the reverend mr. hastings had audibly expressed a wish never again to be left in the responsible position of trustee, and the reverend mr. hastings echoed it a second time as he ascended a gig which was to convey him to binham. a vestry meeting at all souls’ had been called for that evening at seven o’clock; but something arose during the day connected with the trust, and at four mr. hastings set off in a gig to see brierly, the late agent to the chisholm property. “i’ll be back by seven if i can, smith,” he observed to his clerk. “if not, the meeting must commence without me.”
the way to binham lay through shady lanes and unfrequented roads: unfrequented as compared with those where the traffic is great. it was a small place about six miles’ distance from prior’s ash, and the rector enjoyed the drive. the day was warm and fine as the previous one had been—when you saw maria godolphin walking through the hayfield. shady trees in some parts met overhead, the limes gave forth their sweet perfume, the heavy crops of grass gladdened the rector’s eye, some still uncut, some in process of being converted into hay by labourers, who looked off to salute the well-known clergyman as he drove past.
“i might have brought rose, after all,” he soliloquized. “she would have had a pleasant drive. only she would have been half an hour getting ready.”
he found mr. brierly at home, and their little matter of business was soon concluded. mr. hastings had other places to call at in the town: he had always plenty of people to see when he went to binham, for he knew every one in it.
“i wish you would take something,” said the agent.
“i can’t stay,” replied mr. hastings. “i shall find old mrs. chisholm at tea, and can take a cup with her, standing. that won’t lose time. you have not heard from harknar?”
“no: not directly. his brother thinks he will be home next week.”
“the sooner the better. i want the affair settled, and the money placed out.”
he held out his hand as he spoke. mr. brierly, who, in days long gone by, when they were both boys together, had been an old school-fellow of the rector’s, put his own into it. but he did not withdraw it: he appeared to be in some hesitation.
[273]“mr. hastings, excuse me,” he said, presently, speaking slowly, “have you kept the money, which i paid over to you, in your own possession?”
“of course not. i took it the same night to the bank.”
“ay. i guessed you would. is it safe?” he added, lowering his voice.
“safe!” echoed mr. hastings.
“i will tell you why i speak. rutt the lawyer, over at your place, was here this afternoon, and in the course of conversation he dropped a hint that something was wrong at godolphins’. it was not known yet, he said, but it would be known very soon.”
mr. hastings paused. “did he state his grounds for the assertion?”
“no. from what i could gather, it appeared that he spoke from some vague rumour that was going about.”
“i think i can explain it,” said mr. hastings. “a packet of deeds belonging to one of their clients has been lost—has disappeared at least in some unaccountable manner; and this, i expect, must have given rise to the rumour. but the loss of twenty such packets, all to be made good, would not shake the solvency of godolphin, crosse, and godolphin.”
“that must be it, then! what simpletons people are! swallowing any absurd rumour that gets afloat; converting a molehill into a mountain! i thought it strange—for a stable old house like the godolphins’.”
“let me recommend you, brierly, not to mention it further. if such a report got about, it might cause a run upon the bank. not but that, so far as i believe, the bank could stand any run that might be made upon it.”
“i should not have mentioned it at all, except to you,” returned mr. brierly. “and only to you, because i expected the chisholms’ money was there. rutt is not a safe man to speak after, at the best of times. i told him i did not believe him. and i did not. still—if anything were to happen, and i had bottled up the rumour, without giving you a hint of it, i should never cease to blame myself.”
“that is the origin of it, you may be sure; the loss of those deeds,” observed the rector. “i know the clerks were questioned about it yesterday, and some of them must have got talking out of doors. good day, brierly.”
mr. hastings paid the rest of his visits, and drove home. in spite of himself, he could not keep his mind from reverting—and somewhat unpleasantly—to what he had heard. he believed the bank to be perfectly solvent; to be more than solvent. until the previous evening, when isaac had made that communication to him, he had been ready to answer for its flourishing condition on his own responsibility, if required. he fully believed the rumour, spoken of by rutt the lawyer, to arise from some distorted hints of the missing deeds which had oozed out, and to have no other foundation whatever: and yet he could not keep his mind from reverting to it uneasily.
the ting-tang (it deserved no better name, and prior’s ash gave it no other) of all souls’ church was sending forth its last notes as the rector drove in. handing over the horse and gig to the waiting[274] servant of the friend from whom it was borrowed—a gig always at the disposal of the rector—he made his way to the vestry, and had the pleasure of presiding at a stormy meeting. there were divided parties in the parish at that time, touching a rate to be paid, or a non-rate; and opposing eloquence ran high. personally, the rector was not an interested party; but he had a somewhat difficult course to steer between the two, to avoid offending either. it was half-past nine when the meeting broke up.
“any news of the missing deeds, isaac?” he took an opportunity of asking his son.
“i think not,” replied isaac. “we have heard nothing about it to-day.”
“i suppose things have gone on, then, as usual?”
“quite so. we shall hear no more of it, i dare say, in the bank. if the bonds can’t be found, the firm will have to make them good, and there’ll be an end of it.”
“a very unsatisfactory ending, i should think, if i had to make them good,” observed the rector. “i don’t like things disappearing, nobody knows how or why.”
he said no more. he gave no hint to isaac of the rumour that had been whispered to him, nor questioned him upon its probable foundation. it was the best proof that mr. hastings assigned to it no foundation. in sober reason he did not do so.
but things—- troubles, cares, annoyances—wear different aspects in the day and in the night. more than all, suspense wears a different one. an undefined dread, whatever may be its nature, can be drowned in the daily bustle of life: business, pleasure, occupation. these fill up the mind, and the bugbear is lost sight of. but at night, when the head lies upon the sleepless pillow, and there is nothing to distract the thoughts; when all around is dark and silent, then, if there is an inner, secret dread, it asserts itself in guise worse than reality.
mr. hastings was not an imaginative man. quite the contrary. he was more given to dealing with things, whether pleasant or painful, in a practical manner by daylight, than to racking his brains with them at night. therefore, the way in which the new doubt troubled him as he lay in bed that night, was something wonderful. had he been a fanciful woman, he could not have experienced worse treatment from his imagination. it was running riot within him. could it be that the money entrusted to him was gone?—lost? had he put it into that bank for safety, only to find that the bank would never refund it again? how was he to make it good? he could not make it good, and the little chisholms, the children of his dead friend, would be beggars! he thought not of his own money, lodged in the charge of godolphin, crosse, and godolphin; that seemed as nothing in comparison with this. mr. hastings had had rather an expensive family; he had given money away in his parish—a conscientious clergyman is obliged to give, more or less—and his savings, all told, did not amount to more than two thousand pounds. it was not of that, equally at stake, that he thought, but of this other and larger sum, of which he was but the steward.
try as he would, he could not get to sleep; try as he would, he[275] could not put these half-insane visions from him. his mind became wrought up to its very highest pitch; he could have found it in his heart to get up, make his way to the bank, knock up george godolphin, and demand his money back again. he registered a silent resolve that he would go there with the first glimmer of daylight. yesterday he was a free man, a man at his ease, it may be said a prosperous man; to-morrow, should that money be beyond his reach, he would be ruined for ever; broken down under his weight of care. what if he were too late!—if he went to the bank, and was told, “the bank is in embarrassment, and we cannot refund!” oh, how supinely careless had he been, to suffer a whole day to slip by since isaac’s warning! any hour of that past day he might have withdrawn the money; might now have had it securely in the chest by his bedside. when another day dawned, it might be too late.
torments such as these—and they were all the more intolerable from the fact of his not being used to them—haunted him throughout the night. they have haunted us: they, or similar ones. towards morning he dropped into a heavy sleep, awaking later than his usual hour. those dark visions had gone then; but their effect remained sufficient to keep the rector to his resolve of drawing out the money. “i’ll go the first thing after breakfast,” said he, as he dressed himself.
but, when breakfast was over, and the business of the day was fairly entered upon, mr. hastings felt half ashamed of his resolution. the visions of the night appeared to him to be simply fantastic follies, diseased creations of the brain: should there be really no cause for his withdrawal of the money, how worse than foolish he would look!—nay, how unjustifiable would such a procedure be!
what ought he to do? he leaned over the gate while he took counsel with himself. he had put on his hat and taken his stick, and gone forth; and there he stopped, hesitating. a strange frame of mind for mr. hastings, who was not of a vacillating nature. suddenly he flung the gate open and went through with a decisive step; his determination was taken. he would steer a middle course, present himself to his son-in-law, george godolphin, and ask him frankly, as a friend and relative, whether the money was safe.
many a one would have decided that it was a safe and proper course to pursue. mr. hastings deemed it to be such, and he proceeded to the bank. the fresh air, the bright sun, the pleasant bustle of daily life, had well-nigh dissipated any remaining fears before he got there.
“can i see mr. george godolphin?” he inquired.
“mr. george is engaged at present, sir,” replied the clerk to whom he had addressed himself. “he will be at liberty soon. would you like to take a seat?”
mr. hastings sat down on the chair handed him, and waited; watching at his leisure the business of the bank. several people were there. some were paying money in, some drawing it out. there appeared to be no hesitation, either in paying or receiving: all seemed as usual. one man brought a cheque for nine hundred and odd pounds, and it was counted out to him. “i feel sure it is all right,” was the conclusion come to by mr. hastings.
about ten minutes, and george godolphin came forward. “ah! is[276] it you?” said he, with his sunny smile. “you are here early this morning.”
“i want to say just a word to you in private, mr. george.”
george led the way to his room, talking gaily. he pushed a chair towards mr. hastings, and took his own. never a face more free from care than his; never an eye less troubled. he asked after mrs. hastings; asked after reginald, who was daily expected home from a voyage—whether he had arrived. “maria dreamt last night that he had returned,” said he, laughing, “and told her he was never going to sea again.”
mr. hastings remembered his dreams—if dreams they could be called. he was beginning to think that he must have had nightmare.
“mr. george, i have come to you upon a strange errand,” he began. “will you for a few moments regard me as a confidential friend, and treat me as one?”
“i hope it is what i always do, sir,” was the reply of george godolphin.
“ay; but i want a proof of your friendship this morning. but for my being connected with you by close ties, i should not have so come. tell me, honestly and confidentially, as between man and man—is that trust-money safe?”
george looked at mr. hastings, his countenance slightly changing. mr. hastings thought he was vexed.
“i do not understand you,” he said.
“i have heard a rumour—i have heard, in fact, two rumours—that—— the long and the short of it is this,” more rapidly continued mr. hastings, “i have heard that there’s something doubtful arising with the bank.”
“what on earth do you mean?” exclaimed george godolphin.
“is there anything the matter? or is the bank as solvent as it ought to be?”
“i should be sorry to think it otherwise,” replied george. “i don’t understand you. what have you heard?”
“just what i tell you. a friend spoke to me in private yesterday, when i was at binham, saying that he had heard a suspicion of something being wrong with the bank here. you will not be surprised that i thought of the nine thousand pounds i had just paid in.”
“who said it?” asked george. “i’ll prosecute him if i can find out.”
“i dare say you would. but i have not come here to make mischief. i stopped his repeating it, and i, you know, am safe, so there’s no harm done. i have passed an uneasy night, and i have come to ask you to tell me the truth in all good faith.”
“the bank is all right,” said george. “i cannot imagine how such a report could by any possibility have arisen,” he continued, quitting the one point for the other. “there is no foundation for it.”
george godolphin spoke in all good faith when he said he could not tell how the report could have arisen. he really could not. nothing had transpired at prior’s ash to give rise to it. possibly he deemed, in his sanguine temperament, that he spoke in equally good faith, when assuring mr. hastings that the bank was all right: he may have believed that it would so continue.
[277]“the money is safe, then?”
“perfectly safe.”
“otherwise, you must let me have it out now. were it to be lost, it would be ruin to me, ruin to the little chisholms.”
“but it is safe,” returned george, all the more emphatically, because it would have been remarkably inconvenient, for special reasons, to refund it then to mr. hastings. i repeat, that he may have thought it was safe: safe in so far as that the bank would get along somehow, and could repay it sometime. meanwhile, the use of it was convenient—how convenient, none knew, except george.
“a packet of deeds has been mislaid; or is missing in some way,” resumed george. “they belong to lord averil. it must be some version of that which has got abroad—if anything has got abroad.”
“ay,” nodded mr. hastings. the opinion coincided precisely with what he had expressed to the agent.
“i know of nothing else wrong with the bank,” spoke george. “were you to ask my brother, i am sure he would tell you that business was never more flourishing. i wish to goodness people could be compelled to concern themselves with their own affairs instead of inventing falsehoods for their friends!”
mr. hastings rose. “your assurance is sufficient, mr. george: i do not require your brother’s word to confirm it. i have asked it of you in all good faith, maria being the link between us.”
“to be sure,” replied george; and he shook mr. hastings’s hand as he went out.
george remained alone, biting the end of his quill pen. to hear that any such rumour was abroad vexed and annoyed him beyond measure. he only hoped that it would not spread far. some wiseacre must have picked up an inkling about the deeds, and converted it into a doubt upon the bank’s solvency. “i wish i could hang the fools!” muttered george.
his wish was interrupted. some one came in and said that mr. barnaby desired to see him.
“let him come in,” said george.
mr. barnaby came in. a simple-looking man of quiet manners, a corn-dealer, who kept an account at the bank. he had a canvas bag in his hand. george asked him to take a seat.
“i was going to pay in two thousand pounds, sir,” said he, slightly lifting the bag to indicate that the money was there. “but i should like, first of all, to be assured that it’s all right.”
george sat and stared at him. was prior’s ash all going mad together? george honestly believed that nothing yet had transpired, or could have transpired, to set these doubts afloat. “really, mr. barnaby, i do not understand you,” he said, with some hauteur: just as he had answered mr. hastings.
“i called in at rutt’s, sir, as i came along, to know what had been done in that business where i was chiselled out of that load of barley, and i happened to mention that i was coming on here to pay in two thousand pounds. ‘take care that it’s all right,’ said rutt. ‘i heard the bank talked about yesterday.’ is it all right, sir?”
[278]“it is as right as the bank of england,” impulsively answered george. “rutt shall be brought to account for this.”
“well, i thought it was odd if there was anything up. then i may leave it with safety?”
“yes, you may,” replied george. “have you not always found it safe hitherto?”
“that’s just it: i couldn’t fancy that anything wrong had come to it all of a sudden. i’ll go and pay it in then, sir. it won’t be for long, though. i shall be wanting it out, i expect, by the end of next week.”
“whenever you please, mr. barnaby,” replied george.
the corn-dealer retired to leave his money, and george godolphin sat on alone, biting his pen as before. where could these rumours have had their rise? harmlessly enough they might have fallen, had nothing been rotten at the core of affairs: george alone knew how awfully dangerous they might prove now, if they got wind.
