A PANIC IN THE CITY.
Autumn of the year which had proved so full of changes to Arthur Franklyn passed into winter, and frost and snow ushered in the time when the angels sang their holy song of "Peace and goodwill to all men."
The red breast of the robin and the holly berries gleamed brighten the glistening snow, and the joyous notes of the sociable bird sounded clear and melodious through the keen frosty air, heralding the birth of another year. Winter gave place to the gentle and balmy air of spring, and April found Mary Armstrong revelling in the country delights at Meadow Farm, when the "sound of the singing of birds has come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land."
With all the firm will and patient endurance of Mary's character she had not a constitution of iron. The alternation of hopes and fears, caused by the various opinions expressed by others in opposition to her father respecting Mr. Halford's family, were at last more than she could bear.
Had the young people been entirely separated, Mary had strength of character sufficient to school her heart to forget Henry Halford. But Sunday after Sunday to have to recognise each other as mere distant acquaintance, and to be required to sit and listen to him with indifference, while others were never tired of showing or expressing their admiration of the talented young clergyman, was indeed an act of positive cruelty on the part of her father to which he seemed quite oblivious.
Mary appeared as submissive now as to his wishes in the past. She was loving and attentive as usual to his requests and his comforts, at times even gay and cheerful, and always contented. She might be a little changed, as cousin Sarah said; but what of that? She was a woman now, and not a child. Why should he notice such whims and fancies? So reasoned Mr. Armstrong. But this strain on the nerves could not last. One evening during dessert she suddenly fell back in her chair and fainted away. Then Mr. Armstrong was aroused to a sense of danger. Dr. West's opinion carried the day.
"Send your daughter into the country for a month, she wants change of air and scene; there is nothing the matter with her yet to cause alarm. Has she anything on her mind, friend Armstrong?" added the doctor, significantly.
"Some silly love affair, I suppose you mean," was the reply; "my daughter, Dr. West, is above giving way to such nonsense."
"Possibly so," said Dr. West; "I know Miss Armstrong well enough to understand that she possesses a strong amount of self-control; but, my dear sir, a young girl's nerves are not iron, so the sooner you send her into the country the better."
The proposal that she should pay a visit to cousin Sarah was hailed with such delight by Mary, that her father could not help saying to himself—
"I hope Sarah will not encourage any nonsensical talk about this young parson who seems to be turning the heads of all the young people in the parish, and the old ones too."
But other circumstances were occurring at the time our chapter commences which drew Mr. Armstrong's thoughts from his daughter's health to matters, in his opinion, of equal importance.
He had an office in the city now, as well as in Dover Street, and went more frequently to the former. One morning, when Mary had been absent a week, he was met on his arrival at the office by his head clerk with a very rueful face.
"Have you heard, sir, what has happened?" he asked.
"No," was the hasty reply; "I've not seen the Times yet. Is there anything serious, Wilson?"
"I'm afraid it is, sir; Overton and Boyd have stopped payment."
Mr. Armstrong sank back into his chair as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, while every vestige of colour forsook his cheeks.
"I am sorry I told you so suddenly, sir," said Mr. Wilson; "will it affect you very greatly?"
Mr. Armstrong, though for a moment surprised out of his usual self-possession, quickly recovered himself and said, "Not to cause me any serious injury; Wilson, but I have several thousands in the hands of these bankers, and that is too much to lose."
"Indeed it is, sir; but perhaps the reports have been exaggerated, and there may be an official letter amongst your correspondence explaining matters more correctly."
Mr. Armstrong turned to his letters.
"All right, Wilson, I daresay there is; don't wait, I'll call you if I find that any letters require attention."
Left to himself, Mr. Armstrong quickly opened letter after letter. Yes, there it was, from Overton and Boyd. Obliged from a sharp run on the bank to suspend payment; hoped to be able to recover themselves in a few days, and so on.
Edward Armstrong laid the notice on one side, looked over his other letters, wrote a few particulars on each, then sounded the gong for Mr. Wilson, who quickly made his appearance.
"Answer these letters, Wilson," he said; "two or three have evidently heard of this stoppage, and are alarmed for the safety of their money. I have written cheques to the amount of the debts of these parties, which you can enclose to them."
The clerk took the letters and left the room, and then Mr. Armstrong put on his hat and went out to ascertain the effect of this stoppage of Overton and Boyd on the corn exchange and elsewhere.
During the day many persons looked in at the office to ask the opinion of Mr. Armstrong, and to give him details of the present and probable consequences likely to result from this disastrous bank failure. Before the hour came for closing the office it was evident that a panic had arisen in the City, threatening destruction and ruin to more than one long-established house of business.
Mr. Armstrong, as he entered his splendidly furnished house at Kilburn, felt thankful for the absence of his daughter. At the same time he hastened to his dressing-room, anxious to remove, if possible, the pale and haggard look of his face before meeting his wife at dinner.
But the quick eye of affection was not to be deceived. Mrs. Armstrong waited till the dinner was removed, and the wine and dessert placed on the table.
The April evenings were cold enough for a fire, and the wife, whose mental powers her husband considered so inferior, soon proved herself a true comforter.
"Come and sit by the fire, Edward," she said, placing a tempting arm-chair near it; "you look anxious, dearest, has anything happened in the City to trouble you?"
"I do not wish to annoy you with business matters, darling," was the reply; "go and make yourself comfortable in the drawing-room, I will come to you presently;" and her husband as he spoke placed his elbows on the table and rested his forehead on his hands.
Mrs. Armstrong rose and advanced to where her husband sat; placing her arm across his shoulders she said—
"Edward, I am sure there is something wrong. I know I am not clever enough to advise you in business matters, but if you will only tell me what grieves you it will lose half its bitterness and relieve your mind."
"Maria my dearest wife," said Edward Armstrong, rising and throwing himself into the easy-chair she had placed for him, "my troubles are about money; do you care to hear about them?"
"I care to hear anything," she said, "if telling me will relieve your mind."
"Then I will tell you the worst at once. Overton and Boyd have stopped payment, and the 20,000l. which I placed with them was to have been Mary's marriage portion."
"And will she lose it all?"
"I fear so. The bank talk of recovering themselves, but I doubt if they will."
"Do you think this will trouble Mary?"
"I cannot say; at all events it will interfere with her future prospects. She will have nothing but the 1000l. left by her grandfather. What man worth anything would marry her with that paltry sum for a marriage portion?"
"You married me with less, Edward, and Mary is quite as attractive as I was, and I know one to whom Mary's little dowry of a thousand pounds would be a fortune."
Mr. Armstrong did not reply, and his wife, thinking she had said enough, rose and left him to himself.
No greater trial could have happened to this man than the loss of money. Year after year his wealth had increased; loss, at least to any great amount, had been unknown to him. Arrogance, ambition, self-sufficiency, and pride had grown with his growing wealth. His ambitious schemes for his daughter had more of the ostentatious display of wealth than paternal love. And now—now when he had treated with scorn the offer of the young schoolmaster—now she had nothing for her dowry beyond a paltry 1000l.;—he had no hope that Overton and Boyd would recover themselves. He could not, without some injury to his business, draw out another 20,000l. for his daughter's marriage portion; and was it likely, even if he gave his consent, that the young parson would be anxious to marry his daughter with not more for her dowry than the young man's sister had taken to her husband? No, it was out of the question. So admired, so flattered and sought after, as the young curate of Kilburn undoubtedly was, Mary with her paltry thousand pounds would stand a poor chance.
So reasoned the money-getting man of the world, while the deepest mortification added poignancy to the loss he had sustained.
"I can never give my consent now," he said to himself; "indeed, it will never be asked when the loss I have met with is known. So hard as I have worked all my life to enable me to purchase a position for my only daughter, and this is the end!"
And yet this 20,000l. was to Edward Armstrong but as a mere bauble compared to the wealth which he really possessed. A love of money, a thirst for wealth, grows upon the man of riches, till like the horse-leech he cries "Give, give," and is never satisfied.
The days of that anxious week passed away, but still the panic in the City gained ground. One firm after another sunk under the crash. Only men of ample means such as Mr. Armstrong could battle with the waves and weather the storm, but even he had great difficulty in doing so.
Reports spread respecting his losses, which, however, in the City did not injure his credit. Westward their influence was felt with greater results.
He usually rode Firefly when proceeding to his office in Dover Street, and on more than one occasion he had encountered those who had either asked him for the hand of his daughter or courted his acquaintance. Now they passed him by with scarcely a recognition. And so the time passed on, till one morning about a fortnight after the reports that Overton and Boyd had stopped payment.
The affair had exceeded the time of the proverbial "nine days' wonder," and it was only in the City or to those deeply interested that the good news became really known. Overton and Boyd had recovered from the shock, and were ready to meet all demands.
Mary's fortune was safe, but the alarm and the changed manners of his sunshine friends had taught her father a deep lesson. When the notice arrived he was alone in the private room of his office in Dover Street. He had been schooling himself to endure the loss of money and friends patiently. More than once during that terrible fortnight the words he had heard read by his father sounded in his ears, "Riches make themselves wings; they fly away;" "The love of money is the root of all evil." And now the certainty that he had, after all, lost nothing, caused a revulsion of feeling scarcely endurable.
He sat for some time resting his head on his hands, and his elbows on the table, absorbed in thought.
"Those sunshine friends," he said to himself, "who turned their backs upon the corn merchant when they thought he was poor, shall never know that my position is unaltered. And these are the men to either of whom I would have given my cherished daughter! My losses are known at Kilburn, no doubt, and the schoolmaster and his son are of course congratulating themselves on the escape of the latter." And as Edward Armstrong thus thought there passed over his mind recollections of the holy truths, tho Christian principles, and the first sermon from 1st Cor. xiii. 13: "The greatest of these is charity," which he had heard from the lips of the schoolmaster's son.
Was he different from these sunshine friends? could he possibly love his daughter still, when, as was supposed, not only her fortune, but great part of her father's wealth had disappeared with the commercial crash?
It was impossible, he could not believe it. True, he had done so himself, but then it was under most peculiar circumstances. There was nothing of romance in the commencement of the acquaintance which had arisen between young Halford and his daughter. Should he try him? should he endeavour to find out whether it was money or Mary herself that he sought for? Yes, he would do it, and if he proved that the latter alone had actuated him to write that letter after Mary's visit to Oxford, then he should have the 20,000l. after all.
"Poor darling," he said to himself, as he thought of her patient endurance and filial obedience, "she had nearly lost all I could give her. It is not too late to make amends, at least if the young parson is really worthy of such a superior and accomplished girl as my daughter. Better secure the 20,000l. to her at once than risk its loss by-and-by."
Edward Armstrong had been roused from a false security in riches by a prospect of their loss. He felt that he had been like the man in the parable, who had said, "I will pull down my barns, and build greater;—soul take thine ease."
But from this he had been painfully aroused; he would endeavour to discover whether the young people cared for each other still. The glamour which the acquisition of wealth had thrown around the man of business was removed. His ambition now appeared as mockery, his pride a disgrace, and his conduct to his daughter refined cruelty. Well may the awakening of the human heart from the influence of the god of this world, who blinds the eyes of his votaries, be called in the Bible, "arising from the dead."
Time passed on, and Mrs. Armstrong received a letter from Mary expressing a wish to return home the following week. "Something must be done quickly if done at all," said Mr. Armstrong to himself as Rowland drove him to the station in Mary's pony carriage on that morning. Not even to Mrs. Armstrong had he given a hint of his intentions.
During the day he received from the bank additional assurances that the money in their possession was safe. Owing to the delay in the settlement in some matter of business he left his office in the City rather later than usual, and arrived on the platform of the station at Euston Square just as the train was about to start. A porter rushed forward, opened a first-class carriage, and assisted him to enter, even as the guard's whistle sounded and the train moved.
Mr. Armstrong, without noticing whether any other passengers were in the carriage, seated himself next the door, feeling rather disturbed and out of breath from his hasty movements. After wiping his face with his pocket-handkerchief, for the April day was rather warm, he raised his head and faced the only passenger in the carriage beside himself, who sat directly opposite to him.
A sudden flush rose to his brow almost as vivid as that which had covered the face of his fellow-passenger at Mr. Armstrong's entrance.
A bow of recognition was followed by a start of surprise, as Mr. Armstrong held out his hand and said, "Allow me to shake hands with you, Mr. Halford, once more, for the sake of old acquaintance." Henry became pale with surprise; what could it mean? It was a moral impossibility for him to resent the pride and neglect of the past three years in the father of Mary Armstrong, yet he was too completely puzzled to feel at his ease.
Mr. Armstrong, however, asked so many questions respecting Arthur Franklyn and the young people his children, with such real interest and kindness, that he very soon found himself quite at home with a gentleman who could, if he liked, make himself so agreeable. This train started from Euston at the same hour as the one in which poor Mrs. Franklyn had travelled on that fatal afternoon, and did not stop till it reached Kilburn; Mr. Armstrong knew therefore that he and his companion would be alone the whole way. Still there was no time to lose, and yet Mr. Armstrong scarcely knew how to commence the subject for which there now seemed such an excellent opportunity. At last he said, "You have missed my daughter from church, Mr. Halford, I daresay?"
"I have done so," he replied: "I hope Miss Armstrong is well;" and his companion detected a want of steadiness in the voice when he spoke, for in very truth Mary's non-appearance had made him anxious.
"She was quite well when we heard from her last. She has been away for change of air, which Dr. West thought she required, at my old home in Hampshire with Mrs. John Armstrong, whom I think you met last summer."
"I had great pleasure in making the acquaintance of that lady," said Henry; "she spoke of persons and places connected with my father's early days which greatly interested me."
"Yes, so she told me;" and Mr. Armstrong glancing from the window saw that they were nearing the station.
"Mr. Halford," he exclaimed suddenly, "forgive me for being so abrupt, but you once asked me for the hand of my daughter; are you still of the same mind on the subject?"
Astonishment, perplexity, added to a thrill of hope, for a few moments deprived Henry Halford of the power of speech; at last he said in a tone of deep feeling—
"Mr. Armstrong, nothing could ever change the love I bear for your daughter."
"My dear young friend," said the father, who noticed the painful excitement under which he spoke, "believe me I do not ask from idle curiosity; if my daughter is willing to listen to your proposals now I will not say you nay, and you are at liberty to write and ask her. The address is Meadow Farm, near Basingstoke."
"I know not how to reply to you, Mr. Armstrong," said Henry, "but will you allow me to say that in my regard for Miss Armstrong I am not influenced by hopes of obtaining her fortune, which I hear is considerable?"
Mr. Armstrong placed his hand on the arm of the young clergyman, and said—
"Have you heard the rumour of my great losses, Mr. Halford?"
"I have heard something to that effect," he replied, "and I could almost wish to find it true, that I might prove my love for your daughter."
"Well, well, these reports are not all true; just write to Mary, and then we can talk about the other matter by-and-by. And here we are at the station; shall I offer you a seat in the pony carriage? it is no doubt waiting for me."
But after this exciting interview Henry wanted to be alone; he accompanied Mr. Armstrong to the station entrance, and then after a warm hand-clasp the two whom money had hitherto separated, parted as close friends.
That evening, when Mr. Armstrong joined his wife in the drawing-room, he seated himself in his easy-chair, took up the Times, and appeared for a few minutes deep in its columns.
Presently he looked over the top of the paper and said, "I met young Halford in the railway carriage this afternoon, Maria, and I told him he might write to Mary if he liked."
"Edward! is it possible?" was the astonished reply.
"Is what possible?" he asked; "I suppose you thought it was impossible for me to change my opinion, but for once, dear wife, you are wrong; I have learnt the lesson lately that riches can take to themselves wings and fly away. In fact, I wanted an excuse to change my mind about that young parson long ago, but pride kept me back from doing him justice till now. I suppose there is no likelihood that Mary will refuse him after all, Maria? I should be sorry to expose the young man to such a result."
"I do not think Mary is so likely to change her opinion as her father," said Mrs. Armstrong, with a smile; "besides, she has right on her side."