COMMOTION AT STILBOROUGH.
On that same fatal Tuesday--and fatal it might well be called, so much
of evil did it bring in its train--there was commotion at Stilborough.
Disagreeable rumours of some kind had got abroad, touching the
solvency of the bank. Whence they arose, who had originated them, and
what they precisely meant, nobody knew, nobody could tell: but they
were being whispered about from one man to another, and the bank's
creditors rose up in astonishment and fear.
"Is it true? It cannot be." "What is it?--what's amiss? Not possible
for Peter Castlemaine to be shaky. Where did you hear it? I'd trust
the bank with my life, let alone my money." "But it's said that some
gigantic speculation has failed?" "Nonsense the bank would stand
twenty failures: don't believe a syllable of it." "Well, rumour says
the bank will stop to-morrow." "Stop to-morrow! What shall we do for
our money?" "Don't know. I shall get mine out to-day."
The above sentences, and others similar to them, might be heard from
different people in the streets of Stilborough. Those who were
ultra-cautious went into the bank and asked for their money. At first
Thomas Hill paid: he thought the demands were only in the regular
course of business: but in a short while he saw what it was--that a run
upon the bank was setting in; and he went into Mr. Peter Castlemaine's
private room to consult his master. Fortunately the rumours had only
got afloat late in the afternoon, and it was now within a few minutes
of the usual time of closing. Not that, earlier or later, it could have
made much difference in the calamity; but it saved some annoyance to
the bank's inmates.
Had the bank been solvent, it would of course have kept its doors
open, irrespective of hours and customs; being insolvent, it closed
them to the minute, and the shutters too. Had Mr. Peter Castlemaine
been able to meet the demands for money, he would have been in the
public room with a clear face, reassuring the applicants: as it was,
he bolted himself in his parlour. The clerks drew down the shutters
and shut the doors against the public: two or three of the young men,
who had to go out with letters or messages, got away through the
private entrance. Back went Thomas Hill to his master, knocking at the
door when he found it fastened.
"It is only me, sir. All's safe."
Peter Castlemaine opened it. A change, that the faithful old clerk did
not like to see, was in his face. Hill's own face was scared and white
enough just then, as he well knew; but it could not wear the peculiar,
sickly, shrunken look he saw on his master's.
"Where are they, Thomas? Is it really a run?"
"Really and truly, sir. What an unfortunate circumstance! A few days,
and you would have tided it over."
"But where are they all?"
"Outside, sir, in the street, kicking and thumping at the doors and
windows; a great crowd of them by this time, and growing a bigger one
every minute. We managed to get the doors shut as tie clock struck,
and then put down the shutters."
Mr. Castlemaine drew his hand across his aching brow. "I think this
must have been caused by Fosbrook," he remarked. "He may have let an
incautious word drop."
"He'd not do it, sir."
"Not intentionally: for his own sake. I knew it boded no good when I
found he meant to stay on at the Turk's Head. Alas! Alas!"
"There has not been a regular stoppage," said Thomas Hill. "And if we
can manage to get assistance, and open again to-morrow morning----"
"Don't, Hill," interrupted the banker, in a tone of painful wailing.
"Don't speak of hope! There's no hope left."
"But, sir, when the remittance, which we expect, comes----"
"Hush! look here."
Mr. Peter Castlemaine pushed an open letter towards his clerk. The old
man's hands trembled as he held it; his face grew whiter as he
mastered the contents. Hope was indeed gone. The worst had come. An
embargo, or lien, had been laid in London upon the expected
remittances.
"Did you get this letter this morning, sir? Why did you not tell me?
It would have been better to have stopped then."
"I got it ten minutes ago, Thomas. It was sent from town by a special
messenger in a post-chaise and four which, of course, the estate will
be charged with. He came, by mistake, I suppose, to the private door;
or perhaps he saw the crowd round the public one: and he gave the
letter into my own hands, saying he would take my instructions back to
town to-morrow morning, if I had any. All's over."
Too truly did Thomas Hill feel the force of the words. All was over.
But for this last great misfortune, this lien upon the money that
ought to have come, they might have weathered the storm. The few past
days had gone on pretty quietly; and every day, passed without
exposure, was so much gained. The Master of Greylands, when applied to
by his brother for a loan, had listened, and placed at the bank's
disposal a fairly good sum: not enough, not half enough, for what it
was wanted to stop, but still a great help.
"Even now," began Thomas Hill, breaking the depressing silence, "even
now, sir, if a meeting were called, and a statement of facts properly
laid before the creditors, they might consent to allow time.
"Time!" echoed Mr. Peter Castlemaine. "What, with this yelling crowd
clamouring at the doors!--and with Fosbrook in the place!--and with a
lien on all the forthcoming remittances! And," he added, the shrunken
grey look on his countenance becoming more perceptible, as his voice
dropped to a whisper--"and with the discovery at hand of the use I made
of the Armannon bonds! The last closing hour has come, Thomas, and
nothing can save me!"
Thomas Hill took off his spectacles to wipe the mist away. The failure
of the bank, and the disgrace attaching to these pecuniary misfortunes,
seemed as nothing, compared with the guilty shame that must fall on his
master.
"They may prosecute me criminally," breathed Mr. Peter Castlemaine,
from between his dry and ashy lips.
"No, no," burst forth Thomas Hill. "They'll never do that, sir. Think
how you have been respected! And besides--so far as I can understand
the complication--there will be money to pay everybody."
"Every man will be paid in full to the uttermost farthing," spoke the
banker emphatically. "But that's another thing. I sat up over my books
nearly all last night, making my calculations, and I find that there
will be funds to meet all claims. Only there's the waiting! Not any
over perhaps; but there will be so much as that."
"And to think that this miserable trouble should intervene!" cried
Thomas Hill, wringing his hands. "There will be my six thousand pounds
to help you, sir, with the expenses, and that."
Peter Castlemaine shook his head to the last sentence, but he made no
denial in words. He seemed to have neither words nor spirit left, and
sat leaning his brow upon his hand. The once fine fresh colour that
was natural to his cheeks had faded away, though its traces might be
seen still. One might have fancied that a thin veil of grey had been
flung over the healthy bloom. In all his long experience Thomas Hill
had never, to his recollection, seen a man change like this.
"You look ill, sir," he said. "Let me get you something to take."
"I feel ill," was the answer. "I ought to have confronted those people
just now in the other room, and should have done so, but that I felt
physically incapable. While I was reading the letter brought by the
London messenger, a sharp, curious pain seized me here," touching his
left side. "For some minutes I could not move."
"Is the heart all right?" hesitated the clerk--as if he were afraid to
breathe the question.
"I do not know. During the past twelve months, since these troubles
set in, I have had a good deal of fluttering there: pain, too, at
times."
"You should consult a doctor, sir. Don't, pray, delay it."
"Ay," sighed the unfortunate man. "I suppose I should. When I get a
little out of this fret and turmoil--if I ever do get out of it--I'll
see one. Lock the desk for me, will you, Hill? There's nothing to keep
it open for: no use to pore over ledgers now."
He held out the key, sitting as he was, and Thomas Hill locked the
desk and returned the key to him. Strength and health seemed suddenly
to have gone out of Peter Castlemaine.
"I'll go and get you a little warm brandy and water, sir. I'm sure you
ought to take it."
His master did not say Do, or Don't; and the clerk went for it.
Getting it mixed by Stephen--who looked frightened out of his senses
by the commotion in the street--he carried in the glass of hot liquor,
and the banker sipped it. It seemed to do him a little good; he looked
less entirely depressed.
"There's one thing I wanted to say, Thomas," he began. "That young man
who came here last week--my brother Basil's son, you know."
"I've heard he is at Greylands, sir. Young Anthony, they say."
"Ay. Basil named him after the father. I should have done the same,
had a son been born to me. He came here that day, you know, asking me
to tell him the particulars of how Greylands' Rest was left; and I
fear I was a little short with him. I did not wish to be, I'm sure;
but this--this trouble was lying on me heavily. The young fellow spoke
fairly enough; and, I daresay, I appeared cross. He wanted me to
interfere between him and James; which was a thing I should not think
of doing. I've thought about it since, lying awake at night; and I
want you to tell Anthony for me that I meant nothing, should you ever
see him."
"But surely you will be seeing him for yourself, sir!" cried the clerk,
thinking this a little strange.
"I don't know that I shall. Should James show him that he has no
claim, he may be going off to France again: and as to me, why, how do
I know where I shall be, or how things will go with me? You'll tell
him, Thomas, that Greylands' Rest, so far as I know, is legally my
brother's; if I thought my father had given it to Basil, I should not
deem it right in James to hold it. But it's not likely James would,
were it not his."
"Did you not know, then, how the estate was left?" asked Thomas Hill,
in surprise.
"No; I did not trouble myself about it," was the banker's answer: and
all this while he seemed to be speaking as his faithful clerk had
never before heard him speak. Instead of the shrewd, observant,
intellectual man of business, whose every sense was keenly awake, he
seemed weary and passive as a tired child. "I knew Greylands' Rest
would not be mine; that if it was not left to Basil it would be
James's. James stayed in possession of it, and I supposed it was his:
I took that for granted, and did not question him. I believe surely it
is his: that my father left it to him: and, Thomas, you tell the young
man, this young Anthony, that such is my opinion. I don't think there
can be a doubt of it. James ought to show him the vouchers for it:
Basil's son has a right to so much. Only, don't say that: I do not
want, I say, to interfere with James."
"It would be the easiest way of settling the matter, sir, if Mr.
Castlemaine would do that."
"Of course it would. But then, you see, James never chooses to be
questioned: he resents any attempt at it; always did. As a boy, I
remember, nothing ever offended him like doubting his word."
At that moment there was a ring heard at the house door. The banker
looked startled, and then seemed to shrink within himself.
"It is that Fosbrook!" he exclaimed. "I thought he'd be coming. I
cannot see him. You go, and battle it out with him, Thomas he won't
browbeat you. Go! Don't let him come in here for the world."
But it was not Mr. Fosbrook. It was only one of the clerks, returning
from his errand. Thomas Hill, seeing the state of nervous depression
that his master was in, proposed to proceed at once to the Turk's
Head, and hold there an interview with the dreaded creditor: and the
banker seized upon it eagerly.
"Do, do!" he said. "There's no one I dread as I dread him."
As the clerk went out, he saw that many angry people lingered yet
around the house and doors. He went among them: he begged them to be
still for that evening, to leave matters in quiet until the morning,
for that Mr. Peter Castlemaine was very ill and quite unable to see
anyone. The baffled creditors showered down questions on the
unfortunate clerk--who certainly felt the trouble as keenly as did his
master. Thomas Hill answered them to the best of his ability: and at
length one by one the malcontents took their departure, leaving the
street clear and the house quiet.
And no sooner was this accomplished, than the banker's handsome
barouche drove to the door, containing Miss Castlemaine and her
chaperone, Mrs. Webb, who had returned to her post the previous day.
Opposite to them sat the young lady's lover, William Blake-Gordon. All
were in the highest spirits, talking and laughing as though no such
thing as care existed in the world, and utterly unconscious of the
trouble that had fallen on the house and the commotion that had reigned
outside it. They had, been to look over Raven's Priory, and Mary Ursula
was enchanted with it.
"You will stay to dinner, William," she said, as he handed her out of
the carriage. "Papa will be vexed if you do not."
He was only too ready to accept an invitation that would give him a
few more hours of her sweet companionship. It was close upon the
dinner-hour--six. Stephen was holding the hall-door open, with a long,
grave face: they passed him, noticing nothing.
"I will not be long, William," she whispered, running up to her
chamber.
A few minutes later, and she came forth again, attired for the
evening. Her dress was of rich blue silk; her cheeks had more colour
in them than usual, the effect of pleasurable excitement; her bright
hair was disposed so as to set off the exceeding beauty of her face.
Mr. Blake-Gordon stood in the gallery, looking at a new picture that
some friend had recently made a present of to the banker. As she
joined him, he drew her arm within his.
"It is a fine painting, Mary."
"And it is hung well for night," she observed, "for the rays of the
chandelier just fall on it. By day its place is a little dark. Have
you seen papa yet?"
"Not yet. There goes six o'clock."
Mrs. Webb, an elderly lady in black satin and point-lace cap, came
downstairs and turned into the drawing-room. Though a very dragon of a
chaperone when necessary, she knew quite well when to join the lovers,
and when to leave them alone.
They began pacing the gallery, arm in arm, looking at this picture,
criticising that. From paintings, their conversation turned to what
just then held a deeper interest for them--the future residence they
expected so soon to enter upon, Raven's Priory. This room should be
the favourite morning room, and that the favourite evening room; and
the beautiful conservatory should have their best care; and there
should always be a blazing fire in the hall, not a cold, bare,
comfortless grate, as they had seen that day; and the gravel drive
should be widened, and some rocks and ferns put on the right hand in
that bare space--and so the dreams went on.
The clocks went on also. Mrs. Webb, reminded probably by her appetite,
looked out once or twice; the butler and Stephen, aware that the
dinner was waiting, and the cook angrily demanding whether it was to
be served to-day or to-morrow, passed and repassed out of the
drawing-room. As to the lovers themselves, they were unconscious of
clocks and reminding appetites; for love, as we all know, lives upon
air. It was the custom of the house not to serve the dinner until the
banker appeared in the drawing-room: on rare occasions business
detained him beyond the hour.
So they paced on, those two, in their dream of happiness. And once, at
the darkest end of the gallery, when there was neither step nor sound
near, Mr. Blake-Gordon stole a kiss from that blushing face, so soon,
as he fondly hoped, to be all his.
"My dear, is your papa out, do you know?" questioned; Mrs. Webb,
appearing at the drawing-room door, as they again neared it. "It is
half-past six."
"Half-past six!" repeated Mary, in surprise. "So late as that! No, I
do not know whether papa is out or in. Perhaps he is busy in his
parlour? There's Stephen: he may know. Stephen," she added, quitting
the arm of Mr. Blake-Gordon, and advancing towards the man, "is papa
below in his parlour?"
"There's no one in the parlour, ma'am, for I've been to look," was the
answer. "I saw my master go up to his chamber some time ago, but I
don't think he can be in it all this while."
"How long ago?"
"Just before you came home, ma'am."
"Oh, of course, your master cannot be there still," interposed Mrs.
Webb, much interested in the colloquy, for she wanted her dinner
frightfully. "He must have come down and gone out, Stephen."
"Very likely, ma'am."
"I am sure that Mr. Castlemaine has not come downstairs since we came
in," observed Mr. Blake-Gordon. "If he had, I must have seen him. I
have been here all the time."
Mary Ursula laughed. "I will tell you what it is," she said: "papa has
dropped asleep on the sofa in his room. Twice lately he has done it
when he has had a very tiring day." She ran lightly up the stairs as
she spoke, and knocked at the chamber door. The lamp that hung in the
corridor threw its light upon the oaken panels, and upon her gleaming
blue dress.
"Papa!"
There was no response, and Mary gently turned the handle, intending to
open the door about an inch, and call again. That her father was lying
on the sofa in a sound sleep, she felt as sure of as though she had
seen him. But the door would not open.
"Papa! papa!"
No: he did not awake, though she called very loudly. Hardly knowing
what to do, she ran downstairs again.
"Papa must be in a very sound sleep, for I cannot make him hear, and
the door is fastened inside," she said, chiefly addressing Stephen,
who was nearest to her. "I daresay he has had a fatiguing day."
"Yes, ma'am, it have been fatiguing; leastways the latter part of
it," replied the man, with an emphasis that they failed to catch.
"Some rude people have been knocking here, and making a fine uproar."
"Rude people knocking here!" exclaimed Mrs. Webb, taking him up
sharply. "What do you mean? What did they want?"
"I don't know what they wanted, ma'am: something they couldn't get, I
suppose," returned the man, who had no suspicion of the real state of
the case, for he believed the house to be simply a mine of wealth that
could have no limit, just as children believe in the wondrous riches
told of in a fairy tale. "I know I should like to have had the driving
of 'em off! Master did well not to see 'em."
"But--did papa not see them?" questioned Mary Ursula, surprised into
asking the question by this extraordinary story.
"No, ma'am; and that's what I fancy they made the noise over. My
master was not well, either, this afternoon, for Mr. Hill came running
out for hot brandy and water for him."
What more would have been said, what doubt created, was stopped by the
appearance of Thomas Hill. He had just returned from his mission to
the Turk's Head. Apparently it had not been a pleasant mission: for
his face was pale with what looked like fear, and he, waiving
ceremony, had come straight up the stairs, asking for his master.
"I must see him; I must see him instantly. I beg your pardon, dear
Miss Castlemaine, but it is of the last importance."
Had Thomas Hill only waited a moment before speaking, he would have
heard that the banker was fastened in his room. They told him now. He
gave one scared look around while taking in the words, and then
bounded to the stairs.
"Follow me," he cried, turning his livid face on the men. "We must
burst open the door. I know he is ill."
Mr. Blake-Gordon, the butler and Stephen were up almost as soon as he.
Mrs. Webb laid her detaining arm on the young lady.
"You must stay here, my dear: you must. They will do better without
you."
"But what can it be, save sleep?" asked Mary Ursula, arresting her
steps and not knowing whether there was cause for alarm or not. "When
papa is very tired he sleeps heavily. On Sunday night he dropped
asleep when I was at the organ, and I could not at first awaken him."
"Of course; I make no doubt he has fallen into a sound sleep; nothing
else: but it will not be seemly for you to go up with them, my dear,"
replied Mrs. Webb, always the very essence of propriety. "Hark! the
door has given way."
Sleep? Yes, at first they did think the banker was asleep. He lay on
the sofa at full length, his head on the low pillow, his feet hanging
down over the other end. A candle, which he must have carried up with
him, stood on the drawers, and the wax candles in the dressing-glass
had been previously lighted by the servants. Altogether there was a
good deal of light. They looked at the banker's face by it: and
saw--that the sleep was the sleep of death.
A gasping sob burst from Thomas Hill. He fell on his knees, the tears
rolling down his face.
"My master! my dear master! oh, my master, my master!"
He saw what it was; perhaps felt somewhat prepared for it by the
previous events of the afternoon. The others were for the moment
somewhat stunned: but they did not think it could be death.
"Run for a doctor!" cried the butler to Stephen. "He's in a faint. Run
for your life!"
The butler himself did not attempt to run; he was too stout. Mr.
Blake-Gordon and Stephen, both slender and light of limb, sped away
without their hats. The butler raised his master's head.
"Please to ring the bell, sir, for some brandy," he said to Mr. Hill.
"The maids must bring up some hot flannels, too."
"Is it possible that you can be deceived?" sobbed the
clerk--"that you do not see that it is death? Oh, my poor master?"
"Death! come now, don't talk in that uncomfortable way," retorted
the butler; not, however, feeling very comfortable as he said it.
"What should bring death to the house in this sudden way? He is warm,
too. Do please ring the bell, sir."
The doctors came without delay, two of them; for Mr. Blake-Gordon
brought one, and Stephen another. But nothing could be done: it was
indeed death: and the medical men thought it had taken place the best
part of an hour before. The great banker of Stilborough, Peter
Castlemaine, had ceased to exist.
But there was one momentous, dreadful question to be solved--what had
caused the death? Had it come by God's hand and will?--or had Peter
Castlemaine himself wrought it? The surgeons expressed no opinion at
present; they talked in an undertone, but did not let the world share
their counsels. Thomas Hill overheard one word, and it nearly sent him
frantic.
"How dare you say it gentlemen? Suicide! Mr. Peter Castlemaine would
no more lift his hand against himself than you would lift it. I would
stake all the poor bit of life I've got left--which won't be much
now--that it is his heart that has killed him. This very afternoon he
complained of a sharp pain there; a strange fluttering, he called it,
and he looked white enough for a ghost. He told me he had felt the
same pain and fluttering at times before. There cannot be a doubt,
gentlemen, that it was his heart."
The doctors nodded seemingly in assent. One thing appeared to be
indisputable--that if the death was natural, no other cause than the
heart could be assigned for it. The face of the dead man was calm and
unruffled as that of an infant. But the elder of the doctors whispered
something about an "odour."
Mary Ursula came into the room when the medical men had gone. No tears
were in her eyes; she was as one stunned, paralyzed: unable in her
shock of bewilderment to take in the whole truth. She had deemed the
room empty: but Thomas Hill turned round from the sofa at her
entrance.
"He has had a good deal of trouble lately, my poor dear master, and it
has been too much for him, and broken his heart," he whispered in a
piteous tone, the tears running down his cheeks. "God knows I'd have
saved him from it if I could, my dear young lady: I'd willingly have
died for him."
"What kind of trouble has it been?" asked Mary Ursula, letting the old
man take her hands, and gazing at him with a terrified and imploring
countenance.
"Money trouble, money trouble," answered the clerk. "He was not used
to it, and it has broken his heart. Oh, my dear, don't grieve more
than you can help!--and don't think about the future, for all I have
shall be yours."
"You--think--it was heart disease?" questioned Mary, in a dread,
imploring whisper. "Do you really think it, Mr. Hill?"
"My dear, I am sure of it. Quite sure. And I only wonder now he did
not die in my arms this afternoon in the back parlour when the pain
and fluttering were upon him," added Thomas Hill, half choked with his
emotion. "There was a great clamour with the creditors, and it
terrified him more than I thought. The fright must have struck to his
heart, and killed him."
She sighed deeply. The same appalled look of terror clung to her face:
the reassurance did not seem to bring her the comfort that it ought.
For Mary Castlemaine had overheard that one covert word of suspicion
breathed by the medical men: and she had, and always would have, the
awful doubt lying upon her heart.
It was a dreadful night for her, poor bankrupt girl--bankrupt in
happiness from that hour. Mrs. Webb persuaded her to go to bed at
last; and there she lay getting through the hours as the unhappy do
get through them. But, miserable though it was, it would have been far
more so could she have seen, as in a mirror, what had taken place that
night at Greylands in the Friar's Keep--the disappearance of Anthony
Castlemaine, and its cause.