Part 23 (1/2)

CHAPTER XII: THUNDERSTORM THE SECOND

Weary with many thoughts, the vicar came to the door of the bank.

There were several carriages there, and a crowd of people swarming in and out, like bees round a hive-door, entering with anxious faces, and returning with cheerful ones, to stop and talk earnestly in groups round the door. Every moment the ma.s.s thickened--there was a run on the bank. An old friend accosted him on the steps,--

'What! have you, too, money here, then?'

'Neither here nor anywhere else, thank Heaven!' said the vicar.

'But is anything wrong?'

'Have not you heard? The house has sustained a frightful blow this week--railway speculations, so they say--and is hardly expected to survive the day. So we are all getting our money out as fast as possible.'

'By way of binding up the bruised reed, eh?'

'Oh! every man for himself. A man is under no obligation to his banker, that I know of.' And the good man bustled off with his pockets full of gold.

The vicar entered. All was hurry and anxiety. The clerks seemed trying to brazen out their own terror, and shovelled the rapidly lessening gold and notes across the counter with an air of indignant nonchalance. The vicar asked to see the princ.i.p.al.

'If you want your money, sir--' answered the official, with a disdainful look.

'I want no money. I must see Mr. Smith on private business, and instantly.'

'He is particularly engaged.'

'I know it, and, therefore, I must see him. Take in my card, and he will not refuse me.' A new vista had opened itself before him.

He was ushered into a private room: and, as he waited for the banker, he breathed a prayer. For what? That his own will might be done--a very common style of pet.i.tion.

Mr. Smith entered, hurried and troubled. He caught the vicar eagerly by the hand, as if glad to see a face which did not glare on him with the cold selfish stamp of 'business,' and then drew back again, afraid to commit himself by any sign of emotion.

The vicar had settled his plan of attack, and determined boldly to show his knowledge of the banker's distress.

'I am very sorry to trouble you at such an unfortunate moment, sir, and I will be brief; but, as your nephew's spiritual pastor--' (He knew the banker was a stout Churchman.)

'What of my nephew, sir! No fresh misfortunes, I hope?'

'Not so much misfortune, sir, as misconduct--I might say frailty-- but frailty which may become ruinous.'

'How? how? Some mesalliance?' interrupted Mr. Smith, in a peevish, excited tone. 'I thought there was some heiress on the tapis--at least, so I heard from my unfortunate son, who has just gone over to Rome. There's another misfortune.--Nothing but misfortunes; and your teaching, sir, by the bye, I am afraid, has helped me to that one.'

'Gone over to Rome?' asked the vicar, slowly.

'Yes, sir, gone to Rome--to the pope, sir! to the devil, sir! I should have thought you likely to know of it before I did!'

The vicar stared fixedly at him a moment, and burst into honest tears. The banker was moved.

''Pon my honour, sir, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be rude, but--but--To be plain with a clergyman, sir, so many things coming together have quite unmanned me. Pooh, pooh,' and he shook himself as if to throw off a weight; and, with a face once more quiet and business-like, asked, 'And now, my dear sir, what of my nephew?'