RESURGAM.
Rupert Godwin had been summoned to the bank by a letter from his
clerk.
“My dear sir,” wrote Jacob, “things are looking very black in the
City, and the old rumour is beginning to get afloat again. You had
better come to the office and look into matters yourself. I have
made a business appointment for you to-morrow, at twelve sharp; and
as it is an affair of some considerable importance I would recommend
you to be punctual.--Obediently yours, J. D.”
This letter had been addressed to the banker’s West-end apartments;
and it was this summons which had brought him to the bank about three
minutes before Clara and Violet entered it.
For some time Rupert Godwin’s affairs had been gradually sinking back
into the state in which they had been before his theft of the twenty
thousand pounds intrusted to him by the sea captain.
That sum was not the tenth part of the amount that would have been
needed to restore the firm to a solvent position. But it had been
enough to stop the leak in the ship, and to enable the rotten old
vessel to right herself for a time, while her captain sailed in
search of new gold-fields.
Small depositors--always the first to take alarm--had been appeased.
Suspicion had been set at rest by the promptitude with which all
demands were satisfied; and customers who had withdrawn their
balances in a fever of alarm, had brought back their custom when the
panic was over.
Unhappily for Rupert Godwin, this halcyon state of things could not
endure for ever. The effects of the preceding year’s commercial
panic were still felt. The edifice of credit had been shaken to its
foundations, and the enchanted temple still tottered, frail as some
confectioner’s fairy fabric of spun sugar.
There were prophetic rumours of an approaching crisis more alarming
than that through which the commercial classes of London had passed,
more or less scorched and scathed by the ordeal, so lately. There
were those who said that the first blast of the trumpet which
sounded the alarm in the halls of the Stock Exchange would ring the
death-knell of Rupert Godwin’s credit.
There was one who knew this only too well; and that one was the
banker himself. He knew that an hour’s run upon his bank would
demonstrate the fact of his insolvency.
He had been insolvent for more than ten years, and had borne the
burden of that guilty secret, knowing that whenever the crash
came thousands of innocent people would suffer for the inordinate
extravagance which had sapped the capital of one of the most
respectable private banks in the metropolis.
Utterly indifferent as to the sufferings of other people, this
knowledge had troubled Rupert Godwin very little. But he was
considerably disturbed by the thought of his own ruin--his disgrace,
and perhaps even poverty; or, at any rate, a miserable state
of existence which to him would be little better than absolute
indigence--a kind of suspension between the heaven of wealth and
the hell of penury. “Better to be an outcast and Bohemian, begging
in the high-road by day and sleeping in an empty barn by night,
than to drag out the remnant of my days as a dreary old twaddler
in some suburban cottage, with a maid-of-all-work to wait upon me,
and a garden thirty feet square to walk in,” the Sybarite said
to himself as he contemplated the future. He had tried to make a
purse for himself; but of late his mind had been entirely absorbed
by considerations that were even more alarming than his financial
difficulties; and he had not been able to garner any great store
against the day of ruin. He had set aside something; but even that
something would be wrested from him if he did not make his plans for
a speedy escape from the financial storm whose first hoarse thunders
already rumbled ominously in the distance. And those commercial
tempests travel so quickly!
Upon his confidential clerk’s fidelity the banker relied with
implicit confidence; not because he believed the clerk to be attached
to his person, or bound to him by any sense of honour. Mr. Godwin
had directed his attention to the vices rather than the virtues of
his fellow-men. He had paid Danielson handsomely for fidelity in
the past, and had promised him ample payment for fidelity in the
future; and, as he looked upon good faith as a marketable commodity,
to be purchased in any quantities at the current market rate, he was
troubled by no doubt of his ally’s fidelity.
He came to the office this morning in no very pleasant frame of mind;
but distrust of Jacob Danielson had no part in his conflicting doubts
and difficulties.
“Well, Jacob,” he said, as he seated himself at his desk, “how are
things looking?”
“As black as they can look,” answered the clerk, with a mixture of
respect and indifference that always galled his master--“as black as
they can look. People have begun to talk; and when they once begin,
it is not very easy to stop them. There may be a run upon the bank
any day, and then the murder’s out.”
Rupert Godwin’s nerves had been terribly shaken of late. He could not
control a slight shuddering movement as the clerk pronounced that
ghastly word “murder.”
Before he could speak, one of the junior clerks opened the
parlour-door and ushered in Mrs. Westford and her daughter.
The banker started violently, and half rose from his chair with a
convulsive movement at the aspect of those two slender figures draped
in solemn black.
“Who are these people?” he gasped. “I cannot see them.--Walters, take
these ladies back to the public office; they can have no business
here.--What is the meaning of this, Danielson?” added the banker,
turning indignantly to the old clerk. “You told me you had arranged
an important business meeting here at this hour. These people cannot
possibly have any business to transact with me.”
“O, yes, they have, sir,” answered the clerk quietly.--“Sit down,
ladies, pray. Mr. Godwin is rather unprepared for your visit, you
see, as I have not found time to explain matters to him before your
arrival. But he will find the business very simple--quite simple.
Pray sit down.”
The mother and daughter obeyed. Clara had not in any manner saluted
the banker, nor he her, though they had looked at each other fixedly
for a moment.
Mrs. Westford’s face was pale, and rigid as the face of a statue.
Rupert Godwin’s countenance had grown livid. The sudden appearance of
those two women had inspired him with a strange fear.
As he turned indignantly towards the old clerk, something in Jacob
Danielson’s face told the banker that he was about to find a deadly
foe in the man who had so long been his tool and accomplice.
“Insolent scoundrel!” he exclaimed, “how do you dare to defy me thus?
Take your friends out of my room! I will not be intruded on by any
one.”
“These ladies are no friends of mine,” answered the clerk; “though I
shall be proud indeed if I can render them any service. They are no
intruders here. They have a claim upon you, Mr. Godwin, and a very
large one.”
“You are mad!” exclaimed the banker contemptuously. “What claim can
these ladies have upon me?”
“A very terrible one, it may be, Rupert Godwin,” replied Clara
Westford solemnly. “What if I come to claim justice upon the murderer
of a beloved husband? Retribution is very slow sometimes; but it is
none the less certain. Sooner or later the day of reckoning comes; if
not in this world, in the next. Heaven have pity on those who are not
allowed to expiate their iniquities upon earth!”
Rupert Godwin tried to carry matters with a high hand--but even
his bravado failed him in this supreme moment of fear. His livid
countenance, convulsed every now and then by sudden spasms, betrayed
the state of his mind.
“We will not talk of retribution here,” said Jacob Danielson. “It
is only on a matter of business that these ladies have called on
you this morning, Mr. Godwin. They come to claim the sum of twenty
thousand pounds, intrusted to your care by Captain Harley Westford,
of the _Lily Queen_, with five per cent. interest thereupon for the
time the money has been in your hands.”
Rupert Godwin laughed aloud. It was a wild spasmodic kind of laugh,
and by no means agreeable to hear.
“My good Danielson,” he exclaimed, “you are evidently going mad.
I had better send for the parish authorities and the parish
strait-waistcoat.”
“Not just yet,” replied the clerk coolly. “You are rather fond of
putting people into lunatic asylums, I know. But as I am not mad,
your philanthropic and compassionate nature need not be troubled
by any concern about me. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to pay these
ladies the money they claim--twenty-one thousand pounds. Mrs.
Westford’s husband died suddenly; but he made his will, bequeathing
all he possessed to his wife, with undivided power to administer
his affairs. She has not yet gone through the usual formula; but
as this is an exceptional case you can afford to waive ceremony,
and pay Captain Westford’s widow the money that belongs to her,
without waiting for legal formalities. Here is the receipt signed by
yourself, and witnessed by me.”
The clerk produced an oblong slip of paper, which he held before the
eyes of his master. Those eyes glared at the document with a blank
stare of mingled astonishment and horror.
“Where,” he gasped,--“where did you----”
“Where did I find it?” said the clerk, with supreme coolness. “Ah, to
be sure. I was prepared to hear you ask that question. I’ll tell you
where I found it. On the night on which Harley Westford came to you
at Wilmingdon Hall, to claim the money which this receipt represents,
he wore a light overcoat. Ah, you remember it, I see. The night was
warm; and when the Captain came into the dining-room, where you and I
were lingering over our dessert, he carried his outer coat across his
arm. When he left the dining-room he flung it down upon a chair. _I_
found it there when I returned to the Hall, after missing the train.
I’m rather of an inquisitive disposition, and I had peculiar motives
for my curiosity that night; so I took the liberty to examine the
pockets in the Captain’s overcoat. I was very well rewarded for my
pains, for in the small breast-pocket I found _this_. You recognize
it, Mr. Godwin, I can see. It is the receipt for which _you_ searched
the same pocket that night, but a little too late. You only half
did your work when you stabbed Captain Westford in the back, and
flung him down the cellar-steps, to lie and rot there unburied and
forgotten.”
“O, great Heaven!” shrieked Clara, with a wail of agony. “My husband
was murdered then--by him; and you know the secret of his murder! You
know, and you have never denounced the hellish assassin!”
“Hush, Mrs. Westford,” cried the clerk, almost imperiously; “not a
word! I told you that the greatest surprise, the _happiest_ surprise
you had ever experienced in your life, would come upon you to-day.
Wait, and trust in me.”
Mrs. Westford had risen in her sudden agony and terror; but
overawed,--influenced, in spite of herself, by something in the old
clerk’s manner,--she sank back upon her chair, pale and breathless,
waiting to hear more.
“Come, Mr. Godwin,” said Jacob Danielson; “the best thing you can do
is to pay this money quietly, and immediately. You would scarcely
care to have any public inquiries made as to how I came into
possession of this receipt.”
“It is a forgery!” gasped the banker.
“Is it? That’s a question which must be decided by a court of law, if
you dispute the settlement of Mrs. Westford’s claim. And if this case
once gets into a court of law, you may be sure it will be sifted to
the very bottom. The mystery of that summer night at Wilmingdon Hall
will be brought before the public, and then----”
Jacob Danielson uttered the last words very slowly.
“I will pay the money,” cried Rupert Godwin; “but you must give me
time!”
“Not a day! Not an hour! I know the state of your affairs. This money
shall be paid before these ladies leave this house. If you have not
that amount of ready cash, you have convertible securities, and they
must be melted at once. Nor is that all, Mr. Godwin. You must sign a
paper acknowledging that the document under which you took possession
of the Grange----”
“I will do no such thing!” answered the banker defiantly. Then, with
a sudden burst of fury, he sprang upon the old clerk, and seized him
by the throat.
“Villain! hypocrite! dog!” he cried, “you have taken my money, you
have pretended to serve me, and now you turn upon me and betray
me--you, my slave, my foot-ball, the creature that I have paid as I
pay the lowest scullery-maid in my house! But I----”
He released his hold, for the door was opened, and one of the clerks
looked in with a scared face. He had overheard the noise of the
scuffle in the outer office.
But as Rupert Godwin had sunk back exhausted into his chair, and as
Jacob Danielson was standing quietly by him in his usual deferential
attitude when the man looked in, he murmured an apology and withdrew,
closing the door behind him.
“You perceive, Mr. Godwin, that violence here is not quite so secure
from detection as in the cellars of the northern wing. Every man’s
house is his castle; but there is some difference between a haunted
abbey in Hertfordshire and an office in the heart of Lombard-street,”
said Jacob, with quiet significance. “I tell you again, you had
better call your cashier, and order him to realize stock to the
amount of twenty thousand pounds. How about those Canadian
Grand-Trunk Debenture Bonds which you bought the other day? Ah, I
had my eye upon you, you see, when you were quite unconscious of my
watchfulness. That’s a capital form of security. Safe as a bank-note;
easy to realize; no fuss or bother involved in the transfer. You can
sell those in the open market. We will talk of the forged documents
afterwards.”
Never was baffled fury more strongly visible in a human face than it
was in the scowling visage of the banker, as he turned from the clerk
and touched a little handbell on the table.
His summons was responded to in less than a minute. The same clerk
who had looked into the room before looked in again.
“The cashier,” said Rupert Godwin briefly.
The clerk retired, and another man presented himself.
“You realized some Mexican securities yesterday, by my order?” said
the banker.
“I did, sir.”
“To what amount?”
“Twenty-four thousand three hundred and twenty pounds.”
“You will hand over bank-notes to the amount of twenty-one thousand
pounds to this lady.”
The banker pointed to Mrs. Westford. The cashier looked surprised;
but he bowed in assent, retired, and presently reappeared with a
packet of bank-notes.
“Twenty notes of five hundred each, and eleven notes of a thousand
each,” said the cashier, as he handed the packet to his employer.
“Good. And now your deposit-receipt,” said the banker to Jacob
Danielson.
The clerk gave Rupert Godwin the oblong slip of paper with one hand,
while with the other he received the packet of notes.
“There, Mrs. Westford, is the fortune amassed by your husband in
years of hazardous adventure,” said Jacob Danielson. “The documents
relating to the Grange will be admitted as forgeries by Mr. Godwin.
And you will be able to return to your home whenever you please.”
“I cannot accept this money,” answered Clara.
“But it is your own.”
“It has passed through the hands of my husband’s murderer. There
is not one of these notes that, to my mind, is not stained with my
husband’s blood. It is not money which I want, Mr. Danielson, but
justice--justice on the man who murdered my husband.”
“She is mad!” cried Rupert Godwin hoarsely. “I will not be thus
defied in my own house by a mad woman and a scoundrel. I will----”
His hand moved towards the bell, but he did not touch it.
“Ring that bell, Rupert Godwin,” cried the old clerk; “or if you will
not, I will.”
The clerk’s skinny fingers pressed the spring of the bell,--not once
only, but three separate times.
“What is the meaning of this?” gasped the banker.
“It means that you have failed in the capacity of assassin as
completely as you have failed in your commercial career, Mr. Godwin,”
answered the clerk coolly.--“You shall have justice, Mrs. Westford,”
he continued, turning to Clara, “but not on the murderer of your
husband, for he survived the stroke that was intended to be his
death-blow. He is here to denounce, in his own person, the would-be
assassin and the daring swindler.”
As the old clerk spoke, the powerful form of the merchant captain
appeared upon the threshold, and in the next moment Clara Westford
flung herself into her husband’s arms with a wild hysteric shriek.
It was indeed as if the dead had been restored to life.
Harley Westford had changed terribly since the hour when he had
last stood in that room, in all the pride and vigour of manhood.
His stalwart figure had wasted, though it still retained its noble
outline. His handsome face was pale and careworn; dark circles
surrounded his frank blue eyes, and haggard lines had been drawn
about his mouth; but as he clasped his wife to his breast, his
countenance was illumined by a light which restored to it, for a
moment, all its former brightness.
“It is not a dream!” cried Clara; “it is not a dream! O, Harley,
Harley, is it really you? I have suffered so much--so much! I can
scarcely bear this surprise.”
These words were spoken amidst hysteric sobs that almost choked their
utterance. Violet was sobbing on her father’s shoulder. The Captain
looked from his wife to his daughter. Unspeakable affection beamed
from his countenance; but he was unable to utter a word. He sank into
a chair presently, quite overcome, and his wife and child knelt one
on each side of him.
Rupert Godwin looked on this picture with the gaze of a baffled
fiend. He had the passions of an Iago, but not the triumph which
gladdened the heart of the Venetian schemer even in the hour of
defeat. He had not the grim satisfaction of seeing the ruin he had
worked. He had achieved nothing--not even the misery of the rival he
hated.
“I told you you only half did your work that night at Wilmingdon
Hall. With all your cleverness, you’ve proved no better than a
bungler!” exclaimed the old clerk triumphantly.
The banker groaned aloud; but he uttered no exclamation of
surprise--no questioning word. Ruin had fallen upon him--so entire,
so unexpectedly, that he was quite unable to struggle longer with
the awful shadow of Nemesis. He could only abandon himself to a
sullen despair. Remorse was a stranger to _his_ nature: remorse is
the sorrow we feel for the wrong we have done to others. It was only
on his own account that Rupert Godwin suffered.