by Ellen Wood
Isaac rang the bell, left the room, and hastened back again. The Bank was fuller than ever: and its coffers must be getting low.
“Do you happen to know whether my father has been in?” he whispered to Layton, next to whom he stood.
Layton shook his head negatively. “I think not. I have not observed him.”
Isaac stood upon thorns. He might not quit his post. Every time the doors swung to and fro — and they were incessantly swinging — he looked for Mr. Hastings. But he looked in vain. By-and-by Mr. Hurde came forward, a note in his hand. “Put on your hat, Layton, and take this round,” said he. “Wait for an answer.”
“Let me take it,” almost shouted Isaac. And, without waiting for assent or dissent, he seized the note from Mr. Hurde’s hand, caught up his hat, and was gone. Thomas Godolphin was stepping from his carriage as he passed out.
Isaac had not, this time, to go out of his way. The delivery of the note would necessitate his passing the Rectory. “Rose!” he uttered, out of breath with agitation as he had been before, “is papa not in?”
Rose was sitting there alone. “No,” she answered. “Mamma and Reginald went out just after you. Where did you send them to?”
“Then they can’t find him!” muttered Isaac to himself, speeding off again, and giving Rose no answer. “It will be nothing but ruin.”
A few steps farther, and whom should he see but his father. The Reverend Mr. Hastings was coming leisurely across the fields, from the very direction which Isaac had previously travelled. He had probably been to the Pollard cottages: he did sometimes take that round. Hedges and ditches were nothing to Isaac in the moment’s excitement, and he leaped one of each to get to him; it cut off a step or two.
“Where were you going an hour ago?” called out Mr. Hastings before they met. “You were flying as swiftly as the wind.”
“Oh, father!” wailed Isaac; “did you see me?”
“What should hinder me? I was at old Satcherley’s.”
“If you had only come out to me! I would rather have seen you then than — than — heaven,” he panted. “There’s a run upon the Bank. If you don’t make haste and draw out your money, you’ll be too late.”
Mr. Hastings laid his hand upon Isaac’s arm. It may be that he did not understand him; for his utterance was rapid and full of emotion. Isaac, in his eagerness, shook it off.
“There’s not a moment to lose, father. I don’t fancy they can keep on paying long. Half the town’s there.”
Without another word of delay, Mr. Hastings turned and sped along with a step nearly as fleet as Isaac’s. When he reached the Bank the shutters were being put up.
“The Bank has stopped,” said an officious bystander to the Rector.
It was even so. The Bank had stopped. The good old firm of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin had — GONE!
CHAPTER XVIII. MURMURS; AND CURIOUS DOUBTS.
We hear now and again of banks breaking, and we give to the sufferers a passing sympathy; but none can realize the calamity in its full and awful meaning, except those who are eye-witnesses of the distress it entails, or who own, unhappily, a personal share in it. When the Reverend Mr. Hastings walked into the Bank of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin, he knew that the closing of the shutters, then in actual process, was the symbol of a fearful misfortune, which would shake to its centre the happy security of Prior’s Ash. The thought struck him, even in the midst of his own suspense and perplexity.
One of the first faces he saw was Mr. Hurde’s. He made his way to him. “I wish to draw my money out,” he said.
The old clerk shook his head. “It’s too late, sir.”
Mr. Hastings leaned his elbow on the counter, and approached his face nearer to the clerk’s. “I don’t care (comparatively speaking) for my own money: that which you have held so long; but I must have refunded to me what has been just paid in to my account, but which is none of mine. The nine thousand pounds.”
Mr. Hurde paused ere he replied, as if the words puzzled him. “Nine thousand pounds!” he repeated. “There has been no nine thousand pounds paid in to your account.”
“There has,” was the reply of Mr. Hastings, given in a sharp, distinct tone. “I paid it in myself, and hold the receipt.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the clerk dubiously; “I had your account under my eye this morning, sir, and saw nothing of it. But there’s no fear, Mr. Hastings, as I hope and trust,” he added, confidentially. “We have telegraphed for remittances, and expect a messenger down with them before the day’s out.”
“You are closing the Bank,” remarked Mr. Hastings in answering argument.
“We are obliged to do that. We had not an inexhaustible fountain of funds here: and you see how people have been thronging in. On Monday morning I hope the Bank will be open again; and in a condition to restore full confidence.”
Mr. Hastings felt a slight ray of reassurance. But he would have felt a greater had the nine thousand pounds been handed to him, there and then. He said so: in fact, he pressed the matter. How ineffectually, the next words of the clerk told him.
“We have paid away all we had, Mr. Hastings,” he whispered. “There’s not a farthing left in the coffers.”
“You have paid the accounts of applicants in full, I presume?”
“Yes: up to the time that the funds, in hand, lasted to do it.”
“Was that just? — to the body of creditors?” asked the Rector in a severe tone.
“Where was the help for it? — unless we had stopped when the run began?”
“It would have been the more equable way — if you were to stop at all,” remarked Mr. Hastings.
“But we did not know we should stop. How was it possible to foresee that this panic was about to arise? Sir, all I can say is, I hope that Monday morning will see you, and every other creditor, paid in full.”
Mr. Hastings was pushed away from the counter. Panic-stricken creditors were crowding in, demanding to be paid. Mr. Hastings elbowed his way clear of the throng, and stood aside. Stood in the deepest perplexity and care. What if that money, entrusted to his hands, should be gone? His brow grew hot at the thought.
Not so hot as other brows there: brows of men gifted with less equable temperaments than that owned by the Rector of All Souls’. One gentleman came in and worked his way to the front, the perspiration pouring off him, as from one in sharp agony.
“I want my money!” he cried. “I shall be a bankrupt next week if I can’t get my money.”
“I want my money!” cried a quieter voice at his elbow; and Mr. Hastings recognized the speaker as Barnaby, the corn-dealer.
They received the same answer; the answer which was being reiterated in so many parts of the large room, in return to the same demand. The Bank had been compelled to suspend its payments for the moment. But remittances were sent for, and would be down, if not that day, by Monday morning.
“When I paid in my two thousand pounds a few days ago, I asked, before I would leave it, whether it was all safe,” said Mr. Barnaby, his tone one of wailing distress, though quiet still. But, quiet as it was, it was heard distinctly, for the people hushed their murmurs to listen to it. The general feeling, for the most part, was one of exasperation: and any downright good cause of complaint against the Bank and its management, would have been half as welcome to the unfortunate malcontents as their money. Mr. Barnaby continued:
“I had heard a rumour that the Bank wasn’t right. I heard it at Rutt’s. And I came down here with the two thousand pounds in my hand, and saw Mr. George Godolphin in his private room. He told me it was all right: there was nothing the matter with the Bank: and I left my money. I am not given to hard words; but, if I don’t get it paid back to me, I shall say I have been swindled out of it.”
“Mr. George couldn’t have told that there’d be this run upon the Bank, sir,” replied a clerk, giving the best answer he could, the most plausible excuse: as all the clerks had to exert their wits to do, that day. “The B
ank was all right then.”
“If it was all right then, why isn’t it all right now?” roared a chorus of angry voices. “Banks don’t get wrong in a day.”
“Why did Mr. George Godolphin pass his word to me that it was safe?” repeated Mr. Barnaby, as though he had not heard the refuting arguments. “I should not have left my money here but for that.”
The Rector of all Souls’ stood his ground, and listened. But that George Godolphin was his daughter’s husband, he would have echoed the complaint: that, but for his positive assertion of the Bank’s solvency, he should not have left his money there — the trust-money of the little Chisholms.
When the Bank had virtually closed, the order gone forth to put up the shutters, Mr. Godolphin had retired to an inner room. These clamorous people had pushed in since, in defiance of the assurance that business for the day was over. Some of them demanded to see Mr. Godolphin. Mr. Hurde declined to introduce them to him. In doing so, he was acting on his own responsibility: perhaps to save that gentleman vexation, perhaps out of consideration to his state of health. He knew that his master, perplexed and astounded with the state of affairs, could only answer them as he did — that on Monday morning, all being well, the Bank would be open for business again. Did any undercurrent of doubt that this would be the case, run in Mr. Hurde’s own heart? If so, he kept it down, refusing to admit it even to himself. One thing is certain until that unpleasant episode of the previous day, when the rough, unknown man had applied so loudly and inopportunely for money, Mr. Hurde would have been ready to answer with his own life for the solvency of the house of Godolphin. He had believed, not only in the ability of the house to meet its demands and liabilities, but to meet them, if needed, twice over. That man’s words, reflecting upon Mr. George Godolphin, grated upon Mr. Hurde’s ears at the time, and they had grated on his memory ever since. But, so far as he could do so, he had beaten them down.
The crowd were got rid of. They became at length aware that to stay there would not answer their purpose in any way, would not do them good. They were fain to content themselves with that uncertain assurance, touching Monday morning, and went out, the doors being immediately barred upon them. If the catastrophe of the day was unpleasant for the principals, it was not much less unpleasant for the clerks: and they lost no time in closing the entrance when the opportunity occurred. The only man who had remained was the Rector of All Souls’.
“I must see Mr. Godolphin,” said he.
“You can see him, sir, of course,” was Mr. Hurde’s answer. Mr. Hastings was different from the mob just got rid of. He had, so to say, a right of admittance to the presence of the principals in a three-fold sense: as a creditor, as their spiritual pastor, and as a near connexion; a right which Mr. Hurde would not presume to dispute.
“Mr. Godolphin will see you, I am sure, sir,” he continued, leading the way from the room towards Thomas Godolphin’s. “He would have seen every soul that asked for him, of those now gone out. I knew that, and that’s why I wouldn’t let messages be taken to him. Of what use, to-day?”
Thomas Godolphin was sitting alone, very busily occupied, as it appeared, with books. Mr. Hastings cast a rapid glance round the room, but George was not in it.
It was not two minutes ago that George had left it, and Mr. Hastings had escaped seeing him by those two minutes. George had stood there, condoling with Thomas upon the untoward event of the day, apparently as perplexed as Thomas was, to account for its cause: and apparently as hopeful; nay, as positive; that ample funds would be down, ere the day should close, to set all things right.
“Mr. Godolphin, I have been asking Hurde for my money,” were the first words uttered by the Rector. “Will you not give it me?”
Thomas Godolphin turned his earnest eyes, terribly sad then, on Mr. Hastings, a strangely yearning look in their light. “I wish I could,” he answered. “But, even were it possible for us to do so — to give you a preference over others — it is not in our power. All funds in hand are paid out.”
The Rector did not go over the old ground of argument, as he had to Mr. Hurde — that it was unfair to give preference to the earlier comers. It would answer no end now: and he was, besides, aware that he might have been among those earlier applicants, but for some untoward fate, which had taken him out of the way to the Pollard cottages, and restrained him from speaking to Isaac, when he saw him fly past. Whether Mr. Hastings would have had his nine thousand pounds is another matter. More especially if — as had been asserted by Mr. Hurde — the fact of the payment did not appear in the books.
“Where is George?” asked Mr. Hastings.
“He has gone to the telegraph office,” replied Thomas Godolphin. “There has been more than time for answers to arrive — to be brought here — since our telegrams went up. George grew impatient, and has gone to the station.”
“I wish to ask him how he could so have deceived me,” resumed the Rector. “He assured me only yesterday, as it were, that the Bank was perfectly safe.”
“As he no doubt thought. Nothing would have been the matter, but for this run upon it. There’s quite a panic in Prior’s Ash, I am told; but what can have caused it, I know not. Some deeds of value belonging to Lord Averil have been lost or mislaid, and the report may have got about: but why it should have caused this fear, is to me utterly incomprehensible. I would have assured you myself yesterday, had you asked me, that we were perfectly safe and solvent. That we are so still, will be proved on Monday morning.”
Mr. Hastings bent forward his head. “It would be worse than ruin to me, Mr. Godolphin. I should be held responsible for the Chisholms’ money; should be called upon to refund it; and I have no means of doing so. I dare not contemplate the position.”
“What are you talking of?” asked Thomas Godolphin. “I do not understand. We hold no money belonging to the Chisholms.”
“Indeed you do,” was the reply. “You had it all. I paid in the proceeds of the sale, nine thousand and forty-five pounds.”
Mr. Godolphin paused at the assertion, looking at the Rector somewhat as his head clerk had done. “When did you pay it in?” he inquired.
“A few days ago. I brought it in the evening, after banking hours. Brierly came over from Binham and paid it to me in cash, and I brought it here at once. It was a large sum to keep in the house. As things have turned out, I wish I had kept it,” concluded the Rector, speaking plainly.
“Paid it to George?”
“Yes. Maria was present. I have his receipt for it, Mr. Godolphin,” added the Rector. “You almost appear to doubt the fact. As Hurde did, when I spoke to him just now. He said it did not appear in the books.”
“Neither does it,” replied Thomas Godolphin. “But I do not doubt you, now that you tell me of the transaction. George must have omitted to enter it.”
That “omission” began to work in the minds of both, more than either cared to tell. Thomas Godolphin was marvelling at his brother’s reprehensible carelessness: the Rector of All Souls’ was beginning to wonder whether “carelessness” was the deepest sin about to be laid open in the conduct of George Godolphin. Very unpleasant doubts, he could scarcely tell why, were rising up within him. His keen eye searched the countenance of Thomas Godolphin: but he read nothing there to confirm his doubts. On the contrary, that countenance, save for the great sorrow and vexation upon it, was, as it ever was, clear and open as the day. Not yet, not quite yet, had the honest faith of years, reposed by Thomas Godolphin in his brother, been shaken. Very, very soon was it to come: not the faith to be simply shaken, but rudely destroyed: blasted for ever; as a tree torn up by lightning.
It was useless for Mr. Hastings to remain. All the satisfaction to be obtained was — the confidently-expressed hope that Monday would set things straight. “It would be utter ruin to me, you know,” he said, as he rose.
“It would be ruin to numbers,” replied Thomas Godolphin. “I pray you, do not glance at anything so terrible. There is no cause for it: there i
s not indeed: our resources are ample. I can only say that I should wish I had died long ago, rather than have lived to witness such ruin, brought upon others, through us.”
Lord Averil was asking to see Thomas Godolphin, and entered his presence as Mr. Hastings left it. He came in, all impulse. It appeared that he had gone out riding that morning after breakfast, and knew nothing of the tragedy then being enacted in the town. Do you think the word too strong a one — tragedy? Wait and see its effects. In passing the Bank on his return, Lord Averil saw the shutters up. In the moment’s shock, his fears flew to Thomas Godolphin. He forgot that the death, even of the principal, would not close a Bank for business. Lord Averil, having nothing to do with business and its ways, may have been excused the mistake.
He pulled short up, and sat staring at the Bank, his heart beating, his face growing hot. Only the day before he had seen Thomas Godolphin in health (comparatively speaking) and life; and now, could he be dead? Casting his eyes on the stragglers gathered on the pavement before the banking doors — an unusual number of stragglers, though Lord Averil was too much occupied with other thoughts to notice the fact — he stooped down and addressed one of them. It happened to be Rutt the lawyer, who in passing had stopped to talk with the groups gathered there. Why did groups gather there? The Bank was closed for the rest of the day, nothing to be obtained from its aspect but blank walls and a blank door. What good did it do to people to halt there and stare at it? What good does it do them to halt before a house where murder has been committed, and stare at that?
The Viscount Averil bent from his horse to Rutt the lawyer. “What has happened? Is Mr. Godolphin dead?”
“It is not that, my lord. The Bank has stopped.”
“The — Bank — has —— stopped?” repeated Lord Averil, pausing between each word, in his astonishment, and a greater pause before the last.
“Half an hour ago, my lord. There has been a run upon it this morning; and now they have paid out all their funds, and are obliged to stop.”