In the Dead of Night: A Novel. Volume 3 (of 3)

Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott’s second letter, Squire Culpepper was on his way to Sugden’s bank. His heart was heavy, and his step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man—at least, never since he had come into the estate—and he felt the humiliation, as he himself called it, very bitterly. There was something of bitterness, too, in having to confess to his friend Cope how all his brilliant castles in the air had vanished utterly, leaving not a wrack behind.
He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope’s face as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on his fine new mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much about—about which he had bored his friends; the mansion that was to have been built out of the Alcazar shares, but of which not even the foundation-stone would ever now be laid. Then, again, the Squire was far from certain as to the kind of reception which would be accorded him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very cool—refrigerating almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called, Mr. Cope had been invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time being among a cloud of ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be seen by any one save his own immediate satellites. The time had been, and not so very long ago, when he could walk unchallenged through the outer bank office, whoever else might be waiting, and so into the inner sanctum, and be sure of a welcome when he got there. But now he was sure to be intercepted by one or other of the clerks with a “Will you please to take a seat for a moment while I see whether Mr. Cope is disengaged.” The Squire groaned with inward rage as, leaning on his thick stick, he limped down Duxley High Street and thought of all these things.
As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He had to sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were waiting Mr. Cope’s time and pleasure to see them. “He won’t lend me the money,” said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with secret mortification. “He’ll find some paltry excuse for refusing me. It’s almost worth a man’s while to tumble into trouble just to find out who are his friends and who are not.”