THE CRASH.
The plans and objects of Mr Walter Bellamy were best known to himself.
Whatever they might be, he diverged from them for a few hours in order
to give his miserable partner the opportunity he had promised him, of
completing that very inauspicious sentence--the last which he had
uttered in Mr. Bellamy's house previously to his abrupt departure.
Michael had not been in the banking-house an hour after his return
from the Hall before he was visited by a business-like gentleman, who
introduced himself as the particular friend of Mr. Bellamy, on whose
particular business he professed to come. Allcraft, with his brain on
fire, received the visit of this man with secret glee. All the way
home he had prayed that Bellamy might prove as good as his word, and
not fail to demand immediate satisfaction. He longed for death with a
full and yearning desire, and he could kiss the hand that would be
merciful and give the fatal blow. A suicide at heart, it was something
to escape the guilt and punishment of self-murder. Bellamy was reputed
a first-rate shot. Michael was aware of the fact, and hugged the
consciousness to his soul. He would not detract from his reputation;
the duellist should add another laurel to his chaplet of _honour_, and
purchase it with his blood. He had resolved to fight and fall. It was
very evident that the friend of Mr Bellamy expected rather to frighten
Michael into a humble and contrite apology, than to find him ready and
eager for the battle; for he commenced his mission by a very long and
high-flown address, and assured Mr Allcraft, time after time, that
nothing but the most ample and the most public _amende_ could be
received by his friend after what had taken place. Michael listened
impatiently, and interrupted the speaker in the midst of his oration.
"You are quite right, sir," said he. "If an apology is to be made, it
should be an ample one. But I decline to make any whatever. I am
prepared to give Mr Bellamy all the satisfaction that he asks. I will
refer you at once to my friend, and the sooner the affair is settled
the better."
"Well, but surely, Mr Allcraft, you must regret the strong
expression"--
"Which I uttered to your friend? By no means. I told him that he lied.
I repeat the word to you. I would say it in his teeth again if he
stood here. What more is necessary?"
"Nothing," said the gentleman, certainly unprepared for Michael's
resolution. "Nothing; name your friend, sir."
Michael had already fixed upon a second, and he told his name. His
visitor went to seek him, and the poor bewildered man rubbed his hands
gleefully, as though he had just saved his life, instead of having
placed it in such fearful jeopardy.
That day passed like a dream. The meeting was quickly arranged. Six
o'clock on the following morning was the hour fixed. The place was a
field, the first beyond the turnpike gate, and within a mile of the
city. As soon as Michael made sure of the duel, he saw his
confidential clerk. His name was Burrage. He had been a servant in the
banking-house for forty years, and had known Michael since his birth.
It was he who gave the newspaper into Allcraft's hands, on the first
arrival of the latter at the bank that morning. He was a quiet old man
of sixty, an affectionate creature, and as much a part of the
banking-house as the iron chest, the desk, the counter, or any other
solid fixture. He stepped softly into his master's room after he had
been summoned there, and he gazed at his unhappy principal as a father
might at his own child in misfortune--a beloved and favourite child.
"You are not well this morning, sir," said Burrage most respectfully.
"You look very pale and anxious."
"My looks belie me, Burrage. I am very well. I have not been so well
for years. I am composed and happy. I have been ill, but the time is
past. How old are you, Burrage?"
"Turned threescore, sir; old enough to die."
"Die--die! death is a sweet thing, old man, when it comes to the
care-worn. I have had my share of trouble."
"Too much, sir--too much!" said Burrage, his eyes filling with water.
"You have half killed yourself here. I am sure your poor father never
expected this. Nobody could have expected it in his time, when you
were a little, fat, rosy-cheeked boy, running about without a thought,
except a thought of kindness for other people."
Michael Allcraft burst into a flood of tears--they gushed faster and
faster into his eyes, and he sobbed as only men sob who have reached
the climax of earthly suffering and trial.
"Do not take on so, my dear sir," said Burrage, running to him. "Pray,
be calm. I am sure you are unwell. You have been ill for some time.
You should see a doctor--although I am very much afraid that your
disease is beyond their cure--in truth I am."
"Burrage," said Michael in a whisper, and still sighing
convulsively--"It is all over. It is finished. Prepare for the
crash--look to your own safety. Hide yourself from the gaze of men. It
will strike us all dead."
"You frighten me, Mr Allcraft.--You are really very ill. Your brain is
overworked--you want a little repose and recreation."
"Yes, you are right Burrage--the recreation of a jail--the repose of a
tomb. We will have one, at least--yes, one--and I have made the
selection."
"Have you heard any bad news to-day, sir?"
"None--excellent news to-day. No more hopes and fears--no alarms--no
lying and knavery--eternal peace now, and not eternal wretchedness."
"Had you not better leave the bank, Mr Allcraft, and go home? Your
hands are burning hot. You are in a high fever."
"Put up the shutters--put up the shutters," muttered Michael, more to
himself than to his clerk. "Write _bankrupt_ on the door--write it in
large letters--in staring capitals--that the children may read the
word, and know why they are taught to curse me. You hear me, Burrage?"
"I hear what you say, sir, but I do not understand you. You want
rest--you are excited."
"I tell you, Burrage, I am quiet--I never was so quiet--never sounder
in body and mind. Will you refuse to listen to the truth? Man," he
continued, raising his voice and looking the clerk steadily in the
face. "I am ruined--a beggar. The bank is at its last gasp. The doors
are closed to-night--never to be re-opened."
"God forbid, sir!"
"Why so?--Would you drive me mad? Am I to have no peace--no rest? Am I
to be devoured, eaten away by anxiety and trouble? Have you no human
blood--no pity for me? Are you as selfish as the rest?"
"Is it possible, sir?"
"It is the truth. But speak not of it. I will have your life if you
betray me until the event tells its own tale. We close the door
to-night, to open it no more. You hear the words. They are very simple
words. Why do you stare so, as if you couldn't guess their meaning?"
"Oh--I have dreaded this--I have suspected it!" said Burrage, wringing
his hands; "but it has always seemed impossible. Poor Mr Allcraft!"
"_Poor!_" exclaimed Michael. "Do you begin already? Do you throw it in
my teeth so soon? You are in the right, man--go with the stream--taunt
me--spit in my face--trample me in the dust!"
"Do not speak unkindly to me, master," said the old clerk. "You will
break my heart at once if you do. What you have told me is hard enough
to bear in one day."
Michael took the good fellow's hand, and answered, whilst his lips
quivered with grief, "It is--it is enough, old friend. Go your ways.
Leave me to myself. I have told you a secret--keep it whilst it
remains one. Oh, what a havoc! What devastation! Go, Burrage--go--seal
your lips--do not breathe a syllable--go to your work."
The clerk went as he was bid, but stupified and stunned by the
information he had received. He took his accustomed seat at the desk,
and placed a large ledger before him. He was occupied with one trifling
account for half the day, and did not finish it at last. A simple sum of
compound addition puzzled the man who, an hour before, could have gone
through the whole of the arithmetic in his sleep. Oh, boasted intellect
of man! How little is it thou canst do when the delicate and feeling
heart is out of tune! How impotent thou art! How like a rudderless ship
upon a stormy sea! Poor Burrage was helpless and adrift! And Michael sat
for hours together alone, in his little room. He was literally afraid to
creep out of it. He struggled to keep his mind steadily and composedly
fixed upon the fate that awaited him--a fate which he had marked out for
himself, and resolved not to escape. He forced himself to regard the
great Enemy of Man as _his_ best friend--his only comforter and refuge.
But just when he deemed himself well armed, least vulnerable,
and most secure, the awful _reality_ of death--its horrible
accompaniments--dissolution, corruption, rottenness, decay, and its
still more awful and obscure _uncertainties_, started suddenly before
him, and sent a sickening chill through every pore of his unnerved
flesh. Then he retreated from his position--fled, as it were, for life,
and dared not look behind, so terrible was the sight of his grim
adversary. He leaped from his chair, as if unable to sit there; and,
whilst he paced the room, he drew his breath, as though he needed air
for respiration--his heart throbbed, and his brain grew tight and hot
within his skull. The fit passing away, Michael hastened to review the
last few years of his existence, and to bribe himself to quietness and
resignation, by contrasting the hateful life which he had spent with the
desirable repose offered to him in the grave; and by degrees the
agitation ceased--the alarm subsided, and the deluded man was once more
cozened into hardened and unnatural tranquillity. In this way flew the
hours--one train of feeling succeeding to another, until the worn-out
spirit of the man gave in, and would be moved no longer. At last, the
unhappy banker grew sullen and silent. He ceased to sigh, and groan, and
weep. His brain refused to think. He drew his seat to the window of the
room, which permitted him, unperceived, to observe the movements in the
bank--and, folding his arms, he looked doggedly on, and clenched his
teeth, and frowned. He saw the fortunate few who came for money and
received it--and the unfortunate many, who brought their money--left,
and lost it. He was indifferent to all. He beheld--as the spirits fair
may be supposed to look upon the earth a moment before the sweeping
pestilence that comes to thin it--life, vigorous and active, in that
house of business, whose latest hour had come--whose knell was already
sounding; but it moved him not. He heard men speak his name in tones of
kindness, whose lips on the morrow would deal out curses. He saw others,
hat in hand, begging for an audience, who would avoid him with a sneer
and a scorning when he passed them in the street. He looked upon his own
servants, who could not flatter their master too highly to-day, and
would be the first to-morrow to cry him down, and rail against his
unpardonable extravagance and recklessness; but he heeded nothing. His
mind had suspended its operations, whilst his physical eye stared upon
vacancy.
It was very strange. He continued in this fashion for a long time, and
suddenly sensibility seemed restored to him; for an ashy paleness came
over him--his eyelid trembled, and his lips were drawn down
convulsively, as if through strong and heavy grief. He rose instantly,
rushed to the bell, and rang it violently.
Burrage came to answer it.
"Monster!" exclaimed his master, gazing at him spitefully, "have you
no heart--no feeling left within you? How could you do it?"
"Do what, sir?"
"Rob that poor old man. Plunder and kill that hoary unoffending
creature. Why did you take his miserable earnings? Why did you rob his
little ones? Why clutch the bread from his starving grandchildren? He
will die of a broken heart, and will plead against me at the
judgment-seat. Why was that old man's money taken?"
"We must take all, or nothing, sir. You forbade me to speak a
syllable."
"Speak--speak! Yes, but could you not have given him a look, one
merciful look, to save his life, and my soul from everlasting ruin?
You might, you could have done it, but you conspire to overthrow me.
Go--but mark me--breathe not a word, if you hope to live."
The poor clerk held up his hands, shook them piteously, sighed, and
went his way again.
It was six o'clock in the evening, and every soul connected with the
bank, except Michael and Burrage, had left it. They were both in the
private room, which the former had not quitted during the day. Michael
was writing a letter; the clerk was standing mournfully at his side.
When the note was finished, directed, and sealed, Allcraft turned to
his old friend and spoke--
"I shall not sleep at home to-night, Burrage. I have business which
must be seen to."
"Indeed, sir, you had better go home. You are very unwell."
"Silence, once more. I tell you, Burrage, it cannot be. This business
must not be neglected. I have written to Mrs Allcraft, explaining the
reason of my absence. You will yourself deliver the letter to her,
with your own hands, Burrage. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," faltered Burrage, wishing himself deaf.
"Very well. I have no more to say. Good-by--good-night."
"Good-night, sir," said the man, walking slowly off.
"Stay, Burrage. You are a true old friend--my oldest. Give me your
hand. I have spoken unkindly--very harshly and cruelly to-day. Do not
think ill of me. My temper has been soured by the troubles of life.
You forgive me for my anger--do you not?"
The old man did not answer. He could not. He held the hand of his
master tightly in his own. He drew it to his lips and kissed it; and
then, ashamed not of the act, but of his unmanly tears, he walked
slowly to the door, and quitted the room--his head bending to the
earth, whence it never again was raised.
Two hours later Michael was many miles away. He had followed to his
humble home the aged man who had that morning paid his substance into
the bank. Much as he had to answer for, Michael could not bear to
carry about with him the knowledge that he had ruined and destroyed
the grey-haired labourer. Why and how it was that he felt so acutely
for the stranger, and selected him from the hundreds who were beggared
by his failure, it is impossible to guess. It is certain that he
restored every sixpence that had been deposited in the morning, and
could not die until he had done so. Where Allcraft passed the night
was never known. He was punctual to his appointment on the following
morning; and so was Mr Bellamy. It is due to the latter to state,
that, at the latest moment, he was willing, as far as in him lay, to
settle the difference without proceeding to extreme measures. All that
a man could offer, who did not wish to be suspected of rank cowardice,
he offered without reservation. But Allcraft was inexorable. He
repeated his insult on the field; and there was nothing to be done but
to make him accountable for his words at the point of the pistol--to
receive and give THE SATISFACTION OF A GENTLEMAN. Whatever
satisfaction the mangled corpse of a man whom he had deeply injured,
could afford the high-born Mr Bellamy, that gentleman enjoyed in a
very few minutes after his arrival; for he shot his antagonist in the
mouth, saw him spinning in the air, and afterwards lying at his
feet--an object that he could not recognize--a spectacle for devils to
rejoice in. Happy the low-born man who may not have or feel such
exquisite and noble SATISFACTION!
Allcraft was not cold before Mr Bellamy was at sea, sailing for
France. The latter had not put his feet upon foreign soil, before his
property was seized by hungry creditors. The bank was closed. Burrage
himself pasted on the shutters the paper that notified its failure.
Augustus Theodore Brammel heard of the stoppage whilst he was at
breakfast, sipping chocolate; and greatly he rejoiced thereat. His
delight was sensibly diminished in the course of the morning, when he
received a letter informing him of his father's death, and an
intimation from a lawyer, that every farthing which he inherited would
be taken from him, as goods and chattels, for the discharge of claims
which the creditors of the bank might have against him. Later in the
day, he heard of Allcraft's death and Bellamy's escape, and then he
rushed into a chemist's shop and bought an ounce of arsenic; but after
he had purchased it, he had not heart enough to swallow it. Enraged
beyond expression--knowing not what to do, nor upon whom to vent his
rage--it suddenly occurred to him to visit Mrs Allcraft, and to worry
her with his complaints. He hurried to her house, and forced himself
into her presence. We will not follow him, for grief is sacred; and
who that had the heart of man, would desecrate the hearth hallowed by
affliction, deep and terrible as that of our poor Margaret?