“And now Horace, no more pretence,” said Mr. Berkeley when he had sunk down on a sofa, apparently transformed by the events of the last twenty-four hours into a feeble old man. “We have been hypocritical enough all day; now let[let] us look as wretched as we are.”
“Some tea, mother,” said Horace. “My father’s hard day’s work is done; but I must go back to the bank, and possibly to London. They keep us terribly short of gold. We must get more out of them before noon to-morrow, or I do not know what may have become of us by this time in the evening.”
Mrs. Berkeley began to protest against the cruelty of stinting the supplies of gold at such a time.
“They cannot help it, mother,” replied Horace. “They are hourly expecting a run themselves—”
“A run on the London banks! Where will all this end?” Horace shook his head. He then observed, that if they could get through the next day, he should be tolerably easy, as it was not probable that the mistrust of the people would outlast a well-sustained run of two days and a half.[half.] If they had none but small amounts to pay, he should have little fear;—if it was certain that no more rich customers would come driving up in carriages to take away their seven thousand pounds in a lump.
“Why, who could have done that?”[“Why, who could have done that?”] Mrs. Berkeley inquired.
“Who!” said her husband. “Who should it be but the sister of that fellow Longe! There he was with her in the carriage, grinning and kissing his hand when he caught a glimpse of me within. It was his doing, I’ll answer for it. He would not let pass such an opportunity of annoying us.”
“The sister is evidently an ignorant person, who does not perceive the mischief she is doing,” observed Horace. “I should not wonder if it strikes her, and she brings her seven heavy bags back again to-morrow.”
“Then she may carry them away a second time,” said Mr. Berkeley. “I am longing to write to tell her, when this bustle is over, that we have closed accounts with her for ever.”
Horace wished they might be justified in spurning the seven thousands the next day. Nobody would enjoy the rejection more than himself, if they could safely make it; but seven thousand pounds would go a good way in paying small demands.[demands.]