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"Come in," said the banker mechanically, and his mother entered.
With a start Mr. Grey's mother cried out "Henry!" then crossed the room
hastily, and, putting her hand on his arm, looked up into his face with
alarm.
With an amused smile he glanced down at her, and said simply, "Mother?"
in a tone of badinage, as if paying her off in her own coin by replying
to her with a single word.
"What was that you held in your hand and dropped into the bag as I came
in?" she asked with reproachful earnestness, looking up fixedly into
his eyes, as though she would pierce to his innermost thoughts.
He put his hand on her shoulder playfully, and smoothed one of the black
silk strings of her black bonnet with his thumb and finger, returning
her steady gaze with a steady eye and a free smile. "That, mother," he
answered, "is the countersign for thieves."
"The countersign for thieves! What do you mean, Henry; you ought not to
bandy words with your mother."
"Indeed, I am not playing with words. I am only describing the weapon
and its use as briefly as possible. I was looking at my revolver, for I
was just about to set out on a journey. You see, if a thief comes up to
a man armed with a revolver, and demands the man's purse, the man
produces that revolver, and the thief says, "Pass on, friend." If a
thief who has stolen money meets the man he stole it from, or a
policeman, and can pull out a revolver, then he can say to the man or
the policeman, "Let me pass, or I will shoot you down;" or suppose the
thief finds the odds are against him, he can put the barrel to his own
temple, and pass the foe in spite of numbers. Now, mother, don't you
think my explanation is very clever and very exhaustive?"
He placed his two hands on the widow's shoulders, and pushed her back
arm's length, dropped his head roguishly over his shoulder, and laughed
a soft laugh, which seemed to invite her to enjoy his cleverness and be
amused at the humour of the explanation.
Mrs. Grey did not smile. For a moment her face grew puckered and
perplexed. In her eyes shone the light of a mental conflict between
anger and tears. The conflict ended in a few moments. She threw herself
into a chair and covered her face with her hands. She neither stormed
nor wept.
He hastened to her with compunctious solicitude. He knelt on one knee by
her side, and put his powerful arm round her emaciated shoulders, and
with the hand of his other arm gently drew down her hands from her face.
"Mother! mother!" he pleaded, in a tone of passionate tenderness. "I did
not mean to annoy or trouble you. I was only a little wilfully following
out a fancy, a conceit. It was a foolish vanity that made me seem to
play with your questions. You know, my own mother, I would not give you
any pain I could help, for all the world. Forgive me, and let us drop
the nonsense. Forgive me, and let us speak of something else."
All the earnestness of this man's nature went into these words, and
there was in them and the manner attending them a fervid pathos which
stirred the heart of the woman so deeply it almost killed her to keep
from crying out, and throwing her arms round her son, and weeping on his
breast. But by a superhuman effort, an effort no created being could
make but a mother for the salvation of a child, she held her passionate
love within her own heart; for, according to her theory, so must all
women who wish to rule their children; and she wanted to rule, not for
the love of power, but for the love of love and the preservation of her
son.
She gave one quick glance at him out of those sharp eyes, and then
throwing down the eyes on the ground, said in a constrained voice:
"The St. George's Banking Company has failed. There is a run on the
Daneford. You are unable to meet that run, and you were thinking of
getting away from the run and the closing of the doors with----that."
She shuddered, raised her hand, and pointed to the black bag into which
he had dropped the revolver.
"No! no! no! mother!" he cried imploringly. "I pledge you my word--if
you like I will prove to you--that we are able to meet any run that may
come upon us in consequence of this failure. If you like I will call in
Aldridge to corroborate my words."
"Corroborate your word, Henry!" she cried scornfully. "Do you think I
could doubt my son's word, and believe the word of any other man alive!
Never while I live, I hope, shall you fall so pitifully low as to need
another man's word to help your word to my belief." She laid hold of the
imputed question of her son's word as a point on which to rally her
disordered feelings and overcome the tendency she felt to break down.
"Well, mother, rest assured this run threatens us with no danger
whatever. On the contrary, as we are able to meet it without the least
inconvenience, the position of the Bank ought to be very materially
improved when all becomes quiet again." He rose and left her as he
spoke, and locked the two doors of the room, observing: "We don't want
anyone to come in and interrupt us now."
By the time he returned to his seat she had recovered her composure.
"Then what do you mean by 'setting out on a journey?' Those words helped
me into the fear."
As a reply to that question, he pushed the note he had just received
from Mrs. Grant across the table to her, and said: "Read that, and you
will understand."
She adjusted her tortoiseshell spectacles and read the note
deliberately. When she had finished she looked up quickly.
He was standing at the window looking out. His back was towards her, and
she could not see his face. It was wrinkled and drawn up like a yellow
leaf.
"Do you know what you are wanted for at the Castle?" she asked briskly.
"No."
"What has happened to your voice?" she asked, in a tone of anxiety and
surprise. He had spoken as though his windpipe was almost closed in a
gripe.
"Nothing; or at least something has gone against my--breath. What am I
wanted for at the Castle?" Still he spoke as if half suffocated. Still
he kept his face to the window. Still his face was wrinkled and yellow
and withered up.
"I met Dr. Hardy as I came in. He had just driven straight back from the
Castle. There has been a consultation of doctors to-day, and they have
little or no hope of Sir Alexander getting better. He has not yet made
his will, and they all agreed you were the only person likely to have
any influence with him. They could get him to do nothing about it."
Grey's face cleared as if by magic. He turned round suddenly, threw up
both his hands, and burst into a loud and continuous shout of laughter.
His mother started to her feet, and looked at him aghast. "Henry!" she
cried, in great alarm; "Henry, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, mother, nothing," he said between his laughter; "I thought it
was something serious."
She regarded him in a stupor of amazement for a few seconds. "You
thought it was something serious," she whispered, as if she questioned
her hearing.
"Yes, something very serious."
"But it is very serious. He is in danger of death, and has not yet made
his will. Surely that, Henry, is no subject for laughter."
He was composed now. His face was radiant, and he smiled apologetically
as he said: "You must really forgive me, dear mother. The fact is, for
the past quarter of an hour I have been on such a stretch in the
interview between us that to hear of anything else but my own affairs
relieved me, and I could not help laughing. I did not, indeed, laugh at
the thought of poor Sir Alexander being ill; I pity him with all my
heart. But what you said touched some spring of my mind, and I could no
more have forborne to laugh than to breathe for an hour. Well, I think I
had better start for the Island at once. You now feel all right about
the Bank? You feel quite comfortable about it, mother, don't you?"
"Yes, but do not be so odd, Henry; you frighten me to death with your
strange ways of late."
"I have a good deal of anxiety, and perhaps am too abrupt. More of my
abruptness: I can't wait another moment. Good-bye, mother."
And in a few seconds he had gone.
When she found herself alone, she sat down to recover and to reflect.
"Every day," she thought, "he becomes less like his old self, and more
of a riddle."
Her eyes caught something on the table.
"When I came in he told me he was examining that dreadful thing because
he was going on a journey, and now he's gone off and left it behind him
in the bag on that table. Can it be he is losing his reason?"
When Mr. Grey found himself outside the Bank-door he hailed the nearest
fly, jumped in, and cried cheerily to the driver:
"Island Ferry, and I lay you a half-crown to a whip-lash you don't do it
under half an hour. Take the time and drive on."
With a chuckle of grave satisfaction, the banker threw himself back in
the fly, and as they drove rapidly through the town he waved his hand or
doffed his hat at every twenty yards. There was cordiality in every look
that greeted him, and many who saw him go by turned and gazed with
admiration and envy after the fine rich jovial banker.
No wonder he looked pleased. An hour ago, less than an hour ago, he had,
upon reading that note, almost come to the conclusion Sir Alexander
Midharst had discovered he, Grey, had "borrowed" every penny of the
immense sum confided to his charge by the baronet. Such a discovery
would have been to him simply and literally fatal.
Early in this year, when he disclosed the secret of the Bank to his
mother, he and it were bankrupt, and all the depositors' money was gone.
Pressure after pressure had come upon him after that, and all such
demands had been met by "borrowing" the baronet's savings without the
baronet's consent.
Three months ago he was a bankrupt, now he was a bankrupt and a thief.
He had no more right to sell those Consols than to put his hand into any
customer's pocket and take his purse. He had glided into the thing
gradually, beginning by borrowing twenty thousand pounds, which he
caused to be lodged to his own credit at his London agents in the name
of Barrington, Ware, and Duncan, an imaginary firm of Boston merchants,
who remitted the money through their London agent on account of
supposititious dealings in hides on the western coast of the United
States.
The twenty thousand had only stopped the gap for a few days. Then
heavier and heavier bills came to maturity, and before there was any
general uneasiness in the commercial world, one hundred thousand pounds
of the baronet's savings had been "borrowed."
Then came ugly rumours of certain banking establishments; and although
the Daneford Bank was always spoken of with the highest esteem in the
district, the city, and in such quarters of London as it was known, the
accommodation market had got very much straitened, and the Daneford
Bank's London agents not only hinted they did not care to make any
additional advances, but sounded Grey as to the possibility of their
being able to get a little advance from him. Could he let them have
fifty thousand for six weeks on Argentines they did not want to sell?
Here was a chance of showing the stability of his own concern and
helping a friendly firm which might be of incalculable use to him
another time. Now that he had dipped into the Midharst fund, why not go
deeper? He could make something out of this transaction; and it was for
the good of Sir Alexander as well as himself that he should try to pull
back all the money he could, and keep the name of the Bank at the very
highest level. He lent the money.
Then came other pressures because of those old speculations, a quarter
of million at least; and last, more uneasy rumours in the financial
world, and the possibility of a run on the Bank. At all risks the Bank
must stand; for on its stability depended not only the life of Henry
Walter Grey, but all chance of winning back any portion of the baronet's
money.
When the moment of this decision arrived Grey put down his last stake;
sold the last hundred thousand of Sir Alexander's half a million
Consols, and bought the revolver. As he put the matter to himself in his
figurative way, the situation now was a race between gold and lead.
Would the gold, in the form of profits and deposits, come back to him in
such quantities as to prevent the necessity for the outgoing of the
lead?
It was on Wednesday, the 30th of May, 1866, he got that note from Mrs.
Grant. He had just been calculating his chances of falling in for some
of the business of the St. George's Bank. He had even put down a few
figures to please and flatter his sight. It might be that if he could
hold on and get--say, half the business of the Daneford branch of the
St. George's Bank, the chance of the gold overtaking the lead would be
enormously increased. All this was of course contingent upon Sir
Alexander remaining in ignorance of the "borrowing." If that came to his
ears in any way, nothing could prevent the lead overtaking the gold.
That note almost precipitated the crisis. In the usual way when he was
wanted at the Castle Sir Alexander wrote a line himself, or called and
asked the banker down for the evening. This note did not come from Sir
Alexander, but from Miss Midharst's companion. At the moment when his
mother entered a straw might have turned his resolution in favour of
giving the lead a walk-over. But with the news brought by his mother all
was changed, and the gold had taken a good lead.
As he sat back in the fly and reviewed his position he could hardly
restrain his exultation within the bounds of mere facial joy. He would
have liked to get out and run through the streets, and shout.
A few minutes ago he held all black cards to a red trump. Now the whole
pack seemed to have been put before him face up, with liberty to select
his own hand and turn a trump of his own choosing.
No run could injure the Daneford Bank; other banks might fail, but his
was secure for the time; and by the aid of its good substantial name the
Daneford would get strong while others were crumbling, and the future
success of the Bank would be assured beyond the reach of his highest
hope of years ago.
Only two possible chances were against him, and if neither of these
chances turned up within twelve months he might laugh at fate.
The former was that in the will there should be introduced anything
adverse to him. The latter was that the old man should die in less than
twelve months, and leave it incumbent on the banker to render an account
and deliver up the money before the end of twelve months.
Grey had fully made up his mind as to the necessity for a will. Without
a will there would in all likelihood be Chancery proceedings; and while
no one in Daneford would dream of suspecting Grey, or ask details of the
account, much less verification of the items, the Chancery folk will go
through the whole affair as a matter of routine, and not as a matter of
precaution, or because of any suspicion.
Let there be a will, by all means.
It was fine to drive through the bright sunlight of that glorious May
weather, and feel that the gold was overtaking the lead. It was better
than recovering from a long illness; it was coming back, to life and
green fields and the voices of birds and the pressure of hands we love,
out of the dark, damp, noisome tomb.
When Mr. Grey arrived at Island Ferry he alighted, told the driver of
the fly to wait for him, and took the boat to the Island.
As soon as he arrived at the Castle he was shown into the dreary
deserted banquet-room.
Here he found irrepressible little Mrs. Grant waiting for him. After
some time he gathered from her how matters stood, and sent up his name
to the sick man.
Sir Alexander would see Mr. Grey.
When the banker reached the room where the baronet lay, he was greatly
shocked at the change which had taken place in the latter since the last
time they had met, although that was only a few days ago.
There had always been a bright bloom, the bloom of old age heightened
and deepened by the malady which afflicted him chronically, on the old
man's face. Now the cheeks were puffed and purple, and the eyes, once so
keen and cold, were dull and restless and impatient.
The long thin sinewy hands lay outside the counterpane, and the voice of
the sufferer when he spoke was tremulous, querulous, making a painful
contrast to the firm, clear, thin, biting speech of other days.
After the usual greetings and Grey's expression of sorrow for his
indisposition, the old man spoke quickly, and in an unsteady voice.
"These doctors have been worrying me to-day, Grey, and I am very glad
you have come. I want to talk to you. Pull that curtain a little across
the window; I hate the sunlight. Thank you, Grey. Sit down now, where I
can see you. It's a comfort to look at a man like you after those false
prophets and hoarse ravens. The doctors have been with me, Grey; and
they tell me I should make my will. Now I'm not talking to you as a
medical man, but as a man of business. What do you say?"
"Have you spoken to Mr. Shaw about the matter?" asked the banker softly.
"No; I have not spoken to Shaw about it. I hate lawyers," cried the old
man pettishly.
"If I hated lawyers," returned Grey, with a shy smile, "I should not be
without a will for four-and-twenty hours."
"Why?" demanded the old man, with a contraction of the brows and a
glance of suspicion directed at an imaginary group of lawyers.
"You know, Sir Alexander, lawyers have a special prayer, asking for the
management of intestate estates." He raised his eyebrows and smiled
archly at the prostrate man.
"I don't understand you, Grey. These doctors, with their fears and their
jargon, have confused me. What do you mean?"
For a moment the banker looked at the baronet uneasily. Could it be that
already his mind was becoming clouded or torpid? After a moment's
observation and thought, Grey decided that the old man was only dazed
and tired.
"What I mean, Sir Alexander, is, that in cases where there is no will,
the law-costs often consume the whole estate, and _always_ eat up
enormously more money than where there is a sound will."
The old man reflected awhile.
"Have you made your own will?" he asked.
"Certainly. I could not rest if I thought what little fortune I may have
should, instead of going to my wife, be scattered about in this and that
court, in this and that litigation. As I go home the ferry-boat may
overturn and I may be drowned, the horse may run away and I may be
killed. Making a will has with me no connection with good or bad health.
It is a business thing which ought, on the principle of economy, to be
done in time. In nothing more than in making a will is it true that a
stitch in time saves nine?"
There was a long pause.
"Grey!"
"Yes, Sir Alexander."
"You helped me to put this fortune together for my daughter."
A bow of deprecation.
"You have been ten years now taking care of it for her."
"Yes, Sir Alexander." What was coming now? Could all this be a _ruse_?
Was this serene interview to end in a storm of intolerable ruin? Had
this old man been leading up with deceiving equanimity to some
prodigious burst, some unendurable tempest of reproach?
"Will you go still farther?"
"In what way?"
"Will you act as one of the executors, the chief--no, as the sole, as
sole trustee and guardian?"
"What! Sir Alexander, Sir Alexander, are you--are you trifling with me?
If you are, give it up. I cannot, I will not, be trifled with." His
face shrivelled up, and he covered it in his hands. For that brief space
he thought all had been discovered.
"What I say I mean. Why should I trifle with you? If I am to die or be
killed, let me die with the knowledge that the fortune of my child will
be as safe when I am dead as it is now. Will you do this, Grey, for me?"
"I will."
"Then you may tell Shaw to come. Go to him at once. I wish to make my
will."