“I suppose,” said Hester, returning from the door, “I suppose the

gentleman who dined with you shares the office that I am to have. He

does your out-door business too, does not he?”

“Who, Carter? What made you think so? He travels for a paper-maker.”

“Carter!” exclaimed Hester, reproachfully. “Edgar, you will gain nothing

by such half-confidences as yours. You think because Cavendish now wears

black whiskers, and because I sat behind him, that I should not know

him. How blind you must think me!”

Edgar protested that he meant no deceit, but that he had been so used of

late to call Cavendish by his new name, as to forget that he had ever

been known by any other. He begged that Hester would be particularly

careful to address him properly on all occasions, and also to spare his

feelings by avoiding any allusion to Haleham and its inhabitants. Hester

readily promised this, feeling that there would be little temptation to

mention Rhoda and her lover, or any of their injured neighbours, in the

presence of the swindler, whose sensibility had come somewhat too late

to be of any advantage to them.

The rooms on the floor above were so altered that she could scarcely

believe she was in the same house she had inhabited for years. The

windows were blocked up, and each room lighted by a skylight, so built

round, as she afterwards discovered, as to be nearly inaccessible from

the roof; and when got at, so fenced with iron bars as to make entrance

from above a work of considerable time and difficulty. There were new

doors to both rooms, and another within a few feet of the head of the

stairs; and all were of the same make with the strange door in the

passage below;—thick oak doors, with abundance of bolts, and cross bars

which slipped into holes in the solid walls. A new ladder, just long

enough to reach the ceiling, stood in each room, which made Hester

suppose that either the skylight could be opened from within, so as to

afford a way of escape, or that there must be a concealed trap-door for

the same purpose. The remaining furniture of the room would have told

the most careless observer that no ordinary business was carried on

there. There was a brick stove, built apparently to sustain a

considerable heat; and there were rollers, such as are used in

copper-plate printing. One of the keys on the bunch opened a closet

wherein were iron frames, the size of bank-notes, with ivory numbers

fixed in by a screw; copper-plates, with boards and cloths for taking

impressions, jars of printing ink, and the flannel jackets of those who

were to use it. A recess which had formerly held lumber, had been

emptied to make room for a store of coke. There was such completeness

and such amplitude about the apparatus, that Hester was convinced a

large gang must be implicated in her husband’s proceedings. If it had

not been for this, she would probably have turned faint-hearted, and run

away to Haleham after all:—faint-hearted, not on account of the danger,

but of the guilt. But she felt something so imposing in the magnitude of

these preparations for breaking the law, that, like too many people, she

lost sight of much of the guilt in the feeling of extensive

companionship. She had some dread of learning who the rest of the gang

were; and did not at all like Cavendish being one of them, as she

concluded he was.

Her husband made occasion to ask, the same evening, how she came to

fancy that Carter had anything to do with his private affairs. He had

told her that Carter travelled for a paper-making concern, and he now

added that he lived in Yorkshire, and had merely taken a dinner in a

friendly way while in town on one of his business journeys. This

satisfied Hester, who did not remember at the moment what different

kinds of paper are made; and that paper is one of the elements of a

bank-note.

She was now uneasy until she should have discharged her mother’s

commission about the guineas. As a first step, she enquired of her

husband whether Philip knew of all the proceedings that went on in his

own house; and was told that he must be aware that there was something

doing, about which it was better, for his own sake, not to ask, or to

give any information; but that no confidence had been placed in him

which could implicate him in any way. This determined Hester to trust

him to value and exchange the guineas; and to delay speaking to him

about it no longer than till her husband should be gone to business the

next morning.

When Edgar had duly found fault with her for rising with red eyes,

because it would prevent her going out to spend notes with the proper

face of indifference; when he had looked to the fastenings of the new

door above, and told her that nobody would be there till the

white-washers had departed from below; when she had watched him along

the street so as to be pretty sure that he would not return, she

ventured down, and put her head in at the private door of the shop to

see if Philip was alone. He was alone; and bending so intently over his

work as to give his invariable start when spoken to.

“Are you too busy to let me speak with you?”

“Why, no: I cannot well say that I am; though many’s the time I could

have said so when you have come. But those were better days than we

shall soon see again.”

“Is your business doing badly, like other people’s? I thought you had

got up a steady, flourishing business, that, depending on the wealthy,

was not liable to be affected as inferior ones are.”

“There is no business that has not its bad times; and those of the

goldsmiths are now coming; or rather, have come. It is not only that

people have less money to spend on trinkets (which is true of the rich

as well as others) but gold is so much dearer of late that the change of

times tells both ways for those who deal in whatever is made of gold.”

“Aye, I see. If people could not now buy trinkets at your former prices,

much less can they at a higher price.”

“And if the bank begins paying in cash,” resumed Philip, “I am afraid

gold will be very scarce and dear for our handicraft purposes. One hears

nothing now of buying and selling guineas. Do you know,” he continued,

lowering his voice, “I have not had a single offer of coin to sell for

months.”

“So much the better for one who wishes to deal with you in that way,”

observed Hester. “If gold is scarce, you will give a good price for a

batch of guineas.”

“That depends upon what commodity I pay in,” replied Philip. “If in

goods, all very well, if in bank paper, you will remember that that is

scarce too. Guineas are now worth only a trifle more than bank-notes;

and since it is so, I cannot but wonder that anybody has them to sell.

Anybody that thought of doing so should have done it many months,—aye,

full three years ago, to have made the best bargain.”

“My mother knows that now. It is she that sends you this bag of coin,”

said Hester, producing the treasure. “She must have notes for it, of

course, and not goods; and I am sure, Philip, you will give her as much

as you can afford, in consideration of her disappointment from having

kept them too long.”

“That I will,” said Philip, “and more than I would give anybody else. It

will be a good opportunity of giving her a present, which I was thinking

of doing about this time. Which do you think she will like best,—to have

as much as I suppose she expects for her guineas, or to have little

above the same number of one pound notes, and a present of some pretty

thing out of my stock?”

Hester rather thought her mother would prefer an exemption from

disappointment to a testimony of remembrance from her son. All mothers

would not have given cause to be thus judged; nor would all sons have

received so mortifying an opinion with the indifference which Philip

exhibited. The whole affair was to him a matter of business; the

devising the present, the manner in which it should be bestowed, and

finally, the way in which it would be accepted.

“Let me see,” said he, pondering his bargain. “What should I give to

anybody else? Here is paper money now within 2-1/2 per cent of gold: but

likely to fall a bit, I fancy, before the Bank begins its cash payments,

if it ever does such a thing.”

“And how low had paper fallen when guineas sold best?” enquired Hester.

“Why, paper money is worth nearly 23 per cent more now than it was in

1814. That was the year when my mother should have disposed of her

hoard. Paper has risen so high, you see, that government thinks it a

good time to fix its value by making Bank of England notes payable in

cash. As far as the present value of paper is concerned, it may be a

good time; but it is a bad time on other accounts.”

“Why? I should have thought it one of the best that could be chosen.

There are no armies to be paid abroad. Think what a quantity of coin it

must have taken to pay our soldiers on the continent during the war!

Then there is, in the midst of all the distress that is complained of

some degree of that security and steadiness which follow upon a peace;

and the gold that was hoarded is now brought out for use. All these

circumstances seem likely to help the Bank to pay in specie. I should

have thought this a particularly good time to begin again.”

“Aye; that is because you do not know. There has been a falling off from

the mines lately; and this is just the time that several foreign states

have chosen for calling in some of their paper currency. Gold would be

getting dearer from these causes, even if we did not want to buy more

than usual of it. But wanting, as we do, thirty millions in gold, what

can we expect but that it should be very dear!”

“Where are these thirty millions to come from?”

“Part from one place, and part from another. Here are some out of my

mother’s mattress, you see; and more will come from the mines, and the

rest from various countries where we deal.”

“I could fancy thirty millions an immense sum to come from one

place,—out of one market,” observed Hester: “but if it is to be gathered

together out of the whole world, I should think it would hardly be

missed so as to raise the price of gold very much. It must be so little

in comparison with the whole quantity that is in use!”

“I have heard that, supposing we look abroad for two-thirds of the metal

wanted, (finding the other third at home,) we shall buy about one

twenty-fifth part of what is in use. To be sure, this is not likely to

raise the price very terribly; but there are people who say it will.”

“The same people, perhaps, who have always been very sure that the Bank

never would pay in coin. These very persons are the most likely to be

crying out, ten years hence, that the Bank had much better not have

begun paying in coin.”

“O yes! They will go on complaining, as they do now, that the value of

the currency has to be raised. But, for my part, I think that if we are

ever to be made secure against the same troubles happening over again

with the currency, it had best be when gold and paper have come within a

little of the same value. I should not be afraid of fixing our paper

when it comes within five per cent. of gold, one way or the other; and,

as I said, it is now within two and a half. Not that I would warrant our

being safe yet, even if the Bank paid every note in gold to-morrow.

There are people who think that more mischief will come yet.”

“Well; pray reckon my mother’s money without taking any future mischief

into the account.”

Philip nodded, and pursued his calculations. In due time, he made a

declaration of the sum, in pounds, shillings, pence, and farthings,

which he could afford for the gold. With a little stimulus from his

sister, he came to a resolution to make it up such an even sum as might

travel by post in the shape of a single bank-note; by which means

Hester’s mind would be eased of her commission, and Mrs. Parndon’s

relieved from suspense without delay.

“You are going out, I suppose,” said Philip. “You can get the note in

ten minutes, if you like. I am always willing to pay ready money for

what I buy, I am thankful to say.”

Hester would be obliged to him to procure the note, as she could not go

out this morning. Meanwhile, she would just sit down at his desk, and

write a few lines to her mother.

She did so, while Philip put on his hat and stepped to the Bank. She

folded the note into the letter herself, sealed it, and committed it to

the careful Philip to be carried to the post when his own letters should

go. This done, she went slowly up to her parlour, drew her drawing-table

listlessly into its accustomed light, and spent the rest of the morning

in covering a sheet of paper with strokes which to any eye but her own

would have meant nothing; but which, falling in her way more than a year

afterwards, caused a cold shudder to run through her, by recalling the

thoughts that were in her mind while her pencil was thus idly busy.

“My letter is gone, Philip, I suppose?” she enquired at dinner.

“Yes; and mother is saved the postage. I met Edgar just in time. He knew

of somebody going through Haleham to-morrow.”

“You should always ask me,” observed Edgar, “when you have double

letters to send. I generally know of somebody going to pass within a

reasonable distance of any place you have to write to. I met Horace

Berkeley; and he enquired if we had any commands, he intending to go

down to-morrow. And if he had not, there is Williamson’s traveller,

setting off for D—— to-night. You should always give a double letter

into my charge.”

Hester was not so grateful for such consideration as she would have been

a few weeks before. She was vexed and alarmed at her letter having been

thus intercepted; but two days set her at ease on this point, by

bringing Mrs. Parndon’s thankful acknowledgments of the receipt of the

sum sent, and an answer, point by point, to what her daughter’s letter

contained. It had certainly arrived safe; and Hester reproached herself

for suspecting her husband of more villainy than that of which she had

proof, and which he defended as being pursued on principle.

CHAPTER V.

THE WIFE’S OBEDIENCE.

Irksome, beyond all powers of description, was Hester’s life from this

day forward. It would have been perfectly intolerable but for one

circumstance; viz., that not only she loved him for whom she went

through daily acts of guilt, and hourly emotions of terror, but that she

hoped that he loved her. Watchful and suspicious as she had been made,

it appeared to her that Edgar was really touched by the toils and

sufferings she underwent for his sake; that with his confidence his

affection revived, and that it was really once more a pleasure to him to

meet her, and a pain to part from her. This consequence of her

participation in his deeds, whether real or imaginary, was little enough

of a compensation for the miseries they caused her; but it just sufficed

to prevent her sinking,—to sustain her, as she said to herself, till, by

some means or other, there should be an end of the long, weary fever fit

of her present way of life. The constant presence of one thought, be it

what it may, is enough to make a hell of the mind which it haunts. No

artificial torture,—not even the perpetual water-drop,—can cause an

equal amount of misery;—of misery which there are few to describe, as

most who have felt it in an extraordinary degree are soon numbered in

the class of those who can no more give an account of any thing. But

many have felt something of this misery; something of the tension of

brain which irresistibly impresses the idea of suicide; something of the

irritability of nerve which drives the sufferer through air and water,

into alternate crowds and solitude, in the vain hope of relief;

something of the visions of waking darkness, prolonged from the fancies

of the day, and instantly renewed with exaggeration, if sleep comes in

answer to the victim’s prayer. Probably none have so little horror of

madness as those who have been brought acquainted with the misery of a

besetting thought: for they are probably the only persons who have

prayed for madness,—prayed for it, as the easiest transition from their

own, without its suffering. Whether the apparent unconsciousness of

madness is in fact exemption from this suffering, there are no means of

knowing; since those who have experienced both states are for ever

disqualified for making a comparison of them; but, judging from

observation, there are few kinds of the moodiest madness which can

compare in anguish with the state of one who is engrossed by a single

thought, harassed by a single protracted emotion. The punishment of

Sisyphus could be little to it; unless indeed he was condemned to think

of nothing but of his stone. He had action to relieve his thought; and

varied action, since he had to follow his stone down hill, as well as to

push it up. If any part of his punishment reached the acme of suffering,

it must have been the unintermitting idea of the toilsome uselessness of

his employment. If he was permitted a respite from this consciousness,

his torment must have been less severe than that of the wife of a forger

who is condemned to pass a certain number of bad notes every day. The

very undertaking implies such a degree of attachment as must keep alive

the most harassing fear; and what a responsibility to be connected with

such a fear! It was almost too much for Hester. If any idea but that of

forged notes did find its way into her mind, it was of madness. She told

her husband every day that she was becoming stupid, that she was growing

nervous, that she was losing her memory, that she could not trust her

understanding. She warned him that she became slower and slower in

reckoning bills and counting change, and that she should soon be unfit

to go to shops at all. She dreamed every night that Edgar was arrested

through some mistake of hers, and had some alarming story for him every

evening, in which he saw or pretended to see nothing at all.

More of Edgar’s security was pretended than Hester was aware of. He saw

that her state was such as to render it necessary that every thing

should go smoothly at home if she was to do any good service abroad. She

muttered in her sleep about arrest; she turned pale at every footstep

overhead; and if such a sound occurred at dinner-time, did the worst

thing of all,—stole a glance at Philip, to see if he observed it. She

even started at the sight of any crumpled piece of thin paper that might

be lying about. The symptom which he least liked, however, was the daily

growing reluctance to set about what was now her chief daily business.

He was anxious that she should go out early to make her purchases, that

she might come home and “be at peace” (as he called it) for the rest of

the day: but she put off her excursions, sometimes till the afternoon,

sometimes till the evening, while she suffered as much during the

intervening hours as if her notes were being at that moment handled and

glanced at by a shopman. At last, he had recourse to the plan of

settling for her at breakfast-time where she should go, and how far he

could walk with her; and this bribe was more effectual than any entreaty

whatever.

Hester would sit waiting breakfast, appearing to read the newspaper, but

really watching for the opening of the door, and speculating on what

kind of mood her husband’s might be expected to be, he having been up

and hard at work all night at his detestable employment. On these

occasions, however, he made his appearance more fresh and smart even

than usual, to avoid suspicion. Having given his wife a lively good

morning, and looked up at the sky through his glass, and compared his

handsome watch with the no less expensive one he had bought for Hester,

he would, with an air of nonchalance, present her with the disgusting

roll of notes which she hastened to put out of sight. Edgar would then

sit down to his well-furnished breakfast-table, as if he had the best

title in the world to its luxuries, while his wife felt them all to be

incumbrances, and was driving away the thought of where she should stow

all the further ornaments with which she must go on to fill the house.

“Well, my love,” said Edgar, “what is your district to-day?”

“What a very bright morning it is!” was the reply. “This is just the

light for finishing my drawing. If I do not go out till the afternoon, I

can carry it home; and it is promised this week.”

“To-morrow will do for that, my dear; and I have to go into

Gracechurch-street after breakfast, and you may as well make that your

destination for to-day.”

“I have been there so very much lately.”

“Have you? Then it is better avoided. What say you to Cheapside?”

“I have twice had a note refused in that neighbourhood, and I never dare

go there again.”

“You are right. It is surely a longtime since you went to the Soho

Bazaar.”

Hester gasped as she replied that that place was so close, there was no

room to breathe,—scarcely any possibility of getting away quickly.

“This is a very fine day for the Park. You would enjoy a turn there

after shopping in Regent-street.”

“What else can I buy?” asked Hester, listlessly looking round her. “I

have no more room for furniture, and I am tired of getting new things

for myself.”

“Besides, my dear, you could not wear them. It would not do to make any

sudden difference in your appearance out of doors. Indoors it does not

signify, as there is nobody to observe you but our own people. Indoors I

can have the pleasure of seeing my pretty Hester look as she should

do,—graceful and polished as the highest ladies of the land.”

“I wonder it gives you pleasure to see me dressed,” Hester was going to

say; but Edgar proceeded with an explanation that one of her

difficulties would soon be removed. She might very soon enlarge the

range of her purchases, as Carter had been long enough a traveller for

the paper manufactory in Yorkshire, and was about to open a warehouse

near, where Edgar and his friends might deposit and dispose of any

purchased articles they might not want for themselves. Hester was glad

to hear this. She would send thither immediately the portfolios of

prints, which she had no pleasure in looking at,—the rows of handsomely

bound books which she could not bring herself to open.

Well, was she ready? her husband wanted to know. He must go, and would

set her on her way westwards, if she would put on her bonnet. She did

so,—the same bonnet she had worn for some time, that there might be

nothing for the neighbours to remark upon. While on their way, Hester

observed that she did hope the shops would not be empty to-day. She lost

all her presence of mind when she was the only customer, and there were

shop-people standing about to watch her.

“You are always fancying that people are watching you,” said Edgar.

“They are thinking of no such thing, depend upon it. You have only to

take care that you do not put it into their heads. You should do as I

do——What has that impudent fellow been following us for, these five

minutes? Did you happen to see where he came from?”

“No,” whispered the trembling Hester, “but take no notice.” And she

walked on with an appearance of more self-command than her husband

expected of her. He grew more and more fidgety every moment, and

presently crossed the street, his apprehended follower trudging on as

before, and evidently bestowing no thought on those at whose heels he

had accidentally been walking for a minute or two.

“He is not thinking of us,” observed Edgar. “That is well.”

An idea crossed Hester, which brightened her face surprisingly. “I have

just remembered,” said she, “I really want something. You say you like

rosewood door-handles for the drawing-room better than brass, and it is

time we were having the one or the other, and here are some of rosewood

in this window. We can get rid of a note here. Come in and help me to

choose a pair.”

Edgar was, however, in a prodigious hurry. He was off in a moment. His

wife looked after him from the threshold with an unutterable pang. There

was no contempt in it. She struggled yet against the belief of his total

selfishness. She trusted, she expected to hear at dinner that he really

could not spare any more time to her this morning. The next thought was

that it really did not signify, as her business in the shop went off

easily enough. She had never seen a note more ignorantly handled, more

carelessly thrust into the till.

The same impunity attended her everywhere this day. She could have stood

firmly by the counters if the seats had all been occupied, and she was

not obliged to clasp her hands together in her lap lest their trembling

should be observed. In only one instance did any particular attention

seem to be paid to a note. One shopman handed it to another, who hastily

pronounced by a knowing nod that it was very good; so that Hester

received abundance of thanks with her change, and was bowed out of the

shop like any one of the enviable purchasers who left it innocent.

It was no new idea to Hester to wish that she might meet with some

accident,—something that would prevent her going out for several days,

or weeks, or—for ever. She had often asked whether she might not give

assistance upstairs, instead of passing notes: but Edgar always put her

off with speeches about staining her pretty fingers with printing ink,

or hurting them with the rollers; and sometimes he gave hints that there

were people at work there with whom it would be no pleasure to her to

associate. She was too honest to think of making herself ill for the

sake of evading her task; but she could not be sorry this day when a

sudden rain came on while she was in the Park, and wetted her to the

skin. She had great hopes of catching a severe cold, and was certainly

guilty of not doing her utmost to prevent it, either by keeping herself

in exercise during the rain, or using proper precautions when she

reached home.

When her husband recurred to their morning’s conversation, reminding her

that her task would become comparatively easy during the great London

season, when the shops would be crowded with customers; when the dreary

thought arose how many weeks and months must pass before even this

alleviation could be hoped for, it was a pleasure to feel so ill that

one week at least would be subtracted from the long series,—seven

mornings when she would not have to stimulate her courage up to the

point of enterprise, seven nights when she might close her eyes without

dreading the waking.

Edgar was vexed almost beyond his patience when he found his wife really

ill the next morning. He tried at first to persuade her that air would

do her good, and that the amusement of shopping was far better than

moping at home. When this would not do, the next thing was to desire her

to have the attendance of a physician immediately, as expense was no

object, and her health was of inexpressible importance to him. Hester

begged to decline the physician, not choosing to fee him with bad notes,

and loathing the idea of following up her occupation within her own

doors, during her escape from its exercise without. She trembled too at

the idea of admitting any stranger into the house. Her husband thought

it would be an advantage, provided every thing suspicious was kept out

of sight. The matter was compromised by the apothecary being sent for,—a

simple young man who was much affected by Mr. Morrison’s extreme anxiety

for his wife’s recovery, and thereby induced to order her out of doors

full three days sooner than he would have done in an ordinary case.

“A lovely day, as you say,” observed Edgar. “Mild and sunny, and just

fit for an invalid. Would not you recommend Mrs. Morrison to recreate a

little in the open air? Consider how long it is she saw any faces but

ours.”

“I do not want to see any new faces,” said Hester. “I cannot bear them

yet. All I want is to be alone.”

“Aye, aye; a little of the ennui and melancholy of illness, you see, Mr.

Cotton.”

Mr. Cotton agreed that a little gentle change would be salutary to the

nerves, though, as a distressing languor of the frame, and slight

frequency of the pulse remained, it would be well not to urge exertion

too far.

“I am sure,” said Hester, “that if I went out to-day, I should fall

before I could get back from the end of the street.”

“But you could not fall if you had a strong arm to hold you up; and I do

not mean that you should go alone; of course I would go with you, or

Philip.”

Hester gave him a look which reminded him of her determination not to

implicate her brother in any of her shopping expeditions.

“I am going to have a friend to dine with me,” observed Edgar, to Mr.

Cotton; “and it would be just the thing for her to saunter to the

fruiterer’s in the next street, and send in a little dessert, refreshing

herself with a bunch of grapes there, you know. I should see a little

bloom on her cheeks again when she came home, and then I should begin to

think she was going to be herself again. Upon my soul, I don’t know how

to bear my life while she is shut up in this way.”

“I am glad of it,” thought Hester; “for now you know something of what

my life is when I am not shut up. I suppose you have had enough of

shopping.”

The apothecary was delighted with the little plan suggested by conjugal

solicitude. He immediately prescribed a bunch of grapes, to be eaten at

the fruiterer’s, and Hester dared not refuse acquiescence. As she

expected, her husband went no farther than the door with her; and the

boy was presently in waiting to take care of her home.

Just before dinner, Edgar entered, and sat down by his wife, to explain

to her, with a smile, that though he had spoken of a friend coming to

dinner, there were really two, and that one of them was to be _her_

visiter. Could she guess who it was? Poor Hester named one Haleham

friend after another, till her vexed husband stopped her with the news

that it was nobody whom she had yet visited, he believed, but one whom

she would think it an honour to entertain. There was no occasion in the

world for ceremony, however; and this was the reason why he had not told

her till now——

“Well, but who is it?” asked Hester, impatiently.

“Bless me! Hester, how pettish you have grown since you have been ill.

One won’t be able to speak to you soon. It is Mrs. Cavendish that is

coming; but you know you must call her Mrs. Carter. I am glad I have

found a friend for you at last, my love. It has been quite an uneasiness

to me that you have been moped as you have been of late,—that you have

depended so entirely on me——”

“Yes, Edgar, I have depended entirely on you.”

“There now, do not grow so nervous the moment one mentions a thing!

Never mind about dressing, or about entertaining these people. They know

you have been ill, and Mrs. Carter comes to entertain you.”

Mrs. Carter came accordingly, with an air of condescending kindness,

praised everything she saw, vowed the house and furniture delightful,

and protested that the little party at dinner was just the friendly,

intellectual sort of thing she enjoyed above all things, when she could

in conscience bring herself to desert her little tribe. She hoped Hester

liked London; though she could not be expected to do so to an equal

degree with anxious mothers who felt what a deprivation it was to their

dear little creatures to be shut up in the narrow circle of a

country-town. For her part, she and Mr. Carter often said what a

happiness it was,—(though it was a trial at the time.) that they were

obliged to leave Haleham when they did. If the Carter estate had

happened to fall in to them then, it would (although certainly saving

them from some painful circumstances) have been an injury to the

children, by keeping them out of the way of the advantages which London

alone can afford.

“How long had Mr. Cavendish changed his name?” Hester asked.

“O, my dear, these three years. His dear, good, old great-uncle had

lasted wonderfully; but he died at length just three years ago; after

all, just in time to make us more comfortable than I assure you we were

after the misfortunes that were brought upon us by the stoppage of that

unfortunate D—— bank. Aye, you wonder, I dare say, at our coming to live

in such a neighbourhood as this, after all, but——”

“I know,” said Hester, “Mr. Carter is about to open a warehouse.”

“Your lord and master is as communicative and confidential as mine, I

see,” observed Mrs. Cavendish. “Well, I think we are well off in our

husbands, as I tell my dear little tribe about mine on all occasions.

And you should have seen how fond they grew of Mr. Morrison, the first

day he came among them, and smiled upon them all, so sweetly! I assure

you they have asked many times since when he would come again. And you

must come too. I promised my little folks that you would. When your poor

dear head is better, you must come and spend a long day with me. It is

the nicest thing in the world, our living so near, our husbands being

connected as they are. If any little panic rises at any time, here we

are to comfort one another. And I assure you I am dreadfully nervous,

ever since that unfortunate affair at Haleham. Do you know, I absolutely

forget about my husband having let his whiskers grow; and I have

screamed three times this week when he has come in between light and

dark, taking him for some stranger. I have a horror of strangers now;

ever since——”

She could not help perceiving Hester’s countenance of misery while she

was saying this so she interrupted herself.

“There now! I have been barbarous enough to make your head ache with my

nonsense. Now positively I will hold my tongue; but it is such a luxury

to get an hour with an intimate friend, away from my little tribe!”

Edgar disappeared with his guests, at the end of an evening which Hester

thought never would come to a close. On his return, some hours after, he

found her, not asleep, nor even in bed, but leaning over the arm of the

sofa, from which hung the locket farmer Williams had given her on the

day preceding her marriage,—and weeping bitterly. She tried to speak

first, but could not for sobs.

“Why, my poor little woman,” said Edgar, after a glance round which

quieted his fear that intruders had been there—“my poor little woman! we

have quite tired you out to-day; but you should have gone to bed; you

should——”

“I could not go,” said Hester. “I would not till I had spoken to you,

Edgar. I have something that I must say to you.”

“Well, well, love; in the morning. It is very late now; and, look ye,

the last candle is just burnt out. What could make you wait for me,

child, when you know the people overhead were on the watch to let me in?

I must make haste and help them. It is a busy night.”

“O, no, no. You must stay and hear me,” cried Hester, struggling for

speech. “I must say it now. Indeed I must.”

“Aye; you are going to say what a much better husband that son of

Williams’s would have made. I know what that locket means, very well. If

he had been alive, I should tell you that you ought to have known your

own mind when you married me. Since he’s dead, there is no more to be

said, except that I do wish you would chirp up a little, and not let

everybody see that there is something the matter. Do you know, I will

not answer for the consequences?”

“Nor I, I am sure,” murmured Hester. “I had better go, Edgar; and that

is what I was going to say. I have been joining in your plots all this

time for your sake. I could not have borne it so long for anybody else.

I could go on still, I think, if it was with you alone; but I never

promised to have anything to do with—with——”

“With Mrs. Cavendish, from whom you thought it an honour to have a nod

at Haleham?”

“She was a respectable person then; or, at least, I supposed she was.

And now she comes pretending to be so intimate, and talking about the

whole connexion, as if she took for granted that I saw no more harm in

it than she does. Edgar, this is too much.”

“She is too wise a woman to suit you, you little goose. She sees clearly

what I thought I made you understand ages ago;—that we are doing the

greatest service to the country by sending out money when it is so much

wanted. How often have I told you this, I wonder?”

Very often indeed, Hester allowed: but she did not yet look convinced.

“Well, what is it you wish to do?” inquired Edgar. “Would you have me go

and tell Mrs. Carter that you decline the honour of her acquaintance?”

“I had rather you would let me go home.”

“And tell farmer Williams all about the arrangements of our second

floor, the first time he takes you on his knee, and whispers to you

about the locket. No, madam, it is rather too late for that.”

“I wish you would not call me ‘madam.’ I cannot bear it. I am sure I

have done all you bade me for a long time, and never——and never——”

“Very true, my little wife. It is too bad to treat you like other wives,

when you behave so differently from many that I see. I want you too

much, and value you too much by far to part with you; and since you do

not like Mrs. Carter, I am sorry that I brought her; but I thought it

would be a pleasant surprise to you, that was all. Now, give me a kiss,

and don’t be angry with yourself for being weak-spirited after your

illness, and you will sleep it all off, depend upon it.”

Hester felt that there was but one sleep that would cure her sorrows;

but she did not say exactly this. She threw her arm round Edgar’s neck,

wailing forth rather than speaking her complaint, that she could not go

on with her detestable employment of passing notes. She begged, she

implored that this dreadful responsibility might be taken from her, or

she would not answer for what she might do. She might throw herself into

the river, some day; or go in a fit of desperation to the police, to

give information.

Edgar coolly dared her to do the one or the other; and then, protesting

that he loved her very much, and wished to be a kind husband, gave her

notice that the continuance of his tenderness and confidence depended

wholly on her doing her duty, as he laid it down for her. Hester was

weak,—as she had been a thousand times before. She now deprecated as the

crowning evil of all, the withdrawal of her husband’s confidence. She

promised every thing, under the influence of this threat; allowed

herself to be carried to her room; watched for the kiss which she now

dreaded would not be given; returned it eagerly; and, as she let her

throbbing head sink helplessly on her pillow, found something like

comfort in remembering that all must come to an end some time or other.

CHAPTER VI.

AN ARRANGEMENT.

The purpose of Horace’s visit to Haleham was to give his father

the comfort of his assistance and sympathy respecting his

affairs;—assistance and sympathy which were as much wanted now as

they had ever been, from the peculiar condition of the monetary

system of the country. There seemed to be no possibility of

winding up the affairs,—no end to the hopes that this, and that,

and the other incumbrance would be got rid of; and no fulfilment

of the hope. The debts went on increasing in actual amount, in

proportion to the pains taken to provide funds to pay them; and

the recovery of these funds became, of course, more difficult, as

those who owed them suffered under the same disadvantages as the

partners of the D—— bank. Day after day, week after week, Mr.

Berkeley came home to tell his wife that, after all he had paid,

he was, in fact, as deep in debt as ever; while the calls upon the

little income allowed him by his creditors were increasing

perpetually. His rent, though nominally the same as three years

before, was worth full one-third more to his landlord; and, as for

taxes, they were exorbitant. There seemed great danger that Mr.

Berkeley, loyal as he had always been, would soon be looked upon

as a dangerous person in politics by the country gentlemen round,

so vehement were his complaints of the excessive taxation of which

the government was enjoying the fruits, now that there was no war

to be maintained, and every reason for a reduction of the public

burdens, from the difficulties which the agricultural and

manufacturing classes were encountering in consequence of the

sudden contraction of the currency. Mrs. Berkeley was not at all

sorry to see his energy directed into the channel of politics. It

was better than dwelling perpetually on his private troubles, and

she took particular care to show no signs of weariness when Lewis

was instructed every evening on the iniquity of double taxation

without acknowledgment, or when Henry Craig came to talk about

household preparations, and was held by the button for an hour at

a time, while the case of tax-paying labourers was discussed. It

pleased her to see her husband’s look of satisfaction when Lewis

asked sensible questions, or showed the expected degree of

astonishment, or confidently pronounced the king’s ministers to be

good-for-nothing chaps; or when Mr. Craig had a case in point to

relate which would do to travel round the neighbourhood, growing

in pathos and wonder at each delivery. She did not even shrink

from the prospect of hearing the whole list repeated to Horace

when he should come, so much happier did her husband seem when he

had something to rail about, ready made for use, instead of having

to invent public grievances, or to brood over private ones. If she

could have foreseen all that would arise to be talked about during

Horace’s visit, she would have feared that there would be too much

instead of too little excitement for her husband’s comfort.

Horace had not been many hours under his father’s roof when Henry Craig

came up to see him. This was, in itself, the most natural thing in the

world, as they had now long been friends, and were soon to be brothers;

but Henry was peculiarly grave; and this was not exactly the occasion on

which to appear so. He soon told the reason. He had received a letter

from London, inquiring into the moral character of his parish, and

requesting to know whether it was at all probable that any family in

Haleham was connected with a company of forgers; and if not, whether he

could account for a considerable number of forged notes having been

traced back to Haleham persons.

Horace knew something about this. He had more than once, as a Haleham

man, had the circumstance mentioned to him in the Clearinghouse, where a

very sharp scrutiny was exercised into all small notes, from the present

extraordinary prevalence of forgery.

“Well, Craig; what do you think?” exclaimed Mr. Berkeley.

“I do not know what to think, sir, in the face of such facts as my

letter gives. We have either guilty or deluded people among us, that is

very certain; and who they are, and whether deluded or guilty, it must

be my business to find out. I hope Horace will help me.”

“O, I will help you; and you must trust me to do your business

thoroughly. I had some experience in this sort of thing when I was a

young man. I got together a mass of evidence about a forgery case,—the

completest you ever knew; and, though it was no use after all, as far as

the offender was concerned, it was a fine piece of experience for me. If

such a thing had to be done over again, you could not do better than put

it into my hands.”

“How did your labours fail before? What made them useless?”

“The banker was a shabby fellow, and let the rogue go. He did worse than

that. He recommended him to a firm in New York; actually shipped him off

with a purse of money in his pocket, and a letter of recommendation in

his hand, in which not a hint was given of his delinquency, but his

character was set forth in such a light as to induce the New York people

to take him.”

“Is it possible? And was this to escape the odium and expense of a

prosecution?”

“The ostensible reason was that the young man was penitent. And so he

might have been for aught I know; but his master knows best how he found

that out; for there were but three days to be penitent in. He was shut

up with a Bible, after the proofs of his guilt had been shown to him in

such a state of completeness as to induce him to confess: and from that

solitary room he was taken on board ship at the end of three days; so,

penitent or not penitent, his master was perfectly inexcusable in

getting rid of him as he did. He turned out very respectably, I have

heard, which is an argument against hanging in such a case; but which

does not alter the character of his master’s conduct. So do not you be

wrought upon, Henry, to follow the same method. Even if you find the

guilty person under the same roof with yourself, play fairly by the laws

and the public safety.”

Henry sighed, and observed that it was a difficult and painful matter to

be concerned in, disapproving as he did of the wholesale sacrifice of

human life made by the law for that species of crime, and yet being

fully aware of the guilt and folly of connivance. It was fearful to

think of the yearly amount of executions for forgery;—for a crime whose

nature was so little understood that the forgers themselves were

undoubtedly in some cases convinced that they were rendering a public

service in multiplying money, and that strong sympathy for such

offenders was excited in the majority of those who witnessed their

punishment.

“I know no place more likely than Haleham to share such a delusion,”

observed Mr. Berkeley. “Every person in it has been talking for these

three years of the want of more money; so that it would not be very

surprising if somebody should at last have made bold to manufacture a

little.”

“It will be more surprising, some people say,” observed Horace, “if such

a manufacture does not go on at an increasing rate, as long as 1_l._

notes are permitted to circulate. I do not know how it is with you in

the country, but in London we are now accustomed to hear half the evils

of our present commercial state ascribed to the circulation of small

notes. If a country bank fails, it is owing to the facility with which

issues are made through the channel of a small-note currency. If a case

of forgery is mentioned, it would not have taken place if there had been

no small notes. Some even go so far as to regard the late fall of prices

as an unmixed good, and to anticipate a further fall as one of the

benefits to result from the prohibition of small notes.”

“How do they account for the failure of country banks previous to 1792,

when there were no notes under 5_l._?” asked Mr. Berkeley. “And why

should not the forgery of 1_l._ notes be made so difficult as to be no

longer worth while? And how is it that your wise speculators do not see

the difference between the cheapness which arises from plenty, and that

which is caused by a scarcity of the circulating medium? I thought the

days were past when any one supposed this kind of cheapness to be a good

thing.”

“It seems a pity,” observed Mr. Craig, “to deprive the people of so

convenient a kind of currency, if its dangers can be avoided without its

abolition. The tremendous increase of forgery is a terrible evil, to be

sure; but it is inconceivable that, while the art of engraving is

improving every day, a better form might not easily be invented. The

very largest of the country banks have suffered little by the forgery of

their small notes, because more pains are taken with the engraving; and

as it is more hazardous to imitate those of the Bank of England, it

seems pretty clear that the practice would cease if the difficulty were

brought into a better proportion with the temptation. Will this be done,

Horace? or will the small notes be abolished?”

“I rather think they will soon be abolished; and I am very sure that

such a measure will not give the expected stability to our country

currency, without further precautions. As my father says, there were no

notes under 5_l._ in 1792, and yet full one-third of the country banks

then in existence failed. Country bankers should be compelled to give

security for their issues. There is no other way of keeping the

provincial currency in a healthy condition.”

“And then,” observed Mr. Craig, “it would be as easy to give security

for 1_l._ as for 5_l._ notes: and I own I dread the inconvenience to the

working classes of withdrawing this part of the currency, let cash

payments be resumed as quietly and easily as they may. I suppose there

is now no doubt of this resumption.”

“It will certainly take place within the year, notwithstanding abundance

of prophecies that it will not, and wishes that it may not. I am not

among the evil-boders, though I see what scope for complaint the measure

will afford to those who are determined to complain. I see that it will

add in some degree to the burdens of the labouring classes, and that,

for years to come, it will be cried out upon as having increased the

amount of taxation, discouraged productive industry, and thus materially

injured our public interests: but as these evils are already existing

from other causes, and can be only slightly increased by the return to

cash payments, I think this the most favourable opportunity for getting

back to a convertible currency. If prices were now high, and must be

immediately lowered by this measure; if a superabundant currency must be

instantly checked; if paper at a depreciation of thirty per cent. were

to be suddenly brought to a par with gold, I should lift up my voice as

loud as any one against a return to cash payments as the most unjust and

the most disastrous measure that was ever meditated; but we all know——”

“We all know,” interrupted Mr. Berkeley “that prices have long fallen,

that the currency is already contracted, and that paper is only three

per cent. cheaper than gold, and that these things would have happened

if there had been no more talk of cash payments. No wonder corn is

cheaper, when we get so much more from abroad since the war ended, and

Ireland also has improved in productiveness. No wonder wool is cheaper,

when Germany and New Holland have sent us so much more, and of so much

better quality than formerly. No wonder our colonial products are

cheaper under the change of system by which we are more abundantly

supplied. Those who hold themselves in readiness to ascribe the fall of

prices to a deficiency in the supply of bullion, and to argue thence

against a return to a convertible currency at this time, should look

about them and see how great a fall will exist at all events, and how

much it will hereafter be fair to attribute to the new Bill.”

Horace observed on the difficulty of satisfying a public which had

suffered by alterations in the currency. Many of those who were now

protesting against the resumption of cash payments were the very same

who were clamouring to have the one-pound notes withdrawn, in order to

make our provincial circulation more safe, and forgery less common.

These were opposed by some who thought the establishment of branch banks

would answer the first purpose, and by others who believed that

competition would drive out forgery. Never were so many plans afloat for

the rectification of the whole business of the currency; and each plan

was thought to involve a remedy for all the evils which had taken place

under former systems. The first thing necessary seemed to Horace to be

the putting an end to an irresponsible system; the next, the taking care

that this action on the currency should be the final one. It might

afterwards be ascertained whether the Bank of England should retain any

or all of its exclusive privileges, or whether the business of issuing

notes should be left free and open to competition, under the natural

checks of public and private interest, or any further responsibility to

which, by general agreement, the issues should be subjected. It might be

left to a period nearer the expiration of the Bank Charter to canvass

the advantages of the Scotch banking system as applied to England, and

whether the issues should be made from a great national bank, or from

many joint-stock banks, or by a chartered company. There were still

nearly fifteen years in which to consider these questions; and during

which, further fluctuations might possibly arise to indicate new truths

on this most important subject. The great present object was to get into

a condition for making progress towards a perfect monetary system; and

the first great step was, as he believed, to bring the Bank of England

into a state of responsibility once more.

“I wish,” observed Mrs. Berkeley, “that it was made a part of the

responsibility of the Bank of England, that it should not tempt the

people to forgery. To be sure, its privileges themselves constitute the

greater part of the temptation, as there must always be the strongest

inducement to forge notes which have the widest circulation; but I do

wish that to these privileges was appended a condition that its notes

should be more difficult of imitation.”

Horace thought that such precautions were better left to the interest of

the parties concerned. The degrees of complication which should be put

into the engravings of notes were not subjects for legislation.

“But it is so painful,” observed Mrs. Berkeley, “not only to be afraid

of the money that passes through one’s hands, but to be made suspicious

of one’s neighbours, or to be confounded with the dwellers in a

suspicious neighbourhood. I do not in the least believe that anybody

whom we know in Haleham has been intentionally implicated with forgers;

but it is very painful to have such an idea put into one’s mind.”

“Are you aware,” asked Horace of Mr. Craig, “whether any strangers have

come to live in Haleham, of late, either openly or covertly?”

Mr. Craig had heard of none. The letter he had received had charged the

regular shopkeepers with having held bad notes, and he had a great mind

to go to such as had been mentioned to him, and ask where they got such

notes.

“Aye, do, without loss of time,” said Mr. Berkeley, “and I will go with

you. Trust me for sharpening their memories, if they happen to be at a

loss. I have a sad memory myself, as my wife will tell you; but I have a

method of making the most of other people’s.”

Mr. Craig at first felt that he would rather have been without his

bustling companion; but it was presently proved that Mr. Berkeley was

peculiarly apt at the business of collecting evidence. He was so ready

with suggestions, saw so far by means of slight indications, and adapted

himself so well to the peculiar humours of the persons he talked with,

that he enabled them to remember and comprehend twice as much as they

would have done without his help. The linen-draper, who had not till now

been aware that he had had a bad note in his hands, was so stupified at

learning that one had been traced back to him, that he could not for

some time remember from whom he had taken notes within a month, though

notes were seldom seen now on his counter. It was Mr. Berkeley who, by

happy conjectures, and by frequent returns to one or two fixed points of

proof, led him to remember under what circumstances he gave change, in

return for what purchase he gave it, when he gave it, and, finally, to

whom he gave it. The shoemaker looked back to his books, and by the

assistance of Mr. Berkeley’s suggestions about dates, brought home the

fact to the same person of having paid him in a forged note. The butcher

was too confused in the head to be sure of anything; but his stirring,

clever wife of her own accord mentioned the same person as having taken

change from him that very day.

“There is one other testimony,” observed Mr. Craig, “which would end all

doubt as to whence the bad notes have come. If Mr. Pye knows that Mrs.

Parndon has been paying such away we need inquire no further.”

“Will he own it, if he does know it?”

“Certainly. He is both too simple and too upright to conceal what it is

important should be known, though no man is more discreet in a matter of

confidence.”

“Of which kind you do not consider these transactions to be?”

“I assuredly conceive Mrs. Parndon to be as much of a dupe as her

shoemaker and butcher. You cannot suppose her guilty of fraud?”

“Nay; I do not know. If she hoarded gold, as I have reason to believe

she did, she might——”

“Impossible, my dear Sir. Mrs. Parndon is a selfish and thrifty, but not

a fraudulent, person; to say nothing of her having far too little

courage to involve herself with sharpers. Shall we hear what Mr. Pye has

to say?”

Mr. Pye leaned across his desk, with his hand behind his ear (for he had

got thus far in acknowledging his deafness), to listen to the inquiry

whether there was much bad money afloat at this time. He had been told

that a good deal had been passed in Haleham, though none had come in his

way but one note, which had been changed, long ago, by the person who

innocently tendered it. He had not the least objection to tell who this

person was? O no, not the least, since that note was not one of the

present batch of bad ones, and in fact came from London. It was brought

down by Mrs. Edgar Morrison; and he wished it was as easy to account for

the appearance of the rest.

When Enoch saw the gentlemen look at one another, and heard from them

that all the bad money was in course of being traced back to Mrs.

Parndon, he stood aghast. He was not so blind as not to see that the

probabilities of the case involved either Philip or Edgar, or both; and

was chiefly anxious that the women of the family should be exempt from

all suspicion of connivance. To his great discomfiture, he was requested

by Mr. Craig to undertake the task of ascertaining from Mrs. Parndon

from whence she drew her supplies of money, and whether she had any of

the same batch remaining. He would not consent to hold a conversation of

this nature without a witness, and wished that Mr. Craig alone should

attend him, as the very sight of so unusual a visitor as Mr. Berkeley

might impede the disclosure which he now saw to be necessary to the

vindication of his old friend’s character for honesty. Mr. Berkeley

therefore gave up with some unwillingness his intended visit to the

widow, and staid behind to write to London a report of proceedings thus

far, and to collect whatever additional evidence the town would afford.

“Well, gentlemen,” exclaimed Mrs. Parndon, as she rose up from weeding

her flower-bed at the approach of her visitors, “I am always so glad

when I see you two together. To see one’s oldest friend and the

clergyman keeping company tells well for both; which I am sure Mr. Craig

will excuse my saying, since there is such a difference of years between

himself and Mr. Pye. But you will walk in and rest yourselves. O yes, I

must not be denied. I saw each of you in the street yesterday, and

thought you were coming; and, as I was disappointed of your coming near

me then, I cannot let you go now without a word.”

She did not perceive that they had no thought of departing without a

word; and she continued to multiply her inducements to come in as her

friends looked more and more grave in contrast with her cheerfulness.

She had no new designs of Hester’s to show; for poor Hester had not been

very strong of late, and had found drawing make her head ache; but there

was a message for Mr. Pye in her last letter, and some inquiries about

Miss Melea, which Mr. Craig might like to hear. They would think that

she never had anything to offer to her visitors but her daughter’s

letters, but they knew a mother’s heart, and——”

“But do you never hear from your sons?” asked Mr. Craig. “Does your

daughter write her husband’s and brother’s news as well as her own?”

“They write, I dare say,” said Mr. Pye, “when times of business come

round. On quarter-days, or once in the half-year, perhaps, when

remittances have to be sent, Hester gives up the pen to one or other of

your sons.”

“Not exactly so,” replied the widow; “for they have nothing to do with

the sending of my pension. That comes from quite another quarter; but on

birth-days and Christmas-days——Bless me, Mr. Pye, what can I have said

that delights you so? You look as if you were going to dance for joy.”

“So neither Edgar nor Philip sends you money! You have taken a load off

my mind, I can tell you. But I was not going to deceive you, I assure

you; I was going to tell you what we came for, as soon as I could get

courage. But it is all right if you get your remittances from quite

another quarter, as you say. Now you have only to tell us what that

quarter is, and you are quite safe; for nobody suspected you. Of course,

nobody could suspect you.”

Mrs. Parndon looked from one face to the other, as she sat opposite to

them, unable to make out anything from this explanation of Enoch’s

rapture. Mr. Craig said, cheerfully,

“So far from wishing to do you any hurt, we come to put you on your

guard, and help you to justify yourself in a matter in which you have

evidently been imposed upon.”

And he proceeded to inform her of several bad notes having been traced

back to her, expressing his conviction that nothing more would be

necessary to clear herself than to give the date of the arrival of her

quarter’s money. It was hoped too that she had some left, in order that

the remaining notes might be compared with those already issued.

The widow said there must be some great mistake somewhere. Her quarter’s

money never came in bank-notes; and all that she had lately used came

from the hands of her daughter; so that those who suspected anything

wrong were completely out in their reckoning. If the notes were bad,

they came, like other bad things, from London; and she supposed no one

would take the trouble of tracing them there.

Mr. Craig said he believed it would be necessary for Mrs. Morrison to

say where she got them.

“I can tell you that,” replied the widow. “She got them from one who

takes more bank-notes in a month than I spend in a year. She got them

from her brother Philip, I know, on account of a little business she did

for me with him. But I shall be very sorry if Philip has to bear the

loss, just when his business is falling off, as he says. It would be a

great loss, and I should be sorry it should fall upon him now.”

“He must do as you do,—recollect and tell where he got the notes,”

observed Mr. Craig. “Your wisest way will be to show us any that you may

have left of the same parcel, and to make a list of their numbers, and

of the numbers of those you have parted with. By the help of this list,

Philip will be able to trace the whole, I dare say.”

Mrs. Parndon was terrified at the idea of being cheated of any of her

hoard. She brought out her pocket-book in a great hurry, and produced

the remaining notes. There was a ten, good; a five, also good; eleven

ones, of which two were good, and all the rest counterfeit. Even she

herself now began to see the improbability that Philip had taken so much

bad money from chance customers. She turned very pale, and sat down

without saying a word.

Enoch buried his face in his hands, and Mr. Craig walked about the room

considering what should be done next. At length Mr. Pye gave vent to

some of his feelings. He drew near his old friend, and in an agitated

whisper declared that Philip must have been taken in by some villain.

“That is very likely,” observed his mother. “He never could learn to

tell a wise man from a foolish one, or an honest man from a knave. He

was always stupid, and unlike the rest of his family; and, now, we shall

all have to pay for his dulness.”

Mr. Craig now stopped his walk between the door and the window to

observe that it was not yet proved that the notes came from Philip.

“No doubt of that,” said the widow; “no doubt of that; and I brought

this mischief upon him. Not that I knew anything about bad notes. God

forbid! That Philip knows best about, and must take upon himself. But if

I had but done as I should have done,—if I had but sold my guineas when

they were at the highest! I have blamed myself many a time since, for

putting that off till I got very little more than they were worth when I

laid them by; but I little thought how much harm would come of the

delay. O dear! O dear! to think that it is through his own mother that

he has got into trouble; and that it might all have been prevented, if I

had made a better bargain, and an earlier one! O dear! O dear!”

Enoch besought her not to reproach herself so bitterly. He could not

bear to hear it. She that had been the best of mothers——Indeed he could

not bear it. How could she foresee what gold would be worth? and if

Philip had got into the hands of sharpers, he would have sent out bad

notes through other channels, if his mother had had no remittances to

receive. Indeed, indeed, she must not blame herself.

Mr. Craig, who could neither approve of the mixed remorse of one of his

companions, nor enter into the flattering sympathies of the other, once

more interposed his doubts whether Philip had ever touched the notes on

the table; and suggested that as it was certain that the officers of the

law were on the track of the forgers, and communications by post would

be more tardy than the occasion required, the widow should go up to her

children, to be a comfort to them in case of impending misfortune, and a

witness of the transaction, as far as she was implicated in it. He was

sure that thus only could she obtain any peace of mind while the affair

was being investigated. He supposed she would go without delay.

“I go! Bless you, Sir, what could I do? I should be nothing but a

trouble to them and everybody. I never had anything to do with such a

matter in my life; and to have Philip repenting, and Hester crying, and

Edgar looking so angry at me for bringing him into trouble. Bless you,

Sir, I am not fit for all this. I am only just fit to sit quiet at home,

and think as little as I can of the troubles that are stirring abroad.”

“What is Mrs. Morrison fit for, then? There she is, in the very midst of

all these troubles, and is she to look in vain for a mother’s support

and sympathy?”

“Why, to be sure, poor Hester has been sadly delicate of late, they tell

me; and it seems as if she ought to have some one with her. But it

cannot be me, because I am sure I could do her no good. I shall write,

of course, very often; but still it seems as if she should have somebody

with her.”

And this was repeated in a louder voice to Mr. Pye, who took the

intended hint; assuring the widow that she must not for a moment think

of going, and then offering to undertake the journey himself. He

explained,—

“You know I am but a poor sort of person to send. The people in London

are too much for me now.”

O, dear! how could Mr. Pye be so much too modest!

“Besides that I am growing old and fond of quiet,” said he, “there is

another difficulty that spoils me for a man of business. I find I do not

hear quite so well as I did, and this makes me afraid that I am

blundering about my business; and that very being afraid makes my ears

ring worse than ever; so that I look like an old fool, I know, instead

of being fit to be a help to anybody.”

This was the first time Enoch had been known to say a word about his

deafness. He was now a little confounded at nobody assuring him that it

was too trifling to signify. Instead of making a pretty speech like

this, Mr. Craig came and sat down to say that he believed Enoch might be

of essential service to the family of his old friend, if he would go

prepared to do business in the best manner in his power. If he could not

hear without a trumpet, why not use one rather than make blunders, and

fancy that he was looking like an old fool?

Mrs. Parndon interposed to protest against such an idea as anybody

taking Mr. Pye for an old fool.

“I agree with you,” said Mr. Craig, “that it is impossible such a notion

should enter any one’s mind, if Mr. Pye does himself justice. His

trumpet would be a perfect security.”

Enoch, much hurt, muttered something about not being bad enough for that

yet. He would go, however, and do his best to comfort Hester, to examine

into the facts, and to estimate the evidence; and would write to Mrs.

Parndon every day during his stay. As she began to melt at this proof of

friendship, and to allude to the pains of separation, Mr. Craig thought

it was time to leave the old folks to their unrestrained lamentations,

and hastened to consult the Berkeleys on the steps which Enoch should be

advised to take, on his arrival in London.

“Well, Mr. Pye, so you will write to me every day? Nothing else, I am

sure, would support me during your absence and in the midst of

affliction.” Thus sighed Mrs. Parndon.

Enoch was much gratified, but ventured to speak of the higher supports

of which he hoped she was not destitute now, any more than on former

occasions of sorrow.

Mrs. Parndon hoped not; but she felt now as if she had never known

sorrow before. She had never before felt quite desolate; but her

daughter, being married away from her, was little better than no

daughter at all; and now, if her only son should be disgraced and lost,

what would become of her, declining in the vale of years, and weary

enough of loneliness without such cares as would henceforth embitter her

solitude? These considerations were set forth so variously and so

movingly, that the timid Enoch was impelled to do what seemed to him

afterwards a very rash thing, though the widow was always ready to

assure him that no act could be called rash which had been meditated (as

she was sure this had been) for many years. He actually proposed to

relieve her of her loneliness and half her cares, and after his long

bachelor life, to venture upon a new state for her sake. He had always

desired, he protested, to keep himself loose from earthly ties, the more

as he felt himself growing older; though it had cost him a frequent

struggle when he had felt himself sensibly affected by Mrs. Parndon’s

kindness; but now it seemed as if heaven had appointed him a further

work before he was called away; and he trusted that, in consideration of

this, he should be forgiven for resigning himself into a new bondage to

the things of this world. Mrs. Parndon enlarged greatly on the advantage

of this affair being settled at the present time, as all talk about any

impropriety in their corresponding would be obviated by the relation in

which they now stood to each other.

At such a crisis as this, Enoch could not, for shame, be touchy or

obstinate, even about using a trumpet. He was prevailed on,—not to go

and buy one; this was more than was expected or asked,—but to let Mrs.

Parndon bring him an assortment into his little back parlour, where he

might choose one just to have in his pocket ready for use, if he should

meet with any little difficulties on the road, or among the busy,

inconsiderate people in London.

With what a swimming head and full heart did Enoch take his way home, to

pack up his shirts, and appoint some able substitute to act in his shop,

under Mrs. Parndon’s eye, in his absence! What a mixture of ideas

crowded in upon her, when she had watched him from the door, and

returned for a few moments to ruminate in her arm-chair! Her object

gained!—the object of so many years, and through the occasion of what

she ought to be feeling as a great misfortune. She tried hard to feel it

so, and to be melancholy accordingly; but the old proverb about the ill

wind would come into her head every moment; and in turns with it

occurred an idea of which she really was half-ashamed—that as Parndon

and Pye both began with a P, she should not have to alter the marks of

her clothes when she married. It was one of the suitabilities which had

frequently struck her while meditating the match; and it was too

congenial with her sense of aptness not to give her pleasure, even in

the first hour of her new prospects.

CHAPTER VII.

THE WIFE’S RECOMPENSE.

The event which Hester had long contemplated by day, and anticipated in

dreams by night, was now impending. Justice had been more speedy in its

motions than Mr. Pye; and when he arrived at Hester’s abode he found all

in confusion. Edgar was lodged in Newgate; Philip had been taken into

custody, but released, on its being clearly proved that he had not

touched,—that he could not have seen,—Hester’s letter to her mother,

after she had enclosed in it the good money he had brought in exchange

for the guineas. Edgar had intercepted it, and helped himself with a

part of the contents, substituting notes, which he thought would do well

enough for the Haleham people. Cavendish had been long under suspicion;

and the whole gang had been marked out for observation for several

weeks, before a great accession of evidence brought on the catastrophe,

which every reasonable person concerned must have known to be

inevitable. Those who were at work in Edgar’s upper rooms were not aware

how long they had been watched; how they were followed in the dark

hours, when they let themselves in by private keys; how they were looked

down upon through the skylight; and how, shut in as they were by oaken

doors and a multitude of bolts, stray words of fatal import reached the

ears of justice, and the jokes with which they beguiled their criminal

labours were recorded against them. The skylight was as well guarded

against the possibility of entrance as they had supposed; but it was

found practicable to get so near it as to observe what was going on

beneath it: and there were more persons than one who could swear as to

which was the flannel jacket that Edgar wore; by what means he cleared

his hands of the printing-ink he used; and what part of the delicate

process was confided exclusively to him, on account of his peculiar

skill. Hester’s occupation was also well understood; but she was

regarded as being under her husband’s control, and neglected by the law

as an irresponsible person.

She was sitting, forlorn and alone, in her usual place, when her old

friend came to seek her. In this house, where every thing had of late

worn an air of closeness and mystery, all was now open to the day.

Philip had never been visited by the idea of giving his sister more of

his society than usual; he was at work in his shop, as on any other day

of the year. The little footboy was the only person to hear and answer,

if his mistress should call. The doors were either ajar or stood

wide,—the locks and bolts having been forced in the process of storming

the house, and nobody thinking of having them mended. Plaster from the

walls strewed the passage; some rails of the staircase were broken; the

marks of dirty feet were on all the floors. When Enoch went straight up

to the top of the house, expecting to find Hester in the farthest corner

of her abode, he was struck to the heart with a feeling very like guilt

on seeing around him the wrecks of the unlawful apparatus. Broken jars

of ink were on the floor, on which lay also the shivered glass of the

skylight, and the crow-bar with which the door had been forced. A

copper-plate remained on the grate over the extinguished coke fire in

the furnace. The cupboards had been rifled; and the poker was still

stuck in a hole in the wall above the fire-place, through which some

fragments of notes had been saved from the burning, after the forgers

had believed that they had destroyed in the flames every vestige of the

article they were engaged in manufacturing. Enoch gathered himself up as

he stood in the middle of this dreary place, afraid of pollution by even

the skirts of his coat touching anything that had been handled by the

gang. He almost forgot the forlorn one he came to seek in horror at the

iniquities of her husband and his associates. At length he recollected

that the last place where she would probably be found was in a scene

like this, and he descended to the rooms on the first story, though with

little expectation of finding anybody there, as the floors were

uncarpeted, and the rooms thrown open, as if uninhabited. There,

however, retired within a small dressing-room, the only furnished part

of that story, he found his young friend sitting, surrounded by the

apparatus of employment. She had pen and paper beside her: her work was

on her knee; a pencil in her hand; an open book within reach. A slight

glance would have given the idea of her being fully occupied; but a

closer observation discovered to Mr. Pye that she was incapable of

employment. Never had he felt compassion so painful as when he perceived

the tremulousness of her whole frame, and met her swollen eyes, and

gazed upon a face which appeared as if it had been steeped in tears for

many days. She looked at him in mute agony, her voice being stifled in

sobs.

“My poor, unhappy young friend!” cried Enoch, involuntarily adopting the

action with which he used to soothe Hester’s distresses in her

childhood, and pressing her head against his bosom. “My poor child! how

we have all been mistaken about you, if this terrible news is true!”

“Oh! it is all true,” she replied, “and I ought to bear it better; for I

have been expecting it—oh! so very long;—ever since, ever since,—oh! Mr.

Pye, you did not know how miserable you made me that day”——

“I make you miserable, my dear! I did not know that I ever made anybody

unhappy; and I am sure I did not mean it.”

“O no, you could not help it. But do not you remember the bad note the

day I left Haleham? I have never had a moment’s peace from the hour you

put that note into my hands. Nay, do not look so concerned it was not

that one note only; I have seen far, far too many since. I think I have

seen nothing else for weeks; and they will be before my eyes, sleeping

and waking, as long as I live;—I know they will. Oh, Mr. Pye, I am so

wretched!”

Enoch could find nothing to say. Such an expression seemed to him very

irreligious; but the countenance before him testified to its being too

true. At length he hinted a hope that she found consolation in prayer.

“No,” replied Hester. “I am sure I must have been doing very wrong for a

long time past; and that spoils the only comfort I could now have. But

what could I do? I am sure I punished myself far more than I injured

other people by keeping the secret so long. Edgar was my—my husband.”

Enoch pronounced a solemn censure on the man who had led an innocent

being into guilt as well as misery.

“O do not, do not!” cried Hester. “If you had only seen his wretched

look at me when they took him away by that door, you would be more sorry

for him than for anybody. I do think that all that is past, and all that

is to come, rushed into his mind at that moment; and I am sure you need

not wish anybody a worse punishment than the recollection of any one day

or night of this dreadful year. But to think of what has to come! and I

can do nothing—not the least thing—to save him!”

“Is there no explanation that you can give of any circumstance, my dear,

that may be of use to him? Cannot you show how he was drawn in, or give

an account of his employments, in a way to soften the case?”

Hester shook her head despairingly. She presently said—

“I am sure I hope they will not ask me any questions. It would look ill

if I made no answer; and if I speak, I never can say anything but the

truth. I was always afraid from this that I should be the one to betray

Edgar at last; but, thank God! I am spared that.”

“He betrayed himself, it appears, my dear. So he is saved the misery of

revengeful thoughts in his prison, I hope. How does he support himself?”

“He is very gloomy indeed; and—but I am afraid it is very wrong to think

so much about this as I do—he does not love me again as I always thought

he would when the time should come for his being unhappy. It was what I

looked to through everything. If it had not been for hoping this, I

could not have gone on.—O, it is so very hard, after all I have done,

that he will not see me; or, if he does for a few minutes, it is almost

worse than not meeting.”

“Not see you, my dear! that is cruel. But let us hope that it is a sign

of repentance. What do you intend to do? Will you go down to Haleham

with me? or will you think it your duty to stay here till—till—your

husband may wish at last to see you?”

Hester answered, somewhat impatiently, that she did not know what to do.

What did it signify now what she did? She hoped it would please God to

decide it for her, and not let her live on long in her present

wretchedness. Not all Enoch’s compassion could induce him to let this

pass without rebuke. He schooled her very seriously, though kindly, upon

her want of resignation under her griefs; and she bore the reproof with

the docility of a child worn out by its tears, and ready to change its

mood through very weariness of that which had been indulged. She could

not yet see, however, that her next duty would lead her to Haleham, or

say that she wished her mother to come to her. She must remain where she

was, and alone, at least till the trial.

Enoch took care that she should not have more entire solitude than was

good for her. He spent many hours of each day with her, striving to

interest her in whatever might turn her thoughts from the horrors which

impended. He did win a smile from her with the news of his intended

relationship to her, and led her to inquire about Rhoda Martin, and a

few other old companions in whose happiness she had been wont to feel an

interest. He did not despair of prevailing on her in time to settle

among them. He did not venture to say anywhere but in his own mind, that

her love for such a selfish wretch as Edgar must wear out; and, with her

love, much of her grief. If she could be settled among the scenes of her

happy youth, he did not despair of seeing her cheerfulness return, and

her worn spirit resuming the healthiness of tone which had given way

under too protracted a trial. He was grieved to find that she was weak;

but surely weakness never was more excusable than in her case; and there

was hope that tender treatment might yet fortify her mind when her sore

trial should be over, and the impression of present events in some

degree worn out.

Mr. Pye’s exertions were not confined to watching and soothing Hester.

Everything that could be done towards providing for Edgar’s defence, and

preventing Philip’s character from being injured, was achieved by the

old man with a vigour and discretion which astonished all who judged of

him by first appearances,—who looked at his brown coat and close wig,

and took him for a person too much given to enlarge upon one set of

important subjects to have any talent to spare for matters of business.

In consideration of his exertions for her children, Mrs. Parndon waived

her delicate scruples about being seen to interfere in Mr. Pye’s

concerns. She repaired to his abode every morning to rehearse her future

duties; and the shop was never better conducted than while she

superintended its business from the little back parlour. If it had not

been for her own engrossing prospects, she would have severely felt the

mortification of having Hester’s marriage known to be an unhappy one. As

it was, she had some trouble in bringing her spirits down to the proper

point of depression, when it was at length ascertained that there was no

room for hope; and that she must prepare to receive her miserable

daughter, widowed in so dreadful a manner as to set all sympathy at

defiance, and make even a mother dread to offer consolations which could

appear little better than a mockery.

There was even a deeper curiosity in Haleham about the fate of Cavendish

than that of Edgar. Cavendish’s genius, however, proved equal to all

emergencies. It ever appeared to rise with the occasion. By means best

known to himself, he obtained tidings of the stirrings of justice in

time to step quietly on board an American packet, and to be out of reach

of pursuit before his accomplices and favourite pupil were stormed

amidst their fortifications. His wife had hysterics, of course, in

proportion to the occasion; and, of course, became eager in a short time

to secure for her children those advantages of education and society

which could only be found in another hemisphere. The family are now

flourishing at New York, where, by their own account, are concentered

all the talents and virtues requisite to a due appreciation of the

genius of Mr. Cavendish, the accomplishments of Mrs. Cavendish, and the

respective brilliant qualities of all the Masters and Misses Cavendish.

The name of Carter is dropped, as it had been mixed up rather

conspicuously with the awkward affair of the forgery. The Carter estate

is supposed to have vanished with it, as Mr. Cavendish’s agent has no

instructions about transmitting the proceeds.

Philip got out of the affair with as little injury as could be expected.

Before the trial, he rubbed his forehead ten times a day, as the anxious

thought recurred that his house was probably in too evil repute to be

easily let. This objection was, however, speedily got over, as it was a

convenient and well-situated abode; so that its owner is visited by only

very endurable regrets for the past. The opening of his private

shop-door sometimes reminds him how odd it is that he should expect to

hear Hester’s footstep when she is as far off as Haleham, and he has

occasionally a sigh and a mutter to spare for poor Edgar; but as he

finds himself little the worse for the jeopardy he was placed in, he

persuades himself that the less he thinks of uncomfortable things that

cannot be helped, the better. He remembers enough, however, to make him

cautious. It was exceedingly disagreeable to have to shut up shop, and

be idle and melancholy on the day of the execution; and a terrible

nuisance to have ballad-venders coming for weeks afterwards to cry

Morrison’s dying confession under the window, in hopes of being bought

off. To guard against these things happening again, he looks sharp to

detect in his lodgers any attachment to double oak-doors and grated

sky-lights.

CHAPTER VIII.

ARRANGEMENTS COMPLETED.

The first person who succeeded in obtaining access to Hester was Rhoda

Martin. The reason of this was the peculiar sympathy which arises

between companions on the apparent opposition of their fates. Rhoda had

believed Hester prosperous while she herself was suffering; and now she

was beginning to be happy just when her friend’s peace seemed to be

overthrown for ever. Rhoda was at last going to be married to her lover;

and the relief from suspense was all the more enjoyed from its having of

late appeared almost impossible but that times must grow worse with

farmer Martin and all his connexions. All the farmers,—everybody who had

more to sell than to buy,—were discontented with the times; and, above

all, complaining that a fixed character had been given to their

adversity by the operations of the Bank of England on the currency. Cash

payments had been resumed; and just after, there was an evident

relaxation of industry, an increase of difficulty in the various

processes of exchange, and a consequent depression in all branches of

manufactures and commerce. To what extent this would have happened

without the return to cash payments, no one could positively say, though

most allowed, because they could not deny, that there had been an

increasing and disastrous rise in the value of money for a long time

past, which must be referred to a former action on the currency.

There were some who, whatever they might think of the causes of the

present pressure upon large classes of society, believed themselves

bound in conscience to quit the letter in order to preserve the spirit

of their contracts, and that the proper time for doing this was at the

moment when the convertibility of the Bank of England paper was

re-established. Among these was the land-owner who had Martin for a

tenant. Generously forgetting that, in the days of a depreciated

currency, his tenants had paid him no more than the nominal value of his

rent, he now proposed to them that they should pay him one-third less

than that nominal value. This which, he called justice, his tenants were

nearly as ready as his admiring friends to call generosity; and all

agreed in blaming the system under which justice assumed the character

of generosity; or, in other words, under which injustice might take

place as a matter of course.

No one was more sensible than Rhoda of the merits of her father’s

landlord on this occasion, for to them she owed the conclusion of her

long suspense. A part of what her father would have paid as rent to a

grasping or thoughtless landlord, he could now spare to enable his

daughter to marry. A small yearly allowance was sufficient, in addition

to Chapman’s wages, to justify their coming together, hoping, as they

did, that affairs would work round to a better and more stable

condition, from people being convinced of the evils of a fluctuating

currency, and resolved to let the circulating medium adjust itself

perpetually, under such checks only as should be necessary as safeguards

against fraud and rashness. Everybody hoped that the matter was so

settled as to leave men’s minds at liberty to decide, in the course of

the next fourteen years, whether the peculiar privileges of the Bank of

England should be renewed on the expiration of its charter, or whether

any new system of issuing money should be resorted to which might

obviate any recurrence of past evils, without introducing any fresh

ones. The very badness of the state of affairs in 1819 afforded hope

that nothing worse could happen before 1833. So Chapman married, hoping

for a gradual rise of wages, in proportion to the gradual rise of prices

which his father-in-law looked to from the safe and cautious expansion

of the currency which circumstances would soon demand. They were far

from anticipating more crises like those the country had undergone. They

could not have believed, if they had been told, that in defiance of all

the teachings of experience, there would ere long be another

intoxication of the public mind from an overflow of currency, another

panic, and, as a consequence, another sudden and excessive contraction.

Still less would they have believed that the distress consequent on

these further fluctuations would be ascribed by many to the return to

cash payments in 1819.

Martin’s landlord was not the only person in the neighbourhood of

Haleham who behaved honourably about the fulfilment of a contract under

changed conditions. Mr. Berkeley’s creditors put an end to liabilities

which he had declared every day for months past to be endless. With all

his toil and all his care, the task of paying his debts seemed to become

heavier and more hopeless with every effort. Not only did he feel like

the inexperienced climber of a mountain, to whom it seems that the

ascent is lengthened in proportion as he passes over more ground. In his

case, it was as if the mountain did actually grow, while the unhappy man

who had bound himself to reach the top, could only hope that it would

stop growing before his strength was utterly spent. As welcome as it

would be to such a climber to be told that he had engaged only to attain

a certain altitude, and having reached it, need go no farther, was it to

Mr. Berkeley to be suddenly absolved from his liabilities in

consideration of his having paid in fact, though not in name, all that

he owed. The only hope that had for some time remained of his being

released with perfect satisfaction to himself and his creditors lay in

the recovery of a debt which had been owing to the family from abroad

for a series of years. While money had been only too plentiful at home,

it was not thought worth while to incur the expense of a foreign agency

to recover a debt which would be paid in a depreciated currency; but now

the case was altered: the agency would cost no more, and the recovered

money would be full one-third more valuable; and efforts were

accordingly made to obtain payment. But for the hope of this, Mr.

Berkeley’s spirits would have sunk long before. As it was, he took his

way to D—— with more and more reluctance week by week, and month by

month. He said oftener by his own fire-side that he clearly foresaw his

fate,—after a long life of honourable toil, to die in debt through the

fault of the money-system under which he had had the misfortune to live.

The best news his family looked for from him was that his affairs were

standing still. It was much more frequently the case that disappointment

came from some quarter whence money was looked for, and that part of a

debt remained which it had been hoped would have been cleared off.

A few days before Melea’s long-delayed marriage,—the day when Fanny was

expected home for a short visit, a day when expectations of various

kinds kept the family in a particularly quiet mood, Mr. Berkeley came

home to dinner from D——, looking very unlike the Mr. Berkeley of late

years. His wife was at work at the window, whence she could see some way

down the road. Henry Craig was by Melea’s side, comfortably established

for the day, as it was impossible that he could depart without having

seen Fanny. Lewis was gardening under the window, so busily that he

never once looked up till desired to meet his uncle at the gate, and

take his horse. Melea, half-rising, began her habitual involuntary

observation of his mode of approach. She did not know how to interpret

it. His hands were in his pockets, and his walk was slow, as usual; but

he looked above and around him, which was a long-forsaken habit. He came

straight in through the open doors, with his hat on, silently kissed his

wife and daughter, pressed Craig’s hand, and, sitting down by the table,

rested his head on his arms and wept passionately. The dismay of the

whole party was inexpressible. It was long before their soothings, their

respectful and tender caresses, had any other effect than to increase

his emotion; and before he could command himself to speak, they had had

time to conceive of every possible misfortune that could befall them.

Melea had passed her arm within Henry’s, as if to ask his support under

whatever might be impending, and was anxiously glancing towards her

mother’s pale and grave face, when the necessary relief came.

“Do forgive me,” exclaimed Mr. Berkeley, feebly. “I have no bad news for

you.”

“Then I am sure you have some very good,” cried Melea, sinking into a

chair.

“Thank God! I have. It is all over, my dear wife. We are free, and with

honour. I need never set foot in D—— again, unless I like. Ah! you don’t

believe me, I see: but they are the noblest fellows,—those creditors!

Well, well; never mind if I did not always say so. I say so now. They

are the noblest fellows!”

“For forgiving you the remainder of your engagements?”

“No, no. That is the best of it,—the beauty of the whole transaction.

They say,—and to be sure it is true enough,—they say that we have paid

everything, and more than paid; and that they could not in conscience

take a farthing more. And yet the law would give them a good deal

more;—more than I could ever pay.”

“So you are out of debt, my love,” observed Mrs. Berkeley: “not only

free, but having paid in full. It is not freedom given as a matter of

favour. Now we may be happy.”

“But surely,” said Melea, “we shall always regard it as an act of

favour,—of generosity. I am sure I shall always wish so to regard it.”

“Certainly, my love: so shall we all. I shall never rest till I have

told them my feelings upon it far more intelligibly than I could at the

time. It was their fault that I could not. They overcame me

completely.—But you have not heard half the story yet. They leave me my

life-insurance, which I gave over for lost long ago; and they turn over

that troublesome foreign debt to me to deal with as I think fit. When we

have recovered that——”

“Do you really expect to recover it?”

“Lord bless you! to be sure I do. No doubt in the world of that; and a

very pretty thing it will be, I can tell you. With that, and the debts

that remain to be got in nearer home, we shall be quite rich, my dear;

quite independent of our children’s help, who will want for themselves

all they can get. And then, this life-insurance! It is a pretty thing to

have to leave to them. What a capital piece of news to tell Fanny when

she sets her foot on the threshold to-night,—that she is not to leave

home any more! I thought of it all the way home.”

“My dear father!”

“My dear girl, what can be more rational? You don’t think I shall let

her——You forget that I shall want her at home more than ever now. I

shall have nothing to do henceforward, but what you put into my head. No

more rides to D——, thank God!”

“No,” said Melea, smiling; “we shall see you turn into the quiet old

gentleman, I suppose; basking in the garden, or dozing in the chimney

corner? Father, do you really suppose you will subside into this kind of

life?”

“Why, I cannot tell till I try. To be sure, there is a good deal to be

done first. The whole management of the jail yonder wants setting to

rights, from the lowest department to the highest. Then, the funds of

the Blind Charity——”

“But you are never to set foot in D—— again, you know.”

“Aye, aye. That is on the side where the bank stands. Enter it by the

other end, and it is not like the same place, you know. Surely, child,

you cannot expect me to sit at home all day, catching flies to keep

myself awake?”

Melea disclaimed any such wish or expectation.

“Poor Lewis must be taken better care of now,” continued Mr. Berkeley.

“We must look about us to see how he is to be settled in life. What

shall we do with you, Lewis? Choose anything but to be in a bank, my

boy. Choose anything else, and we will see what we can do for you.”

“You need not choose at this very moment,” said Melea, laughing,

observing that Lewis looked from his uncle to his aunt, and then to Mr.

Craig. “My father will give you a little time to think about it, I dare

say.”

“Why, one must; but it is rather a pity,” said Mr. Berkeley,

half-laughing. “This is one of the days,—with me at least,—when one sees

everything so easily and clearly, that it seems a pity not to get

everything settled.”

Mr. Craig mentioned as a matter of regret that it was past twelve

o’clock,—too late to have Melea married on this bright day. Mr. Berkeley

joined in the laugh at his predilection for despatch.

It proved, however, that there was less need of haste in laying hold of

a bright season than formerly. The brightness did not pass away from Mr.

Berkeley’s mind with the few hours which he had assigned as its

duration. The next day and the next, and even Melea’s wedding-day,

brought no clouds over the future, as it lay before his gaze. He could

even see now that the same changes which had injured his fortunes had

not been without advantage to some of his family. Horace had saved more

from his salary every year. Mr. Craig found his curacy an advantageous

one in comparison with what it had formerly been, though there was no

alteration in the terms on which he held it; and his school was made to

answer very well, though its terms were nominally lowered to meet the

exigencies of the time. Fanny and Melea had been able to contribute from

their stipends more than they had anticipated to the comfort of their

parents, besides having a little fund at their disposal when they took

their places, the one at her father’s fireside, and the other at the

head of her husband’s establishment. Some years before, the stipends of

all would have barely sufficed for their own immediate wants. If their

father suffered extensive injuries under the system which all saw was

wrong, it was certain that his children derived some, though not a

counterbalancing, advantage from it.

Other very bright lights spread themselves over Mr. Berkeley’s future as

often as he thought of the restoration of his daughters to his

neighbourhood. All his convictions of the pitiableness of such a

marriage as Melea’s melted away in the sunshine of her countenance; and

when he looked forward to the perpetual morning and evening greetings of

his elder daughter, he declared that he expected to be perfectly happy

till his dying day;—perfectly happy in a state far inferior to that

which he had quitted for something better;—perfectly happy without the

mansion, the rosary, the library, which he had found insufficient in

addition to all that he now possessed. His family knew him too well to

hope that he would ever be perfectly happy; but they perceived that

there was hope of a nearer approximation to such a state than before his

adversity; and this was enough for their happiness.

Mr. Pye and Mrs. Parndon had fixed the same day for their wedding that

was to unite Mr. Craig and Melea. While the Berkeley family were amusing

themselves with this coincidence, however, the fact got abroad, as such

things do; and the consequence was that Enoch came in an agony of

humility to beg pardon, and change the day. His only idea had been to

defer it for a week or so, till Mr. Craig should have returned from his

wedding excursion; but Mrs. Parndon proved, as usual, the cleverest

planner of the two. She observed on the decorum of the older couple

being married first, and on the advantage of deviating only one day from

the proposed time, instead of a whole week. They were therefore married

the day before the young people, and Mrs. Pye’s seed-cake and

currant-wine were pronounced upon before Mrs. Craig’s doors were thrown

open to the friends who came to wish her the happiness she deserved.

There were smiles in abundance in both cases;—of wonder at the

resolution with which Mr. Pye handled his trumpet, and of amusement at

the pretty and proper bashfulness of his bride:—smiles also of true

sympathy and joy in the happiness of the young pair, who by having been,

as far as they could, the benefactors of all, had come to be regarded as

in some sort the property of all. Even Hester felt as if they belonged

to her, and must have her best wishes. Even she could smile when she

offered those wishes; and the first long conversation she held was with

Fanny on the past trials of these lovers, and on their future prospects.

During this her temporary cheerfulness,—which afforded promise of a more

permanent state of it,—them was not a grave face in any house in

Halehare where the Craigs and the Berkeleys were known. It was a

considerable time before Mr. Berkeley found the want of something to do.

Congratulation was now a welcome novelty, the zest of which he owed to

his past troubles; and every one who observed his quick step in the

streets of Haleham, and his indefatigable vigour in acknowledging the

attentions of its inhabitants, perceived how he enjoyed this novelty. He

liked to be told that he had taken a new lease of life on the marriage

of his daughter; and, except that of his many schemes none were of great

magnitude, it might have appeared that he took the assurance for fact.

His family were, however, fully aware that his plans were all such as

might be easily resigned, though they gave an aspect of youthful

activity to his advancing age.

------------------------------------

SUMMARY

_Of Principles illustrated in this and the preceding Volume._

In proportion as the processes of exchange become extensive and

complicated, all practicable economy of time, trouble and expense, in

the use of a circulating medium, becomes desirable.

Such economy is accomplished by making acknowledgments of debt circulate

in the place of the actual payment: that is, substituting credit, as

represented by bank-paper, for gold money.

The adoption of paper money saves time by making the largest sums as

easily payable as the smallest.

It saves trouble by being more easily transferable than metal money.

It saves expense by its production being less costly than that of metal

money, and by its setting free a quantity of gold to be used in other

articles of production.

A further advantage of paper money is, that its destruction causes no

diminution of real wealth, like the destruction of gold and silver coin;

the one being only a representative of value,—the other also a

commodity.

The remaining requisites of a medium of exchange, viz.—that it should be

what all sellers are willing to receive, and little liable to

fluctuations of value,—are not inherent in paper as they are in metallic

money.

But they may be obtained by rendering paper money convertible into

metallic money, by limiting in other ways the quantity issued, and by

guarding against forgery.

Great evils, in the midst of many advantages, have arisen out of the use

of paper money, from the neglect of measures of security, or from the

adoption of such as have proved false. Issues of inconvertible paper

money have been allowed to a large extent, unguarded by any restriction

as to the quantity issued.

As the issuing of paper money is a profitable business, the issue

naturally became excessive when the check of convertibility was removed,

while banking credit was not backed by sufficient security.

The immediate consequences of a superabundance of money, are a rise of

prices, an alteration in the conditions of contracts, and a consequent

injury to commercial credit.

Its ulterior consequences are, a still stronger shock to commercial

credit, the extensive ruin of individuals, and an excessive contraction

of the currency, yet more injurious than its excessive expansion.

These evils arise from buyers and sellers bearing an unequal relation to

the quantity of money in the market.

If all sold as much as they bought, and no more, and if the prices of

all commodities rose and fell in exact proportion, all exchangers would

be affected alike by the increase or diminution of the supply of money.

But this is an impossible case; and therefore any action on the currency

involves injury to some, while it affords advantage to others.

A sudden or excessive contraction of the currency produces some effects

exactly the reverse of the effects of a sudden or excessive expansion.

It lowers prices, and vitiates contracts, to the loss of the opposite

contracting party.

But the infliction of reverse evils does not compensate for the former

infliction. A second action on the currency, though unavoidably

following the first, is not a reparation, but a new misfortune.

Because, the parties who are now enriched are seldom the same that were

impoverished by a former change; and _vice versâ_: while all suffer from

the injury to commercial credit which follows upon every arbitrary

change.

All the evils which have arisen from acting arbitrarily upon the

currency, prove that no such arbitrary action can repair past injuries,

while it must inevitably produce further mischief.

They do not prove that liability to fluctuation is an inherent quality

of paper money, and that a metallic currency is therefore the best

circulating medium.

They do prove that commercial prosperity depends on the natural laws of

demand and supply being allowed to work freely in relation to the

circulating medium.

The means of securing their full operation remain to be decided upon and

tried.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Note

Words hyphenated on line or page breaks have the hyphen removed if the

preponderance of other occurrences are unhyphenated. Hyphens occurring

midline are retained regardless of other unhyphenated occurences.

(house-keeper/housekeeper, fire-side/fireside, re-appeared/reappeared,

foot-boy/footboy heart-sick/heartsick, out-door/outdoor). On many

occasions, a word spans a line break, but the hyphen itself has gone

missing. These words are joined without further notice here.

49.32 There are several lines missing from the bottom of p. 49, and have

been provided from an earlier (1834) edition.

...whether I hit my [mark or not.”

“Try this arrow first, for the feathers’ sake. You can but fire at

last.”]

Other errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected,

and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the

original. Given the independent pagination of the original, these are

divided by volume.

The Charming Sea.

1.3 [‘/“]These, then, are Replaced.

2.1 the officer[ ./, ]and the peasants Replaced.

15.29 of the Ba[r/ï]kal when its storms Replaced.

20.32 not going to take a wife[.]” Inserted.

33.13 lean upon in difficult places.[”] Added.

33.19 then you and Clar[-/a] Replaced.

37.1 is conscious of no[ ]thing Removed.

48.12 replied Taddeus[.] Added.

51.1 And such an eye, too![”] Added.

52.11 This is your reasoning, is it not?[’/”] Replaced.

69.28 a society as ours.[’/”] Replaced.

72.16 find my body in those waters.[”] Added.

73.30 but neither was he rich[.] Added.

78.34 hole in the corner.[’/”] Replaced.

82.15 will come back to him.[’/”] Replaced.

88.34 on terms so ruinous to them[.] Added.

94.32 their huts were empty[.] Added.

125.25 his own clothes into her charge[.] Added.

130.32 as far as they knew[,] Added.

Berkeley the Banker — Part I.

11.33 was a privileged [visiter] _sic_

18.30 I hope,[”] Added.

18.32 “O yes yes[,] Added.

20.6 he saw the [l]atter becoming Restored.

23.26 and guard against fire.[’/”] Replaced.

29.12 just within the door.[’/”] Replaced.

31.32 and living was cheaper.[’/”] Replaced.

36.18 and graciously accepted[.] Added.

43.19 ecsta[c/s]y of friendship Replaced.

60.30 passionate ones, you know.[’/”] Replaced.

61.34 inquired Melea[.] Added.

68.18 the stage-coach from London[.] Added.

71.11 as much as he pleased[.] Added.

81.14 is made are not essential.[’/”] Replaced.

88.18 [‘/“]The Cavendishes are not Replaced.

98.13 when he saw Melea[ /’]s eyes Inserted.

99.20 while the other [visiters] _sic_

106.10 since she married[.] Added.

123.34 as possible about either[.]—These Restored.

125.26 People[ /’]s minds are in a state Restored.

134.29 now le[t] us look Restored.

135.16 of two days and a half[.] Added.

135.22 [“]Why, who could have done that?[”] Added.

136.10 in paying small demands.[”] Removed.

142.1 he wen[t] over to Haleham Restored.

145.4 new and more re[s]ponsible kind Inserted.

149.18 “Come in with me,[’/”] Replaced.

150.17 ought to do next,[’/”] said Fanny. Replaced.

162.18 to each other[.”] Added.

162.20 have had some idea of it,[’/”] Replaced.

169.32 in other respects——[”] Added.

Berkeley the Banker — Part II.

16.19 Mrs. Edgar Morrison.[”] Added.

40.7 their frugal and[ and] laborious creditors Removed.

47.2 to what was passing[.] Added.

51.32 looked over her stock at home[.] Restored.

52.34 good note from a bad one[.] Restored.

54.14 The sooner the better.[’/”] Replaced.

61.2 I have kept you waiting already.[”] Added.

61.17 begged [t/s]he would stay Replaced.

69.17 and [s]ay “To be sure.” Restored.

69.25 for a minute or two[.] Added.

69.30 I really want something[.] Added.

73.25 exclaimed Hester, reproachfully[.] Added.

77.34 all very well[,] Added.

92.25 All I want is to be alone.[’/”] Replaced.

94.3 was to be _her_ [visiter] _sic_

94.11 he had not told her till now——[”] Removed.

105.23 channel of a small-not[e] currency. Restored.

105.24 i[t] would not have taken Restored.

116.34 without saying a word[.] Added.

118.34 of all these troubles[,] Restored.

119.16 are too mu[ho/ch] for me now. Replaced.

139.10 [‘/“]Do you really expect to recover it?” Replaced.

140.20 what we can do for you.[’/”] Replaced.

143.23 before Mr. Berkel[ye/ey] found the want Transposed.

145.12 to the quantity issued[.] Added.