A NIGHTMARE FOR THE RECTOR OF ALL SOULS'.
The Reverend Mr. Hastings had audibly expressed a wish never again to be
left in the responsible position of trustee, and the Reverend Mr.
Hastings echoed it a second time as he ascended a gig which was to
convey him to Binham. A vestry meeting at All Souls' had been called for
that evening at seven o'clock; but something arose during the day
connected with the trust, and at four Mr. Hastings set off in a gig to
see Brierly, the late agent to the Chisholm property. "I'll be back by
seven if I can, Smith," he observed to his clerk. "If not, the meeting
must commence without me."
The way to Binham lay through shady lanes and unfrequented roads:
unfrequented as compared with those where the traffic is great. It was a
small place about six miles' distance from Prior's Ash, and the Rector
enjoyed the drive. The day was warm and fine as the previous one had
been--when you saw Maria Godolphin walking through the hayfield. Shady
trees in some parts met overhead, the limes gave forth their sweet
perfume, the heavy crops of grass gladdened the Rector's eye, some still
uncut, some in process of being converted into hay by labourers, who
looked off to salute the well-known clergyman as he drove past.
"I might have brought Rose, after all," he soliloquized. "She would have
had a pleasant drive. Only she would have been half an hour getting
ready."
He found Mr. Brierly at home, and their little matter of business was
soon concluded. Mr. Hastings had other places to call at in the town: he
had always plenty of people to see when he went to Binham, for he knew
every one in it.
"I wish you would take something," said the agent.
"I can't stay," replied Mr. Hastings. "I shall find old Mrs. Chisholm at
tea, and can take a cup with her, standing. That won't lose time. You
have not heard from Harknar?"
"No: not directly. His brother thinks he will be home next week."
"The sooner the better. I want the affair settled, and the money placed
out."
He held out his hand as he spoke. Mr. Brierly, who, in days long gone
by, when they were both boys together, had been an old school-fellow of
the Rector's, put his own into it. But he did not withdraw it: he
appeared to be in some hesitation.
"Mr. Hastings, excuse me," he said, presently, speaking slowly, "have
you kept the money, which I paid over to you, in your own possession?"
"Of course not. I took it the same night to the Bank."
"Ay. I guessed you would. Is it safe?" he added, lowering his voice.
"_Safe!_" echoed Mr. Hastings.
"I will tell you why I speak. Rutt the lawyer, over at your place, was
here this afternoon, and in the course of conversation he dropped a hint
that something was wrong at Godolphins'. It was not known yet, he said,
but it would be known very soon."
Mr. Hastings paused. "Did he state his grounds for the assertion?"
"No. From what I could gather, it appeared that he spoke from some vague
rumour that was going about."
"I think I can explain it," said Mr. Hastings. "A packet of deeds
belonging to one of their clients has been lost--has disappeared at
least in some unaccountable manner; and this, I expect, must have given
rise to the rumour. But the loss of twenty such packets, all to be made
good, would not shake the solvency of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin."
"That must be it, then! What simpletons people are! swallowing any
absurd rumour that gets afloat; converting a molehill into a mountain! I
thought it strange--for a stable old house like the Godolphins'."
"Let me recommend you, Brierly, not to mention it further. If such a
report got about, it might cause a run upon the Bank. Not but that, so
far as I believe, the Bank could stand any run that might be made upon
it."
"I should not have mentioned it at all, except to you," returned Mr.
Brierly. "And only to you, because I expected the Chisholms' money was
there. Rutt is not a safe man to speak after, at the best of times. I
told him I did not believe him. And I did not. Still--if anything were
to happen, and I had bottled up the rumour, without giving you a hint of
it, I should never cease to blame myself."
"That is the origin of it, you may be sure; the loss of those deeds,"
observed the Rector. "I know the clerks were questioned about it
yesterday, and some of them must have got talking out of doors. Good
day, Brierly."
Mr. Hastings paid the rest of his visits, and drove home. In spite of
himself, he could not keep his mind from reverting--and somewhat
unpleasantly--to what he had heard. He believed the Bank to be perfectly
solvent; to be more than solvent. Until the previous evening, when Isaac
had made that communication to him, he had been ready to answer for its
flourishing condition on his own responsibility, if required. He fully
believed the rumour, spoken of by Rutt the lawyer, to arise from some
distorted hints of the missing deeds which had oozed out, and to have no
other foundation whatever: and yet he could not keep his mind from
reverting to it uneasily.
The ting-tang (it deserved no better name, and Prior's Ash gave it no
other) of All Souls' Church was sending forth its last notes as the
Rector drove in. Handing over the horse and gig to the waiting servant
of the friend from whom it was borrowed--a gig always at the disposal of
the Rector--he made his way to the vestry, and had the pleasure of
presiding at a stormy meeting. There were divided parties in the parish
at that time, touching a rate to be paid, or a non-rate; and opposing
eloquence ran high. Personally, the Rector was not an interested party;
but he had a somewhat difficult course to steer between the two, to
avoid offending either. It was half-past nine when the meeting broke up.
"Any news of the missing deeds, Isaac?" he took an opportunity of asking
his son.
"I think not," replied Isaac. "We have heard nothing about it to-day."
"I suppose things have gone on, then, as usual?"
"Quite so. We shall hear no more of it, I dare say, in the Bank. If the
bonds can't be found, the firm will have to make them good, and there'll
be an end of it."
"A very unsatisfactory ending, I should think, if I had to make them
good," observed the Rector. "I don't like things disappearing, nobody
knows how or why."
He said no more. He gave no hint to Isaac of the rumour that had been
whispered to him, nor questioned him upon its probable foundation. It
was the best proof that Mr. Hastings assigned to it no foundation. In
sober reason he did not do so.
But things--- troubles, cares, annoyances--wear different aspects in the
day and in the night. More than all, _suspense_ wears a different one.
An undefined dread, whatever may be its nature, can be drowned in the
daily bustle of life: business, pleasure, occupation. These fill up the
mind, and the bugbear is lost sight of. But at night, when the head lies
upon the sleepless pillow, and there is nothing to distract the
thoughts; when all around is dark and silent, then, if there is an
inner, secret dread, it asserts itself in guise worse than reality.
Mr. Hastings was not an imaginative man. Quite the contrary. He was more
given to dealing with things, whether pleasant or painful, in a
practical manner by daylight, than to racking his brains with them at
night. Therefore, the way in which the new doubt troubled him as he lay
in bed that night, was something wonderful. Had he been a fanciful
woman, he could not have experienced worse treatment from his
imagination. It was running riot within him. Could it be that the money
entrusted to him was gone?--lost? Had he put it into that Bank for
safety, only to find that the Bank would never refund it again? How was
he to make it good? He could not make it good, and the little Chisholms,
the children of his dead friend, would be beggars! He thought not of his
own money, lodged in the charge of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin;
that seemed as nothing in comparison with this. Mr. Hastings had had
rather an expensive family; he had given money away in his parish--a
conscientious clergyman is obliged to give, more or less--and his
savings, all told, did not amount to more than two thousand pounds. It
was not of that, equally at stake, that he thought, but of this other
and larger sum, of which he was but the steward.
Try as he would, he could not get to sleep; try as he would, he could
not put these half-insane visions from him. His mind became wrought up
to its very highest pitch; he could have found it in his heart to get
up, make his way to the Bank, knock up George Godolphin, and demand his
money back again. He registered a silent resolve that he would go there
with the first glimmer of daylight. Yesterday he was a free man, a man
at his ease, it may be said a prosperous man; to-morrow, should that
money be beyond his reach, he would be ruined for ever; broken down
under his weight of care. What if he were too late!--if he went to the
Bank, and was told, "The Bank is in embarrassment, and we cannot
refund!" Oh, how supinely careless had he been, to suffer a whole day to
slip by since Isaac's warning! Any hour of that past day he might have
withdrawn the money; might now have had it securely in the chest by his
bedside. When another day dawned, it might be too late.
Torments such as these--and they were all the more intolerable from the
fact of his not being used to them--haunted him throughout the night.
They have haunted us: they, or similar ones. Towards morning he dropped
into a heavy sleep, awaking later than his usual hour. Those dark
visions had gone then; but their effect remained sufficient to keep the
Rector to his resolve of drawing out the money. "I'll go the first thing
after breakfast," said he, as he dressed himself.
But, when breakfast was over, and the business of the day was fairly
entered upon, Mr. Hastings felt half ashamed of his resolution. The
visions of the night appeared to him to be simply fantastic follies,
diseased creations of the brain: should there be really no cause for his
withdrawal of the money, how worse than foolish he would look!--nay, how
unjustifiable would such a procedure be!
What ought he to do? He leaned over the gate while he took counsel with
himself. He had put on his hat and taken his stick, and gone forth; and
there he stopped, hesitating. A strange frame of mind for Mr. Hastings,
who was not of a vacillating nature. Suddenly he flung the gate open and
went through with a decisive step; his determination was taken. He would
steer a middle course, present himself to his son-in-law, George
Godolphin, and ask him frankly, as a friend and relative, whether the
money was safe.
Many a one would have decided that it was a safe and proper course to
pursue. Mr. Hastings deemed it to be such, and he proceeded to the Bank.
The fresh air, the bright sun, the pleasant bustle of daily life, had
well-nigh dissipated any remaining fears before he got there.
"Can I see Mr. George Godolphin?" he inquired.
"Mr. George is engaged at present, sir," replied the clerk to whom he
had addressed himself. "He will be at liberty soon. Would you like to
take a seat?"
Mr. Hastings sat down on the chair handed him, and waited; watching at
his leisure the business of the Bank. Several people were there. Some
were paying money in, some drawing it out. There appeared to be no
hesitation, either in paying or receiving: all seemed as usual. One man
brought a cheque for nine hundred and odd pounds, and it was counted out
to him. "I feel sure it is all right," was the conclusion come to by Mr.
Hastings.
About ten minutes, and George Godolphin came forward. "Ah! is it you?"
said he, with his sunny smile. "You are here early this morning."
"I want to say just a word to you in private, Mr. George."
George led the way to his room, talking gaily. He pushed a chair towards
Mr. Hastings, and took his own. Never a face more free from care than
his; never an eye less troubled. He asked after Mrs. Hastings; asked
after Reginald, who was daily expected home from a voyage--whether he
had arrived. "Maria dreamt last night that he had returned," said he,
laughing, "and told her he was never going to sea again."
Mr. Hastings remembered _his_ dreams--if dreams they could be called. He
was beginning to think that he must have had nightmare.
"Mr. George, I have come to you upon a strange errand," he began. "Will
you for a few moments regard me as a confidential friend, and treat me
as one?"
"I hope it is what I always do, sir," was the reply of George Godolphin.
"Ay; but I want a proof of your friendship this morning. But for my
being connected with you by close ties, I should not have so come. Tell
me, honestly and confidentially, as between man and man--Is that
trust-money safe?"
George looked at Mr. Hastings, his countenance slightly changing. Mr.
Hastings thought he was vexed.
"I do not understand you," he said.
"I have heard a rumour--I have heard, in fact, two rumours--that---- The
long and the short of it is this," more rapidly continued Mr. Hastings,
"I have heard that there's something doubtful arising with the Bank."
"What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed George Godolphin.
"_Is_ there anything the matter? Or is the Bank as solvent as it ought
to be?"
"I should be sorry to think it otherwise," replied George. "I don't
understand you. What have you heard?"
"Just what I tell you. A friend spoke to me in private yesterday, when I
was at Binham, saying that he had heard a suspicion of something being
wrong with the Bank here. You will not be surprised that I thought of
the nine thousand pounds I had just paid in."
"Who said it?" asked George. "I'll prosecute him if I can find out."
"I dare say you would. But I have not come here to make mischief. I
stopped his repeating it, and I, you know, am safe, so there's no harm
done. I have passed an uneasy night, and I have come to ask you to tell
me the truth in all good faith."
"The Bank is all right," said George. "I cannot imagine how such a
report could by any possibility have arisen," he continued, quitting the
one point for the other. "There is no foundation for it."
George Godolphin spoke in all good faith when he said he could not tell
how the report could have arisen. He really could not. Nothing had
transpired at Prior's Ash to give rise to it. Possibly he deemed, in his
sanguine temperament, that he spoke in equally good faith, when assuring
Mr. Hastings that the Bank was all right: he may have believed that it
would so continue.
"The money is safe, then?"
"Perfectly safe."
"Otherwise, you must let me have it out now. Were it to be lost, it
would be ruin to me, ruin to the little Chisholms."
"But it is safe," returned George, all the more emphatically, because it
would have been remarkably inconvenient, for special reasons, to refund
it then to Mr. Hastings. I repeat, that he may have thought it _was_
safe: safe in so far as that the Bank would get along somehow, and could
repay it sometime. Meanwhile, the use of it was convenient--how
convenient, none knew, except George.
"A packet of deeds has been mislaid; or is missing in some way," resumed
George. "They belong to Lord Averil. It must be some version of that
which has got abroad--if anything has got abroad."
"Ay," nodded Mr. Hastings. The opinion coincided precisely with what he
had expressed to the agent.
"I know of nothing else wrong with the Bank," spoke George. "Were you to
ask my brother, I am sure he would tell you that business was never more
flourishing. I wish to goodness people could be compelled to concern
themselves with their own affairs instead of inventing falsehoods for
their friends!"
Mr. Hastings rose. "Your assurance is sufficient, Mr. George: I do not
require your brother's word to confirm it. I have asked it of you in all
good faith, Maria being the link between us."
"To be sure," replied George; and he shook Mr. Hastings's hand as he
went out.
George remained alone, biting the end of his quill pen. To hear that any
such rumour was abroad vexed and annoyed him beyond measure. He only
hoped that it would not spread far. Some wiseacre must have picked up an
inkling about the deeds, and converted it into a doubt upon the Bank's
solvency. "I wish I could hang the fools!" muttered George.
His wish was interrupted. Some one came in and said that Mr. Barnaby
desired to see him.
"Let him come in," said George.
Mr. Barnaby came in. A simple-looking man of quiet manners, a
corn-dealer, who kept an account at the Bank. He had a canvas bag in his
hand. George asked him to take a seat.
"I was going to pay in two thousand pounds, sir," said he, slightly
lifting the bag to indicate that the money was there. "But I should
like, first of all, to be assured that it's all right."
George sat and stared at him. Was Prior's Ash all going mad together?
George honestly believed that nothing yet had transpired, or could have
transpired, to set these doubts afloat. "Really, Mr. Barnaby, I do not
understand you," he said, with some hauteur: just as he had answered Mr.
Hastings.
"I called in at Rutt's, sir, as I came along, to know what had been done
in that business where I was chiselled out of that load of barley, and I
happened to mention that I was coming on here to pay in two thousand
pounds. 'Take care that it's all right,' said Rutt. 'I heard the Bank
talked about yesterday.' _Is_ it all right, sir?"
"It is as right as the Bank of England," impulsively answered George.
"Rutt shall be brought to account for this."
"Well, I thought it was odd if there _was_ anything up. Then I may leave
it with safety?"
"Yes, you may," replied George. "Have you not always found it safe
hitherto?"
"That's just it: I couldn't fancy that anything wrong had come to it all
of a sudden. I'll go and pay it in then, sir. It won't be for long,
though. I shall be wanting it out, I expect, by the end of next week."
"Whenever you please, Mr. Barnaby," replied George.
The corn-dealer retired to leave his money, and George Godolphin sat on
alone, biting his pen as before. Where could these rumours have had
their rise? Harmlessly enough they might have fallen, had nothing been
rotten at the core of affairs: George alone knew how awfully dangerous
they might prove now, if they got wind.