her eyes upon his, though there was anger in his face.

“You are displeased with me for coming home,” said she. “And I dare say

it was very foolish, and you will think me very unkind: but O! Edgar,

you cannot think how uneasy I have been since yesterday morning! Those

bank-notes——”

“What of them?” asked Edgar, looking steadily at her.

“Mr. Pye said they were bad: that is, he said that one of them was

bad——”

Edgar laughed violently. “So you have taken a journey——”

“I know what you will say.... I know how easy it is to make a laugh of

it,” said Hester, sinking into tears: “but Mr. Pye showed me,——Edgar!”

and she put a strong momentary control upon her convulsive sobs, “Edgar,

they are all bad,—all that I have left.”

“And who gave you leave to show off your money to Mr. Pye, or Mr.

Any-body? A pretty scrape you have brought me into!”

When Hester explained how she had kept her cares to herself, and Mr. Pye

had seen only one note, her husband attempted to ridicule her out of the

notion that had taken possession of her; but this was attempting too

much. For once, the gentle, tractable Hester appeared sullen. She sat

looking out of the window, and twisting the corner of her handkerchief,

till Edgar was tired of talking to her.

“Well, Madam,” said he at length: “you do not seem disposed to make any

answer. What would you have now?”

Hester turned full round upon him to ask if he really wished to know

what she would have. Edgar could only look rather silly, and say “To be

sure.”

“I would have your confidence, Edgar, as a wife should have. I have kept

your secrets (those that you could not help my knowing) long enough, I

am sure, to show that I may be trusted. Let you have done what you may,

I am the one who ought to know all; for I may screen you from shame, and

I must share your shame when it comes. I am not one to betray you,

Edgar. I am your wife, and far more ready to excuse and forgive

your—your—ways than you yourself will one day be to excuse them.”

“Women do not know what they ask for when they seek their husbands’

confidence,” said Edgar. “As soon as they have got it, they would be

glad enough to have been less curious.”

“Curious!” repeated Hester, offended at the word. “If it were curiosity,

I might get the Newgate calendar, or set Philip talking, as he likes to

do, by the three hours together about making money in an unlawful

way.”—(She could not bring herself to utter the word “forgery.”)—“You

think, I suppose, that it is curiosity that brought me home to-day.”

It was some damned troublesome thing, whether it was curiosity or

anything else, Edgar swore. Hester trembled while she said that she

could go back again, if he chose it; but that she had much rather stay

and help him.

“Help me!” exclaimed Edgar. “What do you mean by helping me?”

“Is it such a very new thing for wives to help their husbands?” Hester

asked. “I mean, however, that whatever you are concerned in, I wish to

be concerned in too. I do not want to be a spy. I want to be your wife.

Let me help you to make notes, or send me quite away. I cannot bear to

be in the house, and know what you are doing, and have none of your

confidence, and no one to open my mind to.”

As it was evidently too late to attempt to conceal the fact from her,

Edgar saw at once that it would be the safest plan to keep her at home,

and to implicate her so far as to secure her fidelity. He drew a chair

beside her, preparatory to giving what he called “a candid explanation.”

“You must see, my love, that it is not for my own sake that I have

placed myself in the circumstances you have unfortunately become

acquainted with.”

“O, certainly. It was not for your own sake that you took a sudden fit

of affection for me lately, and remembered that I had not breathed

country air for four years. It was not for your own sake that you

pressed your money upon me, and wished that I should spend it among my

old friends. O no; this was all for my sake, and for the good of the

Haleham people. I understand it all quite well,” said the miserable

wife.

“If you looked about you while you were at Haleham, you must have

understood,” said Edgar, “that there is no way of doing so much good

just now as by putting out money. Did you not find a terrible want of it

every where? especially of small notes?—Well. Everybody sees and feels

the same thing; and the country is full of discontent at the currency

being so deplorably contracted as it is now. Of course, this discontent

will be listened to in time, and the bank will meet the popular demand.

In the mean while, those are benefactors to society who supply the want

as far as they can. It is a dangerous service, Hester; but it is a very

important one, I assure you.”

Hester was not to be quite so easily taken in; but she would not check

her husband’s communication by raising any objections. He went on.

“You must have seen, if you spent the notes as I desired, how acceptable

they were at Haleham; how brisk they made the business there; how——”

“Just like the first issue of Cavendish’s notes,” observed Hester.

“But there is this difference, my dear. Our notes are not those of a

bank that will break. There will not be a crash——”

“No; only a dead loss to the holders who present them at the Bank of

England, or who find them out on going home from shopping or market.

Only a stain upon commercial character,—a shock to commercial credit.

Only a gain to us of whatever is lost by these holders, or by the Bank

of England. Only a robbery of them to enrich ourselves. I understand.”

“I am sure you do not, if you talk of my gains,” replied Edgar. “Why, my

dear, the wealth of the Bank would not make up to me for the risk and

trouble of passing notes. And when you see what we have been doing

upstairs, you will be convinced that our expenses——”

“Very well,” said Hester, quietly; “I do not want convincing. Tell me

what part I am to take. You may trust me for being very careful; for I

am as well aware as you what is at stake. I do not know whether my being

able to draw will be of any use to you.”

“I am not sure but it may,” replied Edgar. “Your best way of helping us,

however, will be in doing our out-door work: in making our purchases;

in——”

“In passing your notes, you mean. I am afraid,——I have so little

presence of mind——.” The sight of Edgar’s grave looks reminded her to

make no difficulties; and she went on. “However, I can plan what to say

when they refuse a note; and when they make no difficulty, there is only

the fear to go through: and that is not so bad as not being trusted. I

can do anything, if I am trusted.”

“Had not you better go upstairs, and see what we have been doing?” said

Edgar. “And yet,—perhaps,—it may turn out a safer thing for you to be

able to swear that you never saw our apparatus, or set foot on that

floor, since——”

“I must know all now,” said Hester, rising: “and as for swearing,—when

one is once in——”

“True, true,” replied her husband, astonished at her calmness, and

beginning to think that he had mistaken his companion’s capabilities all

this while. “There are the keys. Go and look about you; and I will

explain it all when you come down.”