CHAPTER XXXV. — BEATRICE’S RECOVERY.
It was not easy for the overtasked and overworn powers of Beatrice to rally. Weeks passed before she opened her eyes to a recognition of the world around her. It was March when she sank down by the road-side. It was June when she began to recover from the shock of the terrible excitement through which she had passed.
Loving hearts sympathized with her, tender hands cared for her, vigilant eyes watched her, and all that love and care could do were unremittingly exerted for her benefit.
As Beatrice opened her eyes after her long unconsciousness she looked around in wonder, recognizing nothing. Then they rested in equal wonder upon one who stood by her bedside.
She was slender and fragile in form, with delicate features, whose fine lines seemed rather like ideal beauty than real life. The eyes were large, dark, lustrous, and filled with a wonderful but mournful beauty. Yet all the features, so exquisite in their loveliness, were transcended by the expression that dwelt upon them. It was pure, it was spiritual, it was holy. It was the face of a saint, such a face as appears to the rapt devotee when fasting has done its work, and the quickened imagination grasps at ideal forms till the dwellers in heaven seem to become visible.
In her confused mind Beatrice at first had a faint fancy that she was in another state of existence, and that the form before her was one of those pure intelligences who had been appointed to welcome her there. Perhaps there was some such thought visible upon her face, for the stranger came up to her noiselessly, and stooping down, kissed her.
“You are among friends,” said she, in a low, sweet voice. “You have been sick long.”
“Where am I?”
“Among loving friends,” said the other, “far away from the place where you suffered.”
Beatrice sighed.
“I hoped that I had passed away forever,” she murmured.
“Not yet, not yet,” said the stranger, in a voice of tender yet mournful sweetness, which had in it an unfathomable depth of meaning. “We must wait on here, dear friend, till it be His will to call us.”
“And who are you?” asked Beatrice, after a long and anxious look at the face of the speaker.
“My name is Edith Brandon,” said the other, gently.
“Brandon!—Edith Brandon!” cried Beatrice, with a vehemence which contrasted strangely with the scarce-audible words with which she had just spoken.
The stranger smiled with the same melancholy sweetness which she had shown before.
“Yes,” said she; “but do not agitate yourself, dearest.”
“And have you nursed me?”
“Partly. But you are in the house of one who is like an angel in her loving care of you.”
“But you—you?” persisted Beatrice; “you did not perish, then, as they said?”
“No,” replied the stranger; “it was not permitted me.”
“Thank God!” murmured Beatrice, fervently. “He has one sorrow less. Did he save you?”
“He,” said Edith, “of whom you speak does not know that I am alive, nor do I know where he is. Yet some day we will perhaps meet. And now you must not speak. You will agitate yourself too much. Here you have those who love you. For the one who brought you here is one who would lay down his life for yours, dearest—he is Paolo Langhetti.”
“Langhetti!” said Beatrice. “Oh, God be thanked!”
“And she who has taken you to her heart and home is his sister.”
“His sister Teresa, of whom he used to speak so lovingly? Ah! God is kinder to me than I feared. Ah, me! it is as though I had died and have awaked in heaven.”
“But now I will speak no more, and you must speak no more, for you will only increase your agitation. Rest, and another time you can ask what you please.”
Edith turned away and walked to one of the windows, where she looked out pensively upon the sea.
From this time Beatrice began to recover rapidly. Langhetti’s sister seemed to her almost like an old friend since she had been associated with some of her most pleasant memories. An atmosphere of love was around her: the poor sufferer inhaled the pure and life-giving air, and strength came with every breath.
At length she was able to sit up, and then Langhetti saw her. He greeted her with all the ardent and impassioned warmth which was so striking a characteristic of his impulsive and affectionate nature. Then she saw Despard.
There was something about this man which filled her with indefinable emotions. The knowledge which she had of the mysterious fate of his father did not repel her from him. A wonderful and subtle sympathy seemed at once to arise between the two. The stern face of Despard assumed a softer and more genial expression when he saw her. His tone was gentle and affectionate, almost paternal.
{Illustration: “AS BEATRICE OPENED HER EYES AFTER HER LONG UNCONSCIOUSNESS SHE LOOKED AROUND IN WONDER."}
What was the feeling that arose within her heart toward this man? With the one for her Father who had inflicted on his father so terrible a fate, how did she dare to look him in the face or exchange words with him? Should she not rather shrink away as once she shrank from Brandon?
Yet she did not shrink. His presence brought a strange peace and calm over her soul. His influence was more potent over her than that of Langhetti. In this strange company he seemed to her to be the centre and the chief.
To Beatrice Edith was an impenetrable mystery. Her whole manner excited her deepest reverence and at the same time her strongest curiosity. The fact that she was his sister would of itself have won her heart; but there were other things about her which affected her strangely.
Edith moved among the others with a strange, far-off air, an air at once full of gentle affection, yet preoccupied. Her manner indicated love, yet the love of one who was far above them. She was like some grown person associating with young children whom he loved. “Her soul was like a star and dwelt apart.”
Paolo seemed more like an equal; but Paolo himself approached equality only because he could understand her best. He alone could enter into communion with her. Beatrice noticed a profound and unalterable reverence in his manner toward Edith, which was like that which a son might pay a mother, yet more delicate and more chivalrous. All this, however, was beyond her comprehension.
She once questioned Mrs. Thornton, but received no satisfaction. Mrs. Thornton looked mysterious, but shook her head.
“Your brother treats her like a divinity.”
“I suppose he thinks she is something more than mortal.”
“Do you have that awe of her which I feel?”
“Yes; and so does every one. I feel toward her as though she belonged to another world. She takes no interest in this.”
“She nursed me.”
“Oh yes! Every act of love or kindness which she can perform she seeks out and does, but now as you grow better she falls back upon herself.”
Surrounded by such friends as these Beatrice rapidly regained her strength. Weeks went on, and at length she began to move about, to take long rides and drives, and to stroll through the Park.
During these weeks Paolo made known to her his plans. She embraced them eagerly.
“You have a mission,” said he. “It was not for nothing that your divine voice was given to you. I have written my opera under the most extraordinary circumstances. You know what it is. Never have I been able to decide how it should be represented. I have prayed for a Voice. At my time of need you were thrown in my way. My Bice, God has sent you. Let us labor together.”
Beatrice grasped eagerly at this idea. To be a singer, to interpret the thoughts of Langhetti, seemed delightful to her. She would then be dependent on no friend. She would be her own mistress. She would not be forced to lead a life of idleness, with her heart preying upon itself. Music would come to her aid. It would be at once the purpose, the employment, and the delight of her life. If there was one thing to her which could alleviate sorrow and grief it was the exultant joy which was created within her by the Divine Art—that Art which alone is common to earth and heaven. And for Beatrice there was this joy, that she had one of those natures which was so sensitive to music that under its power heaven itself appeared to open before her.
All these were lovers of music, and therefore had delights to which common mortals are strangers. To the soul which is endowed with the capacity for understanding the delights of tone there are joys peculiar, at once pure and enduring, which nothing else that this world gives can equal.
Langhetti was the high-priest of this charmed circle. Edith was the presiding or inspiring divinity. Beatrice was the medium of utterance—the Voice that brought down heaven to earth.
Mrs. Thornton and Despard stood apart, the recipients of the sublime effects and holy emotions which the others wrought out within them.
Edith was like the soul.
Langhetti like the mind.
Beatrice resembled the material element by which the spiritual is communicated to man. Hers was the Voice which spoke.
Langhetti thought that they as a trio of powers formed a means of communicating new revelations to man. It was natural indeed that he in his high and generous enthusiasm should have some such thoughts as these, and should look forward with delight to the time when his work should first be performed. Edith, who lived and moved in an atmosphere beyond human feeling, was above the level of his enthusiasm; but Beatrice caught it all, and in her own generous and susceptible nature this purpose of Langhetti produced the most powerful effects.
In the church where Mrs. Thornton and Despard had so often met there was now a new performance. Here Langhetti played, Beatrice sang, Edith smiled as she heard the expression of heavenly ideas, and Despard and Mrs. Thornton found themselves borne away from all common thoughts by the power of that sublime rehearsal.
As time passed and Beatrice grew stronger Langhetti became more impatient about his opera. The voice of Beatrice, always marvelous, had not suffered during her sickness. Nay, if any thing, it had grown better; her soul had gained new susceptibilities since Langhetti last saw her, and since she could understand more and feel more, her expression itself had become more subtle and refined. So that Voice which Langhetti had always called divine had put forth new powers, and be, if he believed himself the High-Priest and Beatrice the Pythian, saw that her inspiration had grown more delicate and more profound.
“We will not set up a new Delphi,” said he. “Our revelations are not new. We but give fresh and extraordinary emphasis to old and eternal truths.”
In preparing for the great work before them it was necessary to get a name for Beatrice. Her own name was doubly abhorrent—first, from her own life-long hate of it, which later circumstances had intensified; and, secondly, from the damning effect which such a name would have on the fortune of any artiste. Langhetti wished her to take his name, but Despard showed an extraordinary pertinacity on this point.
“No,” said he, “I am personally concerned in this. I adopted her. She is my sister. Her name is Despard. If she takes any other name I shall consider it as an intolerable slight.”
He expressed himself so strongly that Beatrice could not refuse. Formerly she would have considered that it was infamous for her to take that noble name; but now this idea had become weak, and it was with a strange exultation that she yielded to the solicitations of Despard.
Langhetti himself yielded at once. His face bore an expression of delight which seemed inexplicable to Beatrice. She asked him why he felt such pleasure. Was not an Italian name better for a singer? Despard was an English name, and, though aristocratic, was not one which a great singer might have.
“I am thinking of other things, my Bicina,” said Langhetti, who had never given up his old, fond, fraternal manner toward her. “It has no connection with art. I do not consider the mere effect of the name for one moment.”
“What is it, then, that you do consider?”
“Other things.”
“What other things?”
“Not connected with Art,” continued Langhetti, evasively. “I will tell you some day when the time comes.”
“Now you are exciting my curiosity,” said Beatrice, in a low and earnest tone. “You do not know what thoughts you excite within me. Either you ought not to excite such ideas, or if you do, it is your duty to satisfy them.”
“It is not time yet.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That is a secret.”
“Of course; you make it one; but if it is one connected with me, then surely I ought to know.”
“It is not time yet for you to know.”
“When will it be time?”
“I can not tell.”
“And you will therefore keep it a secret forever?”
“I hope, my Bicina, that the time will come before long.”
“Yet why do you wait, if you know or even suspect any thing in which I am concerned?”
“I wish to spare you.”
“That is not necessary. Am I so weak that I can not bear to hear any thing which you may have to tell? You forget what a life I have had for two years. Such a life might well prepare me for any thing.”
“If it were merely something which might create sorrow I would tell it. I believe that you have a self-reliant nature, which has grown stronger through affliction. But that which I have to tell is different. It is of such a character that it would of necessity destroy any peace of mind which you have, and fill you with hopes and feelings that could never be satisfied.”
“Yet even that I could bear. Do you not see that by your very vagueness you are exciting my thoughts and hopes? You do not know what I know.”
“What do you know?” asked Langhetti, eagerly.
Beatrice hesitated. No; she could not tell. That would be to tell all the holiest secrets of her heart. For she must then tell about Brandon, and the African island, and the manuscript which he carried and which had been taken from his bosom. Of this she dared not speak.
She was silent.
“You can not know any thing,” said Langhetti. “You may suspect much. I only have suspicions. Yet it would not be wise to communicate these to you, since they would prove idle and without result.” So the conversation ended, and Langhetti still maintained his secret, though Beatrice hoped to find it out.
At length she was sufficiently recovered to be able to begin the work to which Langhetti wished to lead her. It was August, and Langhetti was impatient to be gone. So when August began he made preparations to depart, and in a few days they were in London. Edith was left with Mrs. Thornton. Beatrice had an attendant who went with her, half chaperon half lady’s maid.
CHAPTER XXXVI. — THE AFFAIRS OF SMITHERS & CO.
For more than a year the vast operations of Smithers & Co. had astonished business circles in London. Formerly they had been considered as an eminently respectable house, and as doing a safe business; but of late all this had been changed in so sudden and wonderful a manner that no one could account for it. Leaving aside their old, cautious policy, they undertook without hesitation the largest enterprises. Foreign railroads, national loans, vast joint-stock companies, these were the things that now occupied Smithers & Co. The Barings themselves were outrivaled, and Smithers & Co. reached the acme of their sudden glory on one occasion, when they took the new Spanish loan out of the grasp of even the Rothschilds themselves.
How to account for it became the problem. For, allowing the largest possible success in their former business to Smithers & Co., that business had never been of sufficient dimensions to allow of this. Some said that a rich Indian had become a sleeping partner, others declared that the real Smithers was no more to be seen, and that the business was managed by strangers who had bought them out and retained their name. Others again said that Smithers & Co. had made large amounts in California mining speculations. At length the general belief was, that some individuals who had made millions of money in California had bought out Smithers & Co., and were now doing business under their name. As to their soundness there was no question. Their operations were such as demanded, first of all, ready money in unlimited quantities. This they were always able to command. Between them and the Bank of England there seemed to be the most perfect understanding and the most enviable confidence. The Rothschilds spoke of them with infinite respect. People began to look upon them as the leading house in Europe. The sudden apparition of this tremendous power in the commercial world threw that world into a state of consternation which finally ended in wondering awe.
But Smithers & Co. continued calmly, yet successfully, their great enterprises. The Russian loan of fifteen millions was negotiated by them. They took twenty millions of the French loan, five millions of the Austrian, and two and a half of the Turkish. They took nearly all the stock of the Lyons and Marseilles Railroad. They owned a large portion of the stock of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. They had ten millions of East India stock. California alone, which was now dazzling the world, could account to the common mind for such enormous wealth. The strangest thing was that Smithers himself was never seen. The business was done by his subordinates. There was a young man who represented the house in public, and who called himself Henderson. He was a person of distinguished aspect, yet of reserved and somewhat melancholy manner. No one pretended to be in his confidence. No one pretended to know whether he was clerk or partner. As he was the only representative of Smithers & Co., he was treated with marked respect wherever he appeared.
The young man, whether partner or clerk, had evidently the supreme control of affairs. He swayed in his own hands the thunder-bolts of this Olympian power. Nothing daunted him. The grandeur of his enterprises dazzled the public mind. His calm antagonism to the great houses of London filled them with surprise. A new power had seized a high place in the commercial world, and the old gods—the Rothschilds, the Barings, and others—looked aghast. At first they tried to despise this interloper; at length they found him at least as strong as themselves, and began to fancy that he might be stronger. A few experiments soon taught them that there was no weakness there. On one occasion the Rothschilds, true to their ordinary selfish policy, made a desperate attempt to crush the new house which dared to enter into rivalry with them. Widespread plans were arranged in such a way that large demands were made upon them on one day. The amount was nearly two millions. Smithers & Co. showed not the smallest hesitation. Henderson, their representative, did not even take the trouble to confer with the Bank of England. He sent his orders to the Bank. The money was furnished. It was the Directors of the Bank of England who looked aghast at this struggle between Rothschild and Smithers & Co. The gold in the Bank vaults sank low, and the next day the rates of discount were raised. All London felt the result of that struggle.
Smithers & Co. waited for a few months, and then suddenly retorted with terrific force. The obligations of the Rothschilds were obtained from all quarters—some which were due were held over and not presented till the appointed day. Obligations in many forms—in all the forms of indebtedness that may arise in a vast business—all these had been collected from various quarters with untiring industry and extraordinary outlay of care and money. At last in one day they were all poured upon the Rothschilds. Nearly four millions of money were required to meet that demand.
The great house of Rothschild reeled under the blow. Smithers & Co. were the ones who administered it. James Rothschild had a private interview with the Directors of the Bank of England. There was a sudden and enormous sale of securities that day on Change. In selling out such large amounts the loss was enormous. It was difficult to find purchasers, but Smithers & Co. stepped forward and bought nearly all that was offered. The Rothschilds saved themselves, of course, but at a terrible loss, which became the profits of Smithers & Co.
The Rothschilds retreated from the conflict utterly routed, and glad to escape disaster of a worse kind. Smithers & Co. came forth victorious. They had beaten the Rothschilds at their own game, and had made at least half a million. All London rang with the story. It was a bitter humiliation for that proud Jewish house which for years had never met with a rival. Yet there was no help, nor was there the slightest chance of revenge. They were forced to swallow the result as best they could, and to try to regain what they had lost.
After this the pale and melancholy face of Henderson excited a deeper interest. This was the man who had beaten the Rothschilds—the strongest capitalist in the world. In his financial operations he continued as calm, as grave, and as immovable as ever. He would risk millions without moving a muscle of his countenance. Yet so sagacious was he, so wide-spread were his agencies, so accurate was his secret information, that his plans scarcely ever failed. His capital was so vast that it often gave him control of the market. Coming into the field untrammeled as the older houses were, he had a larger control of money than any of them, and far greater freedom of action.
After a time the Rothschilds, the Barings, and other great bankers, began to learn that Smithers & Co. had vast funds every where, in all the capitals of Europe, and in America. Even in the West Indies their operations were extensive. Their old Australian agency was enlarged, and a new banking-house founded by them in Calcutta began to act on the same vast scale as the leading house at London. Smithers & Co. also continued to carry on a policy which was hostile to those older bankers. The Rothschilds in particular felt this, and were in perpetual dread of a renewal of that tremendous assault under which they had once nearly gone down. They became timid, and were compelled to arrange their business so as to guard against this possibility. This, of course, checked their operations, and widened and enlarged the field of action for their rivals.
No one knew any thing whatever about Henderson. None of the clerks could tell any thing concerning him. They were all new hands. None of them had ever seen Smithers. They all believed that Henderson was the junior partner, and that the senior spent his time abroad. From this it began to be believed that Smithers staid in California digging gold, which he diligently remitted to the London house.
At length the clerks began to speak mysteriously of a man who came from time to time to the office, and whose whole manner showed him to possess authority there. The treatment which he received from Henderson—at once cordial and affectionate—showed them to be most intimate and friendly; and from words which were dropped they all thought him to be the senior partner. Yet he appeared to be very little older than Henderson, if as old, and no one even knew his name. If any thing could add to the interest with which the house of Smithers & Co. was regarded it was this impenetrable mystery, which baffled not merely outriders but even the clerks themselves.
Shortly after the departure of Langhetti and Beatrice from Holby two men were seated in the inner parlor of the office of Smithers & Co. One was the man known as Henderson, the other the mysterious senior partner.
They had just come in and letters were lying on the table.
“You’ve got a large number this morning, Frank?” said the senior partner.
“Yes,” said Frank, turning them over; “and here, Louis, is one for you.” He took out a letter from the pile and handed it to Louis. “It’s from your Brandon Hall correspondent,” he added.
Louis sat down and opened it. The letter was as follows:
“August 15, 1840.
“DEAR SIR,—I have had nothing in particular to write since the flight of Miss Potts, except to tell you what they were doing. I have already informed you that they kept three spies at Holby to watch her. One of these returned, as I told you in my last letter, with the information that she had gone to London with a party named Langhetti. Ever since then they have been talking it over, and have come to the conclusion to get a detective and keep him busy watching her with the idea of getting her back, I think. I hope to God they will not get her back. If you take any interest in her, Sir, as you appear to do, I hope you will use your powerful arm to save her. It will be terrible if she has to come back here. She will die, I know. Hoping soon to have something more to communicate,
“I remain, yours respectfully,
“E.L.
“Mr. Smithers, Sen., London.”
{Illustration: “LANGHETTI IS ALIVE."}
Louis read this letter over several times and fell into deep thought.
Frank went on reading his letters, looking up from time to time. At last he put down the last one.
“Louis!” said he.
Louis looked up.
“You came so late last night that I haven’t had a chance to speak about any thing yet. I want to tell you something very important.”
“Well!”
“Langhetti is alive.”
“I know it.”
“You knew it! When? Why did you not tell me?”
“I didn’t want to tell any thing that might distract you from your purpose.”
“I am not a child, Louis! After my victory over Rothschild I ought to be worthy of your confidence.”
“That’s not the point, Frank,” said Louis; “but I know your affection for the man, and I thought you would give up all to find him.”
“Well!”
“Well. I thought it would be better to let nothing interpose now between us and our purpose. No,” he continued, with a stern tone, “no, no one however dear, however loved, and therefore I said nothing about Langhetti. I thought that your generous heart would only be distressed. You would feel like giving up every thing to find him out and see him, and, therefore, I did not wish you even to know it. Yet I have kept an account of his movements, and know where he is now.”
“He is here in London,” said Frank, with deep emotion.
“Yes, thank God!” said Louis. “You will see him, and we all will be able to meet some day.”
“But,” asked Frank, “do you not think Langhetti is a man to be trusted?”
“That is not the point,” replied Louis. “I believe Langhetti is one of the noblest men that ever lived. It must be so from what I have heard. All my life I will cherish his name and try to assist him in every possible way. I believe also that if we requested it he might perhaps keep our secret. But that is not the point, Frank. This is the way I look at it: We are dead. Our deaths have been recorded. Louis Brandon and Frank Brandon have perished. I am Wheeler, or Smithers, or Forsyth, or any body else; you are Henderson. We keep our secret because we have a purpose before us. Our father calls us from his tomb to its accomplishment. Our mother summons us. Our sweet sister Edith, from her grave of horror unutterable, calls us. All personal feeling must stand aside, Frank—yours and mine—whatever they be, till we have done our duty.”
“You are right, Louis,” said Frank, sternly.
“Langhetti is in London,” continued Louis. “You will not see him, but you can show your gratitude, and so can I. He is going to hire an opera-house to bring out an opera; I saw that in the papers. It is a thing full of risk, but he perhaps does not think of that. Let us enable him to gain the desire of his heart. Let us fill the house for him. You can send your agents to furnish tickets to people who may make the audience; or you can send around those who can praise him sufficiently. I don’t know what his opera may be worth. I know, however, from what I have learned, that he has musical genius; and I think if we give him a good start he will succeed. That is the way to show your gratitude, Frank.”
“I’ll arrange all that!” said Frank. “The house shall be crowded. I’ll send an agent to him—I can easily find out where he is, I suppose—and make him an offer of Covent Garden theatre on his own terms. Yes, Langhetti shall have a fair chance. I’ll arrange a plan to enforce success.”
“Do so, and you will keep him permanently in London till the time comes when we can arise from the dead.”
They were silent for a long time. Louis had thoughts of his own, excited by the letter which he had received, and these thoughts he did not care to utter. One thing was a secret even from Frank.
And what could he do? That Beatrice had fallen among friends he well knew. He had found this out when, after receiving a letter from Philips about her flight, he had hurried there and learned the result. Then he had himself gone to Holby, and found that she was at Mrs. Thornton’s. He had watched till she had recovered. He had seen her as she took a drive in Thornton’s carriage. He had left an agent there to write him about her when he left.
What was he to do now? He read the letter over again. He paused at that sentence: “They have been talking it over, and have come to the conclusion to get a detective, and keep him busy watching her with the idea of getting her back.”
What was the nature of this danger? Beatrice was of age. She was with Langhetti. She was her own mistress. Could there be any danger of her being taken back against her will? The villains at Brandon Hall were sufficiently unscrupulous, but would they dare to commit any violence? and if they did, would not Langhetti’s protection save her?
Such were his thoughts. Yet, on the other hand, he considered the fact that she was inexperienced, and might have peculiar ideas about a father’s authority. If Potts came himself, demanding her return, perhaps, out of a mistaken sense of filial duty, she might go with him. Or, even if she was unwilling to do so, she might yield to coercion, and not feel justified in resisting. The possibility of this filled him with horror. The idea of her being taken back to live under the power of those miscreants from whom she had escaped was intolerable. Yet he knew not what to do.
Between him and her there was a gulf unfathomable, impassable. She was one of that accursed brood which he was seeking to exterminate. He would spare her if possible; he would gladly lay down his life to save her from one moment’s misery; but if she stood in the way of his vengeance, could he—dared he stay that vengeance? For that he would sacrifice life itself! Would he refuse to sacrifice even her if she were more dear than life itself?
Yet here was a case in which she was no longer connected with, but striving to sever herself from them. She was flying from that accursed father of hers. Would he stand idly by, and see her in danger? That were impossible. All along, ever since his return to England, he had watched over her, unseen himself and unsuspected by her, and had followed her footsteps when she fled. To desert her now was impossible. The only question with him was—how to watch her or guard her.
One thing gave him comfort, and that was the guardianship of Langhetti. This he thought was sufficient to insure her safety. For surely Langhetti would know the character of her enemies as well as Beatrice herself, and so guard her as to insure her safety from any attempt of theirs. He therefore placed his chief reliance on Langhetti, and determined merely to secure some one who would watch over her, and let him know from day to day how she fared. Had he thought it necessary he would have sent a band of men to watch and guard her by day and night; but this idea never entered his mind for the simple reason that he did not think the danger was pressing. England was after all a country of law, and even a father could not carry off his daughter against her will when she was of age. So he comforted himself.
“Well,” said he, at last, rousing himself from his abstraction, “how is Potts now?”
“Deeper than ever,” answered Frank, quietly.
“The Brandon Bank—”
“The Brandon Bank has been going at a rate that would have foundered any other concern long ago. There’s not a man that I sent there who has not been welcomed and obtained all that he wanted. Most of the money that they advanced has been to men that I sent. They drew on us for the money and sent us various securities of their own, holding the securities of these applicants. It is simply bewildering to think how easily that scoundrel fell into the snare.”
“When a man has made a fortune easily he gets rid of it easily,” said Louis, laconically. “Potts thinks that all his applicants are leading men of the county. I take good care that they go there as baronets at least. Some are lords. He is overpowered in the presence of these lords, and gives them what they ask on their own terms. In his letters he has made some attempts at an expression of gratitude for our great liberality. This I enjoyed somewhat. The villain is not a difficult one to manage, at least in the financial way. I leave the dénouement to you, Louis.”
“The dénouement must not be long delayed now.”
“Well, for that matter things are so arranged that we may have ‘the beginning of the end’ as soon as you choose.”
“What are the debts of the Brandon Bank to us now?”
“Five hundred and fifteen thousand one hundred and fifty pounds,” said Frank.
“Five hundred thousand—very good,” returned Louis, thoughtfully. “And how is the sum secured?”
“Chiefly by acknowledgments from the bank with the indorsement of John Potts, President.”
“What are the other liabilities?”
“He has implored me to purchase for him or sell him some California stock. I have reluctantly consented to do so,” continued Frank, with a sardonic smile, “entirely through the request of my senior, and he has taken a hundred shares at a thousand pounds each.”
“One hundred thousand pounds,” said Louis.
“I consented to take his notes,” continued Frank, “purely out of regard to the recommendations of my senior.”
“Any thing else?” asked Louis.
“He urged me to recommend him to a good broker who might purchase stock for him in reliable companies. I created a broker and recommended him. He asked me also confidentially to tell him which stocks were best, so I kindly advised him to purchase the Mexican and the Guatemala loan. I also recommended the Venezuela bonds. I threw all these into the market, and by dextrous manipulation raised the price to 3 per cent, premium. He paid £103 for every £100. When he wants to sell out, as he may one day wish to do, he will be lucky if he gets 35 per cent”
“How much did he buy?”
“Mexican loan, fifty thousand; Guatemala, fifty thousand; and Venezuela bonds, fifty thousand.”
“He is quite lavish.”
“Oh, quite. That makes it so pleasant to do business with him.”
“Did you advance the money for this?”
“He did not ask it. He raised the money somehow, perhaps from our old advances, and bought them from the broker. The broker was of course myself. The beauty of all this is, that I send applicants for money, who give their notes; he gets money from me and gives his notes to me, and then advances the money to these applicants, who bring it back to me. It’s odd, isn’t it?”
Louis smiled.
“Has he no bona fide debtors in his own county?”
“Oh yes, plenty of them; but more than half of his advances have been made to my men.
“Did you hint any thing about issuing notes?”
“Oh yes, and the bait took wonderfully. He made his bank a bank of issue at once, and sent out a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in notes. I think it was in this way that he got the money for all that American stock. At any rate, it helped him. As he has only a small supply of gold in his vaults, you may very readily conjecture his peculiar position.”
Louis was silent for a time.
“You have managed admirably, Frank,” said he at last.
“Oh,” rejoined Frank, “Potts is very small game, financially. There is no skill needed in playing with him. He is such a clumsy bungler that he does whatever one wishes. There is not even excitement. Whatever I tell him to do he does. Now if I were anxious to crush the Rothschilds, it would be very different. There would then be a chance for skill.”
“You have had the chance.”
“I did not wish to ruin them,” said Frank. “Too many innocent people would have suffered. I only wished to alarm them. I rather think, from what I hear, that they were a little disturbed on that day when they had to pay four millions. Yet I could have crushed them if I had chosen, and I managed things so as to let them see this.”
“How?”
“I controlled other engagements of theirs, and on the same day I magnanimously wrote them a letter, saying that I would not press for payment, as their notes were as good to me as money. Had I pressed they would have gone down. Nothing could have saved them. But I did not wish that. The fact is they have locked up their means very much, and have been rather careless of late. They have learned a lesson now.”
Louis relapsed into his reflections, and Frank began to answer his letters.