THE MINERS' BANK.
As, though Richard had fasted long, he could not eat, so, though he was
fatigued with the travel of the last two days, he could not sleep. He
turned from side to side upon his pillow throughout the weary night, and
strove to lose himself, and shut out thought, in vain, even for an
instant. He got up and paced the room; and, when the streaks of dawn
began to show themselves, drew up the blind, and looked forth. It was a
very different scene from that he had been accustomed to contemplate at
Gethin. In place of the waste of ocean, specked by a sail or two, whose
presence only served to intensify its solitary grandeur, the
thick-peopled city lay before him. But as yet there were no tokens of
waking life; the streets were empty, the windows shrouded, and a steady
drizzle of rain was falling, which gave promise of a wretched day. Even
when the morning advanced, it was difficult to make out the individual
buildings; but he had had the Miners' Bank pointed out to him on the
previous day, and he thought he recognized it now. It was there that the
business which he had proposed to himself was to be effected, and he
gazed at it with interest. The wisest of us are simple in some things,
and though so knowing in the ways of the world--that is, of _his_
world--Richard knew nothing of banks whatever, and wondered whether he
would have any difficulty in carrying out his object. He could not
foresee any; it seemed to him that the banking folks would be glad to
oblige him in the matter in question, since, if there was any advantage,
it would be on their side. But there were six hours yet before he could
perform this business, and since sleep was denied him, how was he to
pass the time? There was a large book upon the drawers, which he had not
hitherto observed, with the royal arms stamped upon it, and the name of
the hotel inscribed beneath them. It did not look like a devotional
work, but it was the New Testament--a work that was very literally new
to Richard Yorke. He had seen it, of course, often; was acquainted by
hearsay with its contents, and had joked about them. It is the easiest
book in the world to make jokes upon, which, perhaps, accounts for its
being so favorite a subject of ridicule with foolish persons. Shakspeare
is also easy to make fun of, but the _soupçon_ of blasphemy is in that
case wanting, which, to many, forms the chief charm of witty converse.
Richard looked at it as a dog looks at a stick; but he took it up, and
opened it at random. "Having no hope, and without God in the world."
He was not a believer in sortilege. If the text he had chanced upon had
been ever so applicable to his own condition, it would have made but
little impression upon him, and this was not very pertinent in its
application. He was by no means without hope. He had come to Plymouth
full of hope, though disappointed at its not having been already
exchanged for certainty. He had good hope of inspiring John Trevethick
with confidence in his social position, and consequently of obtaining
his consent to marry the woman who had now become indispensable to his
happiness. He had even some hope of yet inheriting a portion of his
father's great estate. He could not be accused of spiritual ambition.
Any other sort of hope than that of being in a position to enjoy himself
thoroughly had never entered into his mind. Just now, however, he was
far from enjoying himself; he was a prey to anxiety, and any opportunity
of forgetting it was welcome to him. Not without an effort to be
interested, therefore, he reflected upon these words, which seemed
rather to have been spoken in his ear aloud than merely to have caught
his eye. He had already shut the book with contemptuous impatience, but
he found himself, nevertheless, repeating: "Having no hope, and without
God in the world," and pondering upon their meaning. He wondered at
himself for taking the trouble to do so; but if he didn't do that, his
thoughts would, he knew, be even less pleasantly occupied; so he let
them slip into this novel channel. How _could_ a man be without God in
the world, if God was every where? as he had somewhere seen or heard
stated, and which he believed to be the fact. It was one of the
objections against the Bible, was his peevish reflection, that it was
self-contradictory in its assertions, and unmistakably distinct only in
its denunciations of wrath. Here was a case in point, and one which
might justly be "taken up" by a fellow, if it was worth while. As for
himself, he was no skeptic. Exeter Hall might have clasped him to her
breast (and would) upon that ground. He was accustomed to use the name
of the Creator whenever he wished to be particularly decisive; but for
any other purpose he had never named it with his lips. Even as a child,
his mother had never taught him to do so. She had never spoken to him on
religious subjects except in humorous connection with the Heads of the
two Churches to which her first husband had belonged--Emanuel Swedenborg
and Joanna Southcott. If the expression "without God in the world" meant
the living in it without the practice of religion, it certainly did have
an application to himself, but also to every one else with whom he was
acquainted. Of course he had known people who went to church--young men
of his own age, whom their parents compelled to do so, and who envied
him the liberty he enjoyed in that respect; and the poor folks at Gethin
went to chapel. But, even, there, shrewd fellows like Trevethick and
Solomon did not trouble themselves to do so. True, Harry went! But then
women, unless they were uncommonly clever, like his own mother, always
did go to hear the parsons. Parsons, as a rule, were hypocrites. He had
met one or two of them in town under circumstances that showed they had
really no more "nonsense about them" than other people, but in the
pulpit they were bound to cant. Look at Mr. Whymper, for instance--the
best specimen of them, by-the-by, he had ever known--who could doubt
that his mind was wholly set upon the main chance? To what slights and
insolences did he submit himself for the sake of feathering his own
nest; and how he had counted upon that fat living, of which the Squire
had so cruelly disappointed him! Talk of religion! why, there was Carew
himself, with thirty thousand a year, and did not spend a shilling of it
on religion! True, he kept a chaplain, but only as a check upon his
steward, to manage his estate for him. If there was really any thing in
it, would not a rich man like him have put aside a portion of his
wealth, by way of insurance--insurance against fire?--and here Richard
chuckled to himself.
It was all rubbish, these texts and things. He would dress himself, and
go out and take a walk, although it was so early. He had already heard
sounds in the house, as though somebody was astir; so he rang the bell.
It was answered by a sleepy and disheveled personage, whom he scarcely
recognized for the sleek "night chamberlain," whose duty it was to watch
while others slept, and who had given him a bed-candle not many hours
before.
"What! still up, my man?" said Richard, gayly.
"Yes, Sir. The morning mail has but just come in; we had a passenger by
it. I put him in the room under you; but he seemed a quiet one, and I
didn't think he'd 'a disturbed you."
"He did not," said Richard. "I have been awake all night, and never so
much as heard him. Can I have some hot water?"
"Not yet, Sir, I'm afraid; there's no fire alight at present. I can get
you some brandy-and-soda, Sir."
"No, no," answered Richard, smiling; "I sha'n't want that; and as for
the hot water, I can do without it; but, now you're here, just tell me,
for I am quite a stranger to your town, isn't that high roof yonder,"
and he pointed to the object in question, "the Miners' Bank?"
"Yessir, that's it. Ah, if the morning was but a little finer, you would
have a lovely view from this here window--half the town and a good slice
of the harbor! There's a splendid building out to the left there, if the
clouds would but lift a little. That's the County Jail, Sir."
"Indeed," said Richard, carelessly, and turned away. "Just take my boots
down with you, as I shall want them as soon as you can get them
cleaned."
The man did as he was bid. Directly he had left the room, Richard pulled
down the window-blind, and staggered to a chair. Perhaps want of food
and sleep had weakened him; but he sat down, looking very pale and
haggard, like one who has received a sudden shock. Why should one man
have answered him last night, "the convict ship," and now this fellow
have pointed out the jail? It was only a coincidence, of course; but if
there was ever such a thing as an evil augury, he had surely experienced
it on those two occasions. "This is what comes of burying one's self at
Gethin," thought he, smiling faintly at his own folly. "If I staid there
much longer, I should begin to believe in mermaids and the Flying
Dutchman." Jail! Why, if the very worst should happen, the matter would
only require to be explained; he was in no real peril from the law,
after all. Indeed, the very revelation which he most dreaded would only,
by exposing the true state of affairs, precipitate his happiness.
Trevethick would then be as eager as himself to hasten Harry's marriage.
Thus he reasoned until something of equanimity returned to him. Then he
attired himself, buttoning his frock-coat carefully over his chest, and
went down stairs. As he reached the next landing, a gentleman emerged
from the room immediately beneath his own, like himself, fully dressed,
and carrying his hat and great-coat. He was a small stout man, with
bushy red whiskers, a good-natured face, and little twinkling black
eyes. With a civil bow he made way for Richard to pass him, and then
followed him down stairs into the coffee-room. It was a huge apartment,
and quite empty except for their two selves. Most persons meeting in
such a Sahara would have exchanged a salutation; and Richard, gregarious
by nature besides, being eager to divert his thoughts, at once entered
into conversation.
"You are the gentleman who arrived by the mail this morning, I
conclude," said he, "otherwise you would scarcely keep such early
hours."
"Just so, Sir," answered the other, smiling. "I thought it was not worth
while to go to bed, but just gave myself a wash and brush up; and here I
am, sharp-set for breakfast."
It was plain this man was not a gentleman, but Richard cared very little
about that. He would have talked to the waiter, in default of any other
companion.
"Well, I have been to bed," said Richard, smiling, "though something I
took at dinner disagreed with me, and kept me awake all night. Do you
mean to say you are not going to take any horizontal refreshment at
all?"
"Well, no; I had some sleep in the coach, and a very little of that
article does for me. If you eat and drink enough, as I do, it is
astonishing how well you can get on without rest."
"Indeed," said Richard. "I should like to see the substitutes you take
for what I have always found an indispensable necessity. Suppose we have
breakfast together, and you shall order it."
"But not pay for it," stipulated the stout gentleman, in a tone that you
might take as either jest or earnest. "We'll go shares in that, eh?"
"Unless you will allow me to be your host, we will certainly go shares,"
said Richard, wondering to himself whether in all Gethin so great a boor
as this could be found above-ground or beneath it, or making his
business on the waters, but rather amused nevertheless.
"I don't like misunderstandings," explained the little man, "nor yet
obligations. It's not that I grudge my money, or have not as much of it
as I want, thank Heaven!"
"Then you've got more than any body else I know," said Richard,
laughing; "and I am acquainted with some rich men too."
"I dare say, Sir; you are a rich man yourself, I hope. You look like a
young gentleman with plenty of money in your pocket."
At any other time Richard would not have been displeased by such an
observation, which was, moreover, a perfectly just one. He looked from
head to heel like a young man of fortune, and had been brought up as
idly and uselessly as any such; but now he blushed and felt
uncomfortable; and his fingers, in spite of himself, sought that
breast-pocket which he had so carefully buttoned up, as though his
companion's observation had had a literal and material meaning.
"Do you know Plymouth?" asked he of the stranger, by way of turning the
conversation.
"Perfectly. Indeed, I live here; but I did not wish to arrive at home at
such an unseasonable hour as the coach comes in. If, as a resident, I
can be of any service to you, pray command me. But you don't eat, Sir."
Richard, indeed, was only playing with a piece of toast, while eggs and
ham and marmalade were disappearing with marvelous rapidity down the
throat of his companion.
"I am not like you," he answered. "Want of sleep produces want of
appetite with me. With respect to Plymouth, you are very good to offer
me your hospitality, but--"
"Services, Sir--services while in the town, I said," observed the little
man. "Let us have no misunderstanding, nor yet obligation; that's my
motto. Now, what can I do for you, short of that?"
"Well, I shall not greatly tax your prudence," rejoined Richard, this
time laughing heartily, "though you must certainly be either a Scotchman
or a lawyer, to be so anxious to act 'without prejudice.' The only
information I have to ask of you is, at what time the bank opens; for I
have got some business to do there, which I want to effect as soon as
possible, and then be off."
"The bank! Well, there's more than one bank in Plymouth," observed the
little man, scraping up the last shreds of marmalade on his plate. "They
open at different hours."
"The Miners' Company is the one I want to go to."
"That opens at nine, Sir. It's on my way home, and I shall be glad to
show it you."
"Thank you; but it was pointed out to me last night," said Richard,
stiffly; for he preferred to effect the business which he had on hand
alone. "It is still raining. What do you say to a cigar in the
smoking-room?"
"With pleasure, when I have just written three words to tell my people
of my arrival," answered the stranger; "however, I can do that as well
there as here."
And so eager did he seem for Richard's society that he had pen and paper
brought into the hotel divan, and from thence dispatched his note.
"Take one of my cigars," said Richard, good-naturedly, offering his
case.
"No, no," replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking very
grave; "you know my motto, Sir."
"A cigar," urged Richard, "is one of those things that one can accept
even from a stranger without that sense of obligation from which you
shrink so sensitively. Seriously, my good Sir, I shall feel offended if
you refuse me this small favor."
"Sooner than that shall be, Sir, I'll take your cigar," said the little
man. He held it up to the light, and sniffed at it with great zest.
"This is no common brand, I reckon."
"Well, it is better than you will get out of the waiter's box, I dare
say," answered Richard, smiling; for his cigars, like every thing else
he had about him, were of the best.
"Now I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll put this in my pocket, if you'll
allow me, young gentleman, for a treat when I get home. After an early
morning breakfast, I generally prefer a pipe;" and he produced one
accordingly from his pocket.
The room was melancholy to the last degree, being lit only from a
sky-light; relics of the last night's dissipation, in the shape of empty
glasses and ends of cigars, were still upon the small round tables;
while a two-days-old newspaper was the only literature of which the
apartment could boast.
"This place and hour would be dull enough, Sir, without your society,"
observed Richard, genially. "I don't think I was ever up so early in my
life before, nor in such a den of a place."
"It's reckoned a good inn, too, is the _George and Vulture_; but the
life of a hotel, you see, don't begin till later on in the day."
"That's a pity," said Richard, laughing, "as I sha'n't have the
opportunity of seeing it at its best. I hope to be away by 9.30, or 10
at latest."
"Ah," said the little man, "indeed!" His words were meaningless enough,
but there was really a genuine air of interest in his tone. He was a
vulgar fellow, no doubt; but Richard rather liked him, mainly because it
was evident that the other was captivated by him. He had laid himself
out to please John Trevethick and his friend Solomon for the last six
months, without success, yet here was a man who had evidently
appreciated him at once. If he was but a bagman, or something of that
sort, it was only the more creditable to his own powers of pleasing; and
his vanity--and Richard was as vain of his social attractions as a
girl--was flattered accordingly. In his solitude and wretchedness, too,
the society of this stranger had been very welcome.
"I am sorry," said Richard, when they had passed some hours together,
and it was getting near nine o'clock, "that I am obliged to leave
Plymouth so soon. It would have given me great pleasure if you could
have come and dined with me; though, indeed, I fear I have already
detained you from your family. It was the act of a good Samaritan to
keep me company so long, and I thank you heartily."
"Don't mention it, Sir--don't mention it," said the little man, quite
huskily. "I have only done my duty."
This courteous sentiment made Richard laugh. "Your duty to your
neighbor, eh?" said he. "Well, I must now wish you good-by;" and he held
out his hand with a frank smile. "Perhaps we may meet again some day."
"Perhaps so, Sir," said the other, knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
and accompanying him into the hall.
At the hotel door Richard called a fly, as it was now raining heavily.
"Shall I take you as far as the bank," said he, "since your road home
lies that way? or is even that little service contrary to your motto?"
"I have got to see to my luggage," answered the other, evasively.
"Well, good-by, then."
"Good-by."
The vehicle rattled down a street or two, then stopped before a building
of some pretension, with a tall portico and a flight of stone steps
before it. Another fly drove up at the same moment, but it did not
attract Richard's attention, which was concentrated upon the business he
had in hand, and made his heart beat very fast. He pushed his way
through the huge swinging door, and found himself in a vast room, with a
large circular counter, at which clerks were standing, each behind a
little rail. He had never been inside a bank before, and he looked
around him curiously. On the left was an opaque glass door, with
"Manager's Room" painted on it; on the right was an elevated desk, from
which every part of the apartment could be commanded; the clerk who sat
there looked down at him for an instant as he entered, but at once
resumed his occupation. Every body was busy with pen and ledger; men
were thronging in and out like bees, giving or receiving sheaves of
bank-notes, or heaps of gold and silver. Richard waited until there was
a vacant place at the counter, then stepped up with: "I want to
exchange some Bank of England notes, please, for your own notes."
"Next desk, Sir," said the man, not even looking up, but pointing with
the feather of his quill pen, then scratching away again as though he
would have overtaken the lost time.
There was a singing in Richard's ear as he repeated his request, and
fumbled in his breast-pocket for the notes; then a silence seemed to
fall upon the place, which a moment before had been so alive and noisy.
Every pen seemed to stop; the ring of the gold, the rustle of paper,
ceased; only the tick of the great clock over the centre door was heard.
"Thief, thief! thief, thief!" were the words it said.
"How much is there?" inquired the clerk, taking the bundle of notes from
Richard's hand; and his voice sounded as though it was uttered in an
empty room.
"Two thousand pounds," said Richard. "Is there any difficulty about it?
If so, I can take them elsewhere."
But the clerk had got them already, and was beginning to put down the
number of each in a great ledger. Richard had not calculated upon this
course of procedure, and had his reasons for objecting to it.
"80,431, 80,432, 80,433," read out the clerk aloud, and every soul in
the room seemed listening to him.
"That will do," said another voice close to Richard's ear, and a light
touch was laid upon his arm. Scarlet to the very temples, he looked up,
and there stood the little red-whiskered man from whom he had parted not
ten minutes before. A very grave expression was now in those twinkling
black eyes. "I have a warrant for your apprehension, young man, upon a
charge of theft," said he.
"Of theft!" said Richard, angrily. "What nonsense is this?"
"Those notes are stolen," said the little man. "Your name is Richard
Yorke, is it not?"
"What's that to you?" said Richard. "I decline--"
Here the door of the manager's room was opened, and out strode Solomon
Coe, with a look of cruel triumph on his harsh features. "That's your
man, right enough," said he. "He'd wheedle the devil, if once you let
him talk. Be off with him!"
The next moment Richard's wrists were seized, and he was hurried out
between two men--his late acquaintance of the hotel and a
policeman--down the bank steps, and into a fly that stood there in
waiting.
"To the County Jail!" cried Solomon, as he entered the vehicle after
them. Then he turned to the red-whiskered man, and inquired fiercely,
why he hadn't put the darbies on the scoundrel.
"Never you mind that," was the sharp reply. "I'm responsible for the
young gentleman's safe-keeping, and that's enough."
"Young gentleman! I am sure the young gentleman ought to be much obliged
to you," replied Solomon, contemptuously. "Young felon, you mean."
"Nobody's a felon until after trial and conviction," observed the little
man, decisively. "Let's have no misunderstanding and no obligation, Mr.
Coe; that's my motto."
Here the wheels began to rumble, and a shadow fell over the vehicle and
those it held: they were passing under the archway of the jail.