Kitobni o'qish: «The Weird Sisters: A Romance. Volume 1 of 3», sahifa 5

"But," he said, with strong emphasis on the conjunction, to show Mrs. Grant that she had interrupted him, and that he regarded the interruption as frivolous, "the case has now arrived at that state of progress when almost at any time the patient's head may be attacked. Should the head be attacked, Sir Alexander will lose the possession of those mental gifts and powers which he now possesses undiminished and unimpaired."

"Poor child!" cried the widow, thinking of the guileless daughter of the stricken man.

"And," continued Dr. Hardy, with the same resolute emphasis on the conjunction, "we consider that he should be at once induced to make his will, and we have resolved to request you will use your influence with him. We have tried and failed. May we count on you?"

Mrs. Grant looked up with a half-amused, half-astonished air. As soon as she had somewhat recovered from her surprise, she said very earnestly:

"There is nothing in this world I would not try to do for Miss Midharst; but there is no more chance of Sir Alexander listening to me on any business matter than of his asking advice of the wind. He believes women can and ought to know nothing about business. It would only vex him if I spoke of anything of the kind to him."

The poor little woman looked quite distressed and helpless.

The three men glanced from one to the other in despair. In a few seconds Dr. Hardy spoke again to the little widow.

"Is there no friend of the patient's whom you could suggest as likely to have influence on him? Do you think his lawyer would have weight? We know how he has secluded himself from the world and his own class, and that we are not to look among those who would naturally be his friends for the assistance we now want. Do you think his lawyer would be likely to succeed with him in this?"

"I am greatly afraid not. I have heard that – although he has a high opinion of Mr. Shaw, his lawyer – he would never in any way accept advice in his affairs beyond legal matters. I understand Sir Alexander has no personal liking for Mr. Shaw. And he won't speak to any clergyman."

Again the three men looked at one another in doubt and difficulty. Again Dr. Hardy spoke:

"This is a matter of the utmost importance to those who come after Sir Alexander, and we are most anxious it should be settled, and at once. If we thought it was a disinclination to make a will, or a determination not to make one, that kept him back, we should feel no responsibility in the matter. But he refuses to settle his worldly affairs solely upon the ground that we are deceived as to his condition of health. Now we are confident we are right. He will never rise from his bed again. Already dropsy has made its appearance; at any moment that may, directly or indirectly, affect the head; in his case it is almost sure to do so at some time."

Dr. Hardy paused a moment; then proceeded with more decision than heretofore:

"Perhaps you, Mrs. Grant, would be kind enough to ask Miss Midharst if she could give you the name of anyone on whose advice Sir Alexander would be likely to rely in an important business affair? You need not distress Miss Midharst with anything more explicit."

Mrs. Grant rose with prompt willingness, and hurried away in the sustaining hope that Maud might be able to solve the difficulty.

When Mrs. Grant had gone, the three men drew near one of the tall narrow windows that looked west along the Island and commanded the beautiful valley of the broad river, and the broad, blue, bright Weeslade itself.

An everlasting Sabbath filled that luxuriant valley with a peace which seemed too fine for earth. Because of the height on which the Castle stood, and its distance from the nearest shore beyond the western end of the Island, all detail was subdued and lost; nothing was left to trouble the eye or excite enquiry. The eye could see nothing but broad green pasturages and vast expanses of emerald grainshoots reaching down to the river's brink, and sloping softly inward towards the quiet hills that stood up apart, clad in purple and blue wood, and crowned with violet uplands lying secure against the azure sky.

The tide was full; the winds were still; from the trees around through the open window came the fragrant spices of the may. Above, the lark took up where all human voices end the praises of the spring. The glory of inextinguishable youth was in his song, the wild rapture of a regenerated soul. Below, the sad-throated thrush piped of the mellow melancholy of a ripe old world that had borne a thousand generations of men, who had moved all their days through the same narrow and unsatisfying avenues of desire and passion and final failure to the richly padded grave. The thrush sang to the earth of those who had died; the lark sang to the skies of those who shall live for ever.

Around the three men as they stood by the open window was the mouldering chamber of an ancient house. On one side lay the decayed old man of a noble race. On the other side the maiden daughter of that man, who had smothered up his affectionate visitings under piles of gold, scraped together for her, for the pride of his lineage.

Beyond there in the city was ruin. A great bank which had a branch in Daneford had stopped payment to-day. The three men by the window were talking of that while they awaited the return of the woman.

"Dreadful! I am told that the poor Mainwarings are completely ruined by it."

"Completely. Fancy old John Musgrave put four thousand pounds into it on deposit this day week. It will kill him. He had sold out Turks, and was going to buy United States."

"Poor old fellow! I do pity him."

"There was a rumour of one of the local banks being in a bad way. Did either of you hear it?"

"Not the Daneford?"

"No; Grey is safe. Bless me, his father left him a couple of hundred thousand clear of the business, and he's been making money ever since."

"Is it the Weeslade Valley?"

"I don't like to say. It is so dangerous to speak. But there is a rumour of a local bank, and it's not Grey's."

"No. I should think Grey could stand anything. They say it was always Grey's system to keep the money near home. It's a commercial and customers' bank, and not a gad-about among foreign speculations and bubble manufacturers."

At that moment Mrs. Grant re-entered the room.

The three men turned round and went to her.

"I have seen Miss Midharst, and she says she thinks the person most likely to have influence with Sir Alexander is Mr. Grey the banker."

"A most excellent man," said Dr. Hardy, turning to the other two. "What do you think?"

"Capital!"

"No one could be better."

Dr. Hardy spoke to Mrs. Grant for the last time on that occasion. "Send a note by express to Mr. Grey, requesting him to come immediately. Explain to him what our views are, and ask him to do his best to induce Sir Alexander to make his will."

In less than an hour and a half Mr. Grey received Mrs. Grant's letter. It merely said that his presence was urgently desired at the Castle at once, and that by hurrying he would greatly oblige Sarah Grant.

He was in his private room at the Bank when he read the letter. He opened his private black bag. Bank proprietors do not always carry firearms, in fact rarely, almost never. Clerks in charge of money often do. Grey always carried a revolver – now.

"He can't have heard of his Consols? In that case he would have written himself or come. What can this be? – so sudden, so urgent, and from Mrs. Grant! Perhaps the failure of the St. George's has frightened him. If he asks me to give up the money now! Ah, I can't face that! No, no! This first," and he took a revolver out of his bag.

Again he thought awhile, and ended with a question: "Shall I go to the Island or to – ?" He poised the revolver.

As he did so there was a knock at the door.

CHAPTER VII
TRUSTEE TO CANCELLED PAGES

"Come in," said the banker mechanically, and his mother entered.

With a start Mr. Grey's mother cried out "Henry!" then crossed the room hastily, and, putting her hand on his arm, looked up into his face with alarm.

With an amused smile he glanced down at her, and said simply, "Mother?" in a tone of badinage, as if paying her off in her own coin by replying to her with a single word.

"What was that you held in your hand and dropped into the bag as I came in?" she asked with reproachful earnestness, looking up fixedly into his eyes, as though she would pierce to his innermost thoughts.

He put his hand on her shoulder playfully, and smoothed one of the black silk strings of her black bonnet with his thumb and finger, returning her steady gaze with a steady eye and a free smile. "That, mother," he answered, "is the countersign for thieves."

"The countersign for thieves! What do you mean, Henry; you ought not to bandy words with your mother."

"Indeed, I am not playing with words. I am only describing the weapon and its use as briefly as possible. I was looking at my revolver, for I was just about to set out on a journey. You see, if a thief comes up to a man armed with a revolver, and demands the man's purse, the man produces that revolver, and the thief says, "Pass on, friend." If a thief who has stolen money meets the man he stole it from, or a policeman, and can pull out a revolver, then he can say to the man or the policeman, "Let me pass, or I will shoot you down;" or suppose the thief finds the odds are against him, he can put the barrel to his own temple, and pass the foe in spite of numbers. Now, mother, don't you think my explanation is very clever and very exhaustive?"

He placed his two hands on the widow's shoulders, and pushed her back arm's length, dropped his head roguishly over his shoulder, and laughed a soft laugh, which seemed to invite her to enjoy his cleverness and be amused at the humour of the explanation.

Mrs. Grey did not smile. For a moment her face grew puckered and perplexed. In her eyes shone the light of a mental conflict between anger and tears. The conflict ended in a few moments. She threw herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands. She neither stormed nor wept.

He hastened to her with compunctious solicitude. He knelt on one knee by her side, and put his powerful arm round her emaciated shoulders, and with the hand of his other arm gently drew down her hands from her face.

"Mother! mother!" he pleaded, in a tone of passionate tenderness. "I did not mean to annoy or trouble you. I was only a little wilfully following out a fancy, a conceit. It was a foolish vanity that made me seem to play with your questions. You know, my own mother, I would not give you any pain I could help, for all the world. Forgive me, and let us drop the nonsense. Forgive me, and let us speak of something else."

All the earnestness of this man's nature went into these words, and there was in them and the manner attending them a fervid pathos which stirred the heart of the woman so deeply it almost killed her to keep from crying out, and throwing her arms round her son, and weeping on his breast. But by a superhuman effort, an effort no created being could make but a mother for the salvation of a child, she held her passionate love within her own heart; for, according to her theory, so must all women who wish to rule their children; and she wanted to rule, not for the love of power, but for the love of love and the preservation of her son.

She gave one quick glance at him out of those sharp eyes, and then throwing down the eyes on the ground, said in a constrained voice:

"The St. George's Banking Company has failed. There is a run on the Daneford. You are unable to meet that run, and you were thinking of getting away from the run and the closing of the doors with – that." She shuddered, raised her hand, and pointed to the black bag into which he had dropped the revolver.

"No! no! no! mother!" he cried imploringly. "I pledge you my word – if you like I will prove to you – that we are able to meet any run that may come upon us in consequence of this failure. If you like I will call in Aldridge to corroborate my words."

"Corroborate your word, Henry!" she cried scornfully. "Do you think I could doubt my son's word, and believe the word of any other man alive! Never while I live, I hope, shall you fall so pitifully low as to need another man's word to help your word to my belief." She laid hold of the imputed question of her son's word as a point on which to rally her disordered feelings and overcome the tendency she felt to break down.

"Well, mother, rest assured this run threatens us with no danger whatever. On the contrary, as we are able to meet it without the least inconvenience, the position of the Bank ought to be very materially improved when all becomes quiet again." He rose and left her as he spoke, and locked the two doors of the room, observing: "We don't want anyone to come in and interrupt us now."

By the time he returned to his seat she had recovered her composure. "Then what do you mean by 'setting out on a journey?' Those words helped me into the fear."

As a reply to that question, he pushed the note he had just received from Mrs. Grant across the table to her, and said: "Read that, and you will understand."

She adjusted her tortoiseshell spectacles and read the note deliberately. When she had finished she looked up quickly.

He was standing at the window looking out. His back was towards her, and she could not see his face. It was wrinkled and drawn up like a yellow leaf.

"Do you know what you are wanted for at the Castle?" she asked briskly.

"No."

"What has happened to your voice?" she asked, in a tone of anxiety and surprise. He had spoken as though his windpipe was almost closed in a gripe.

"Nothing; or at least something has gone against my – breath. What am I wanted for at the Castle?" Still he spoke as if half suffocated. Still he kept his face to the window. Still his face was wrinkled and yellow and withered up.

"I met Dr. Hardy as I came in. He had just driven straight back from the Castle. There has been a consultation of doctors to-day, and they have little or no hope of Sir Alexander getting better. He has not yet made his will, and they all agreed you were the only person likely to have any influence with him. They could get him to do nothing about it."

Grey's face cleared as if by magic. He turned round suddenly, threw up both his hands, and burst into a loud and continuous shout of laughter.

His mother started to her feet, and looked at him aghast. "Henry!" she cried, in great alarm; "Henry, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, mother, nothing," he said between his laughter; "I thought it was something serious."

She regarded him in a stupor of amazement for a few seconds. "You thought it was something serious," she whispered, as if she questioned her hearing.

"Yes, something very serious."

"But it is very serious. He is in danger of death, and has not yet made his will. Surely that, Henry, is no subject for laughter."

He was composed now. His face was radiant, and he smiled apologetically as he said: "You must really forgive me, dear mother. The fact is, for the past quarter of an hour I have been on such a stretch in the interview between us that to hear of anything else but my own affairs relieved me, and I could not help laughing. I did not, indeed, laugh at the thought of poor Sir Alexander being ill; I pity him with all my heart. But what you said touched some spring of my mind, and I could no more have forborne to laugh than to breathe for an hour. Well, I think I had better start for the Island at once. You now feel all right about the Bank? You feel quite comfortable about it, mother, don't you?"

"Yes, but do not be so odd, Henry; you frighten me to death with your strange ways of late."

"I have a good deal of anxiety, and perhaps am too abrupt. More of my abruptness: I can't wait another moment. Good-bye, mother."

And in a few seconds he had gone.

When she found herself alone, she sat down to recover and to reflect. "Every day," she thought, "he becomes less like his old self, and more of a riddle."

Her eyes caught something on the table.

"When I came in he told me he was examining that dreadful thing because he was going on a journey, and now he's gone off and left it behind him in the bag on that table. Can it be he is losing his reason?"

When Mr. Grey found himself outside the Bank-door he hailed the nearest fly, jumped in, and cried cheerily to the driver:

"Island Ferry, and I lay you a half-crown to a whip-lash you don't do it under half an hour. Take the time and drive on."

With a chuckle of grave satisfaction, the banker threw himself back in the fly, and as they drove rapidly through the town he waved his hand or doffed his hat at every twenty yards. There was cordiality in every look that greeted him, and many who saw him go by turned and gazed with admiration and envy after the fine rich jovial banker.

No wonder he looked pleased. An hour ago, less than an hour ago, he had, upon reading that note, almost come to the conclusion Sir Alexander Midharst had discovered he, Grey, had "borrowed" every penny of the immense sum confided to his charge by the baronet. Such a discovery would have been to him simply and literally fatal.

Early in this year, when he disclosed the secret of the Bank to his mother, he and it were bankrupt, and all the depositors' money was gone. Pressure after pressure had come upon him after that, and all such demands had been met by "borrowing" the baronet's savings without the baronet's consent.

Three months ago he was a bankrupt, now he was a bankrupt and a thief. He had no more right to sell those Consols than to put his hand into any customer's pocket and take his purse. He had glided into the thing gradually, beginning by borrowing twenty thousand pounds, which he caused to be lodged to his own credit at his London agents in the name of Barrington, Ware, and Duncan, an imaginary firm of Boston merchants, who remitted the money through their London agent on account of supposititious dealings in hides on the western coast of the United States.

The twenty thousand had only stopped the gap for a few days. Then heavier and heavier bills came to maturity, and before there was any general uneasiness in the commercial world, one hundred thousand pounds of the baronet's savings had been "borrowed."

Then came ugly rumours of certain banking establishments; and although the Daneford Bank was always spoken of with the highest esteem in the district, the city, and in such quarters of London as it was known, the accommodation market had got very much straitened, and the Daneford Bank's London agents not only hinted they did not care to make any additional advances, but sounded Grey as to the possibility of their being able to get a little advance from him. Could he let them have fifty thousand for six weeks on Argentines they did not want to sell?

Here was a chance of showing the stability of his own concern and helping a friendly firm which might be of incalculable use to him another time. Now that he had dipped into the Midharst fund, why not go deeper? He could make something out of this transaction; and it was for the good of Sir Alexander as well as himself that he should try to pull back all the money he could, and keep the name of the Bank at the very highest level. He lent the money.

Then came other pressures because of those old speculations, a quarter of million at least; and last, more uneasy rumours in the financial world, and the possibility of a run on the Bank. At all risks the Bank must stand; for on its stability depended not only the life of Henry Walter Grey, but all chance of winning back any portion of the baronet's money.

When the moment of this decision arrived Grey put down his last stake; sold the last hundred thousand of Sir Alexander's half a million Consols, and bought the revolver. As he put the matter to himself in his figurative way, the situation now was a race between gold and lead. Would the gold, in the form of profits and deposits, come back to him in such quantities as to prevent the necessity for the outgoing of the lead?

It was on Wednesday, the 30th of May, 1866, he got that note from Mrs. Grant. He had just been calculating his chances of falling in for some of the business of the St. George's Bank. He had even put down a few figures to please and flatter his sight. It might be that if he could hold on and get – say, half the business of the Daneford branch of the St. George's Bank, the chance of the gold overtaking the lead would be enormously increased. All this was of course contingent upon Sir Alexander remaining in ignorance of the "borrowing." If that came to his ears in any way, nothing could prevent the lead overtaking the gold.

That note almost precipitated the crisis. In the usual way when he was wanted at the Castle Sir Alexander wrote a line himself, or called and asked the banker down for the evening. This note did not come from Sir Alexander, but from Miss Midharst's companion. At the moment when his mother entered a straw might have turned his resolution in favour of giving the lead a walk-over. But with the news brought by his mother all was changed, and the gold had taken a good lead.

As he sat back in the fly and reviewed his position he could hardly restrain his exultation within the bounds of mere facial joy. He would have liked to get out and run through the streets, and shout.

A few minutes ago he held all black cards to a red trump. Now the whole pack seemed to have been put before him face up, with liberty to select his own hand and turn a trump of his own choosing.

No run could injure the Daneford Bank; other banks might fail, but his was secure for the time; and by the aid of its good substantial name the Daneford would get strong while others were crumbling, and the future success of the Bank would be assured beyond the reach of his highest hope of years ago.

Only two possible chances were against him, and if neither of these chances turned up within twelve months he might laugh at fate.

The former was that in the will there should be introduced anything adverse to him. The latter was that the old man should die in less than twelve months, and leave it incumbent on the banker to render an account and deliver up the money before the end of twelve months.

Grey had fully made up his mind as to the necessity for a will. Without a will there would in all likelihood be Chancery proceedings; and while no one in Daneford would dream of suspecting Grey, or ask details of the account, much less verification of the items, the Chancery folk will go through the whole affair as a matter of routine, and not as a matter of precaution, or because of any suspicion.

Let there be a will, by all means.

It was fine to drive through the bright sunlight of that glorious May weather, and feel that the gold was overtaking the lead. It was better than recovering from a long illness; it was coming back, to life and green fields and the voices of birds and the pressure of hands we love, out of the dark, damp, noisome tomb.

When Mr. Grey arrived at Island Ferry he alighted, told the driver of the fly to wait for him, and took the boat to the Island.

As soon as he arrived at the Castle he was shown into the dreary deserted banquet-room.

Here he found irrepressible little Mrs. Grant waiting for him. After some time he gathered from her how matters stood, and sent up his name to the sick man.

Sir Alexander would see Mr. Grey.

When the banker reached the room where the baronet lay, he was greatly shocked at the change which had taken place in the latter since the last time they had met, although that was only a few days ago.

There had always been a bright bloom, the bloom of old age heightened and deepened by the malady which afflicted him chronically, on the old man's face. Now the cheeks were puffed and purple, and the eyes, once so keen and cold, were dull and restless and impatient.

The long thin sinewy hands lay outside the counterpane, and the voice of the sufferer when he spoke was tremulous, querulous, making a painful contrast to the firm, clear, thin, biting speech of other days.

After the usual greetings and Grey's expression of sorrow for his indisposition, the old man spoke quickly, and in an unsteady voice.

"These doctors have been worrying me to-day, Grey, and I am very glad you have come. I want to talk to you. Pull that curtain a little across the window; I hate the sunlight. Thank you, Grey. Sit down now, where I can see you. It's a comfort to look at a man like you after those false prophets and hoarse ravens. The doctors have been with me, Grey; and they tell me I should make my will. Now I'm not talking to you as a medical man, but as a man of business. What do you say?"

"Have you spoken to Mr. Shaw about the matter?" asked the banker softly.

"No; I have not spoken to Shaw about it. I hate lawyers," cried the old man pettishly.

"If I hated lawyers," returned Grey, with a shy smile, "I should not be without a will for four-and-twenty hours."

"Why?" demanded the old man, with a contraction of the brows and a glance of suspicion directed at an imaginary group of lawyers.

"You know, Sir Alexander, lawyers have a special prayer, asking for the management of intestate estates." He raised his eyebrows and smiled archly at the prostrate man.

"I don't understand you, Grey. These doctors, with their fears and their jargon, have confused me. What do you mean?"

For a moment the banker looked at the baronet uneasily. Could it be that already his mind was becoming clouded or torpid? After a moment's observation and thought, Grey decided that the old man was only dazed and tired.

"What I mean, Sir Alexander, is, that in cases where there is no will, the law-costs often consume the whole estate, and always eat up enormously more money than where there is a sound will."

The old man reflected awhile.

"Have you made your own will?" he asked.

"Certainly. I could not rest if I thought what little fortune I may have should, instead of going to my wife, be scattered about in this and that court, in this and that litigation. As I go home the ferry-boat may overturn and I may be drowned, the horse may run away and I may be killed. Making a will has with me no connection with good or bad health. It is a business thing which ought, on the principle of economy, to be done in time. In nothing more than in making a will is it true that a stitch in time saves nine?"

There was a long pause.

"Grey!"

"Yes, Sir Alexander."

"You helped me to put this fortune together for my daughter."

A bow of deprecation.

"You have been ten years now taking care of it for her."

"Yes, Sir Alexander." What was coming now? Could all this be a ruse? Was this serene interview to end in a storm of intolerable ruin? Had this old man been leading up with deceiving equanimity to some prodigious burst, some unendurable tempest of reproach?

"Will you go still farther?"

"In what way?"

"Will you act as one of the executors, the chief – no, as the sole, as sole trustee and guardian?"

"What! Sir Alexander, Sir Alexander, are you – are you trifling with me? If you are, give it up. I cannot, I will not, be trifled with." His face shrivelled up, and he covered it in his hands. For that brief space he thought all had been discovered.

"What I say I mean. Why should I trifle with you? If I am to die or be killed, let me die with the knowledge that the fortune of my child will be as safe when I am dead as it is now. Will you do this, Grey, for me?"

"I will."

"Then you may tell Shaw to come. Go to him at once. I wish to make my will."