Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 339, January, 1844

"Most glad to see you, my very good friend," began the master—"most glad—most happy—pray, be seated. A lovely morning this! A plate for Mr. Allcraft."

"Thank you—I have breakfasted," said Michael, declining the kind offer. "I had no thought of finding you at home."

"Ay—a mutual and unexpected pleasure. Just so. I had no thought of coming home until I started, and I arrived here only late last night. Business seldom suites itself to one's convenience."

"Seldom, indeed—very seldom," answered Michael, with a friendly smile, and a look of meaning, which showed that he had taken hope from Mr Bellamy's expression—"and," he continued, "having returned, I presume you spend some time amongst us."

"Not a day, my friend. To-morrow I am on the wing again. I have left a dozen men behind me, who'll hunt me over the country, if I don't rejoin them without delay. No. I am off again to-morrow." (Michael moved uneasily in his chair.) "But, how are you, Mr Allcraft? How are all our friends? Nothing new, I'll venture to say. This world is a stale affair at the best. Life is seen and known at twenty. Live to sixty, and it is like reading a dull book three times over. You had better take a cup of coffee, Mr Allcraft!"

"Thank you—no. You surprise me by your determination."

"Don't be surprised at any thing, Mr Allcraft. Take things as they come, if you wish to be happy."

Michael, very uneasy indeed, wished to make a remark, but he looked at the man in crimson plush, and held his tongue. Mr Bellamy observed him.

"You have something to say? Can I give you any advice, my friend? Pray, command me, and speak without reserve. As much as you please, and as quickly as you please, for I assure you time is precious. In half an hour I have twenty men to see, and twice as many things to do."

Again Michael glanced at the stout footman, who was pretending to throw his mind into the coming week, and to appear oblivious of every thing about him.

"I have a question to ask," proceeded Michael hesitatingly; "but it can be answered in a moment, and at another opportunity—in a little while, when you are quite at leisure."

"As you please; only remember I have no end of engagements, and if I am called away I cannot return to you."

Poor Michael! His expectations were again at a fearful discount. The language and demeanor of Mr Bellamy seemed decisive of his intentions. What could he do? What—but fasten on his man, and not suffer him to leave his sight without an explanation, which he dreaded to receive. Mr Bellamy continued to be very polite and very talkative, and to prosecute his repast with unyielding equanimity. At the close of the meal the servant removed the cloth, and departed. At the same instant the landed proprietor rose from his chair, and was about to depart likewise. Michael, alarmed at the movement, touched Mr Bellamy gently on the sleeve, and then, less gently, detained him by the wrist.

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Bellamy, turning sharply upon his partner: "What do you mean? What is your object?"

"Mr Bellamy," said Allcraft, pale as death, and much excited; "you must not go until you have satisfied me on a point of life and death to both of us. Your conduct is a mystery. I cannot explain it. I know not what are the motives which actuate you. These are known to yourself. Let them be so. But I have a question to ask, and you must and shall answer it."

"Must and shall, Mr Allcraft! Take care—pray, take care of your expressions. You will commit yourself. When will you cease to be a very young man? I will answer voluntarily any questions put to me by any gentleman. Must and shall never forced a syllable from my lips yet. Now, sir—ask what you please."

"Mr Bellamy," continued Allcraft, "your property is announced for public sale."

"It is," said Bellamy.

"And the announcement has your sanction?"

"It has."

"And with the sum realized by that sale, you propose to"—

Michael stopped, as though he wished his partner to fill up the sentence.

"Go on, sir," said the proprietor.

"With the sum thus realized, I say, you propose to make good the losses which the bank has suffered by your improvidence?"

"Not exactly. Is there any thing else?"

"Oh, Mr Bellamy, you cannot mean what you say? I am sure you cannot. You are aware of our condition. You know that there needs only a breath to destroy us in one moment for ever. At this very time your purpose is known to the world; and, before we can prevent it, the bank may be run upon and annihilated. What will be said of your proceedings? How can you reconcile the answer which you have just now given to me, with your vaunted high sense of honour, or even with your own most worldly interests?"

"Have you finished, sir?" said Bellamy, in a quiet voice.

"No!" exclaimed Michael, in as angry a tone of indignation: "no! I have not finished. I call upon you, Mr Bellamy, to mark my words; to mark and heed them—for, so Heaven help me, I bid you listen to the truth. Quiet and easy as you profess to be, I will be cozened by you no longer. If you carry out your work, your doings shall be told to every human soul within a hundred miles of where you stand. You shall be exhibited as you are. If every farthing got from the sale of this estate be not given up to defray your past extravagance, you shall be branded as you deserve. Mr Bellamy, you have deceived me for many years. Do not deceive yourself now."

"Have you finished, sir?" repeated Mr Bellamy.

"Yes—with a sentence. If you are mad—I will be resolute. Persist in your determination, and the bank shall stop this very night."

"And let it stop," said Bellamy; "by all means let it stop. If it be a necessary, inevitable arrangement, I would not interfere with it for the world. Act, Mr Allcraft, precisely as you think proper. It is all I ask on my own account. I have unfortunately private debts to a very large amount. What is still more unfortunate, they must be paid. I have no means of paying them except by selling my estate, and therefore it must go. I hope you are satisfied?"

Michael threw himself into a chair, and moved about in it, groaning. Mr Bellamy closed the door, and approached him.

"This is a very unnecessary display of feeling, Mr Allcraft," said the imperturbable Bellamy; "very—and can answer no good end. The thing, as I have told you, is inevitable."

"No—no—no," cried Allcraft, imploringly; "Not so, Mr Bellamy. Think again—ponder well our dreadful situation. Reflect that, before another day is gone, we may be ruined, beggared, and that this very property may be wrested from you by our angry creditors. What will become of us? For Heaven's sake, my dear, good sir, do not rush blindly upon destruction. Do not suffer us to be hooted, trampled upon, despised, cursed by every man that meets us. You can save us if you will—do it then—be generous—be just."

"As for being just, Mr Allcraft," replied Bellamy composedly, "the less we speak about that matter the better. Had justice been ever taken into account, you and I would, in all probability, not have met on the present business. I cannot help saying, that, when you are ready to justify to me your conduct in respect of your late father's liabilities, I shall be more disposed to listen to any thing you may have to urge in reason touching the produce of this estate. Until that time, I am an unmoved man. You conceive me?"

"Yes," said Michael, changing colour, "I see—I perceive your drift—I am aware—Mr Bellamy," continued the unhappy speaker, stammering until he almost burst with rage. "You are a villain! You have heard of my misfortunes, and you take a mean advantage of your knowledge to crush and kill me. You are a villain and I defy you!"

Mr Bellamy moved leisurely to the fire-place, and rang the bell. The stout gentleman in plush walked in, and the landed proprietor pointed to the door.

"For Mr Allcraft, William," said the squire.

"Very well!" said Michael, white with agitation; "Very well! As sure as you are a living man, your ruin shall be coincident with mine. Not a step shall I fall, down which you shall not follow and be dragged yourself. You shall not be spared one pang. I warn you of your fate, and it shall come sooner than you look for it."

"Pooh, pooh; you have been drinking, Mr. Allcraft."

"You lie, sir, as you have lied for months and years—lived upon lies, and"—

"You need not say another word. You shall finish your sentence, sir, elsewhere. Begone! William, show Mr. Allcraft to the door."

William pretended to look very absent again, and bowed. Michael stared at him for a second or two, as if confounded, and then, like a madman, rushed from the room and house.

CHAPTER VI.
THE CRASH

The plans and objects of Mr Walter Bellamy were best known to himself. Whatever they might be, he diverged from them for a few hours in order to give his miserable partner the opportunity he had promised him, of completing that very inauspicious sentence—the last which he had uttered in Mr. Bellamy's house previously to his abrupt departure. Michael had not been in the banking-house an hour after his return from the Hall before he was visited by a business-like gentleman, who introduced himself as the particular friend of Mr. Bellamy, on whose particular business he professed to come. Allcraft, with his brain on fire, received the visit of this man with secret glee. All the way home he had prayed that Bellamy might prove as good as his word, and not fail to demand immediate satisfaction. He longed for death with a full and yearning desire, and he could kiss the hand that would be merciful and give the fatal blow. A suicide at heart, it was something to escape the guilt and punishment of self-murder. Bellamy was reputed a first-rate shot. Michael was aware of the fact, and hugged the consciousness to his soul. He would not detract from his reputation; the duellist should add another laurel to his chaplet of honour, and purchase it with his blood. He had resolved to fight and fall. It was very evident that the friend of Mr Bellamy expected rather to frighten Michael into a humble and contrite apology, than to find him ready and eager for the battle; for he commenced his mission by a very long and high-flown address, and assured Mr Allcraft, time after time, that nothing but the most ample and the most public amende could be received by his friend after what had taken place. Michael listened impatiently, and interrupted the speaker in the midst of his oration.

"You are quite right, sir," said he. "If an apology is to be made, it should be an ample one. But I decline to make any whatever. I am prepared to give Mr Bellamy all the satisfaction that he asks. I will refer you at once to my friend, and the sooner the affair is settled the better."

"Well, but surely, Mr Allcraft, you must regret the strong expression"—

"Which I uttered to your friend? By no means. I told him that he lied. I repeat the word to you. I would say it in his teeth again if he stood here. What more is necessary?"

"Nothing," said the gentleman, certainly unprepared for Michael's resolution. "Nothing; name your friend, sir."

Michael had already fixed upon a second, and he told his name. His visitor went to seek him, and the poor bewildered man rubbed his hands gleefully, as though he had just saved his life, instead of having placed it in such fearful jeopardy.

That day passed like a dream. The meeting was quickly arranged. Six o'clock on the following morning was the hour fixed. The place was a field, the first beyond the turnpike gate, and within a mile of the city. As soon as Michael made sure of the duel, he saw his confidential clerk. His name was Burrage. He had been a servant in the banking-house for forty years, and had known Michael since his birth. It was he who gave the newspaper into Allcraft's hands, on the first arrival of the latter at the bank that morning. He was a quiet old man of sixty, an affectionate creature, and as much a part of the banking-house as the iron chest, the desk, the counter, or any other solid fixture. He stepped softly into his master's room after he had been summoned there, and he gazed at his unhappy principal as a father might at his own child in misfortune—a beloved and favourite child.

"You are not well this morning, sir," said Burrage most respectfully. "You look very pale and anxious."

"My looks belie me, Burrage. I am very well. I have not been so well for years. I am composed and happy. I have been ill, but the time is past. How old are you, Burrage?"

"Turned threescore, sir; old enough to die."

"Die—die! death is a sweet thing, old man, when it comes to the care-worn. I have had my share of trouble."

"Too much, sir—too much!" said Burrage, his eyes filling with water. "You have half killed yourself here. I am sure your poor father never expected this. Nobody could have expected it in his time, when you were a little, fat, rosy-cheeked boy, running about without a thought, except a thought of kindness for other people."

Michael Allcraft burst into a flood of tears—they gushed faster and faster into his eyes, and he sobbed as only men sob who have reached the climax of earthly suffering and trial.

"Do not take on so, my dear sir," said Burrage, running to him. "Pray, be calm. I am sure you are unwell. You have been ill for some time. You should see a doctor—although I am very much afraid that your disease is beyond their cure—in truth I am."

"Burrage," said Michael in a whisper, and still sighing convulsively—"It is all over. It is finished. Prepare for the crash—look to your own safety. Hide yourself from the gaze of men. It will strike us all dead."

"You frighten me, Mr Allcraft.—You are really very ill. Your brain is overworked—you want a little repose and recreation."

"Yes, you are right Burrage—the recreation of a jail—the repose of a tomb. We will have one, at least—yes, one—and I have made the selection."

"Have you heard any bad news to-day, sir?"

"None—excellent news to-day. No more hopes and fears—no alarms—no lying and knavery—eternal peace now, and not eternal wretchedness."

"Had you not better leave the bank, Mr Allcraft, and go home? Your hands are burning hot. You are in a high fever."

"Put up the shutters—put up the shutters," muttered Michael, more to himself than to his clerk. "Write bankrupt on the door—write it in large letters—in staring capitals—that the children may read the word, and know why they are taught to curse me. You hear me, Burrage?"

"I hear what you say, sir, but I do not understand you. You want rest—you are excited."

"I tell you, Burrage, I am quiet—I never was so quiet—never sounder in body and mind. Will you refuse to listen to the truth? Man," he continued, raising his voice and looking the clerk steadily in the face. "I am ruined—a beggar. The bank is at its last gasp. The doors are closed to-night—never to be re-opened."

"God forbid, sir!"

"Why so?—Would you drive me mad? Am I to have no peace—no rest? Am I to be devoured, eaten away by anxiety and trouble? Have you no human blood—no pity for me? Are you as selfish as the rest?"

"Is it possible, sir?"

"It is the truth. But speak not of it. I will have your life if you betray me until the event tells its own tale. We close the door to-night, to open it no more. You hear the words. They are very simple words. Why do you stare so, as if you couldn't guess their meaning?"

"Oh—I have dreaded this—I have suspected it!" said Burrage, wringing his hands; "but it has always seemed impossible. Poor Mr Allcraft!"

"Poor!" exclaimed Michael. "Do you begin already? Do you throw it in my teeth so soon? You are in the right, man—go with the stream—taunt me—spit in my face—trample me in the dust!"

"Do not speak unkindly to me, master," said the old clerk. "You will break my heart at once if you do. What you have told me is hard enough to bear in one day."

Michael took the good fellow's hand, and answered, whilst his lips quivered with grief, "It is—it is enough, old friend. Go your ways. Leave me to myself. I have told you a secret—keep it whilst it remains one. Oh, what a havoc! What devastation! Go, Burrage—go—seal your lips—do not breathe a syllable—go to your work."

The clerk went as he was bid, but stupified and stunned by the information he had received. He took his accustomed seat at the desk, and placed a large ledger before him. He was occupied with one trifling account for half the day, and did not finish it at last. A simple sum of compound addition puzzled the man who, an hour before, could have gone through the whole of the arithmetic in his sleep. Oh, boasted intellect of man! How little is it thou canst do when the delicate and feeling heart is out of tune! How impotent thou art! How like a rudderless ship upon a stormy sea! Poor Burrage was helpless and adrift! And Michael sat for hours together alone, in his little room. He was literally afraid to creep out of it. He struggled to keep his mind steadily and composedly fixed upon the fate that awaited him—a fate which he had marked out for himself, and resolved not to escape. He forced himself to regard the great Enemy of Man as his best friend—his only comforter and refuge. But just when he deemed himself well armed, least vulnerable, and most secure, the awful reality of death—its horrible accompaniments—dissolution, corruption, rottenness, decay, and its still more awful and obscure uncertainties, started suddenly before him, and sent a sickening chill through every pore of his unnerved flesh. Then he retreated from his position—fled, as it were, for life, and dared not look behind, so terrible was the sight of his grim adversary. He leaped from his chair, as if unable to sit there; and, whilst he paced the room, he drew his breath, as though he needed air for respiration—his heart throbbed, and his brain grew tight and hot within his skull. The fit passing away, Michael hastened to review the last few years of his existence, and to bribe himself to quietness and resignation, by contrasting the hateful life which he had spent with the desirable repose offered to him in the grave; and by degrees the agitation ceased—the alarm subsided, and the deluded man was once more cozened into hardened and unnatural tranquillity. In this way flew the hours—one train of feeling succeeding to another, until the worn-out spirit of the man gave in, and would be moved no longer. At last, the unhappy banker grew sullen and silent. He ceased to sigh, and groan, and weep. His brain refused to think. He drew his seat to the window of the room, which permitted him, unperceived, to observe the movements in the bank—and, folding his arms, he looked doggedly on, and clenched his teeth, and frowned. He saw the fortunate few who came for money and received it—and the unfortunate many, who brought their money—left, and lost it. He was indifferent to all. He beheld—as the spirits fair may be supposed to look upon the earth a moment before the sweeping pestilence that comes to thin it—life, vigorous and active, in that house of business, whose latest hour had come—whose knell was already sounding; but it moved him not. He heard men speak his name in tones of kindness, whose lips on the morrow would deal out curses. He saw others, hat in hand, begging for an audience, who would avoid him with a sneer and a scorning when he passed them in the street. He looked upon his own servants, who could not flatter their master too highly to-day, and would be the first to-morrow to cry him down, and rail against his unpardonable extravagance and recklessness; but he heeded nothing. His mind had suspended its operations, whilst his physical eye stared upon vacancy.

It was very strange. He continued in this fashion for a long time, and suddenly sensibility seemed restored to him; for an ashy paleness came over him—his eyelid trembled, and his lips were drawn down convulsively, as if through strong and heavy grief. He rose instantly, rushed to the bell, and rang it violently.

Burrage came to answer it.

"Monster!" exclaimed his master, gazing at him spitefully, "have you no heart—no feeling left within you? How could you do it?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Rob that poor old man. Plunder and kill that hoary unoffending creature. Why did you take his miserable earnings? Why did you rob his little ones? Why clutch the bread from his starving grandchildren? He will die of a broken heart, and will plead against me at the judgment-seat. Why was that old man's money taken?"

"We must take all, or nothing, sir. You forbade me to speak a syllable."

"Speak—speak! Yes, but could you not have given him a look, one merciful look, to save his life, and my soul from everlasting ruin? You might, you could have done it, but you conspire to overthrow me. Go—but mark me—breathe not a word, if you hope to live."

The poor clerk held up his hands, shook them piteously, sighed, and went his way again.

It was six o'clock in the evening, and every soul connected with the bank, except Michael and Burrage, had left it. They were both in the private room, which the former had not quitted during the day. Michael was writing a letter; the clerk was standing mournfully at his side. When the note was finished, directed, and sealed, Allcraft turned to his old friend and spoke—

"I shall not sleep at home to-night, Burrage. I have business which must be seen to."

"Indeed, sir, you had better go home. You are very unwell."

"Silence, once more. I tell you, Burrage, it cannot be. This business must not be neglected. I have written to Mrs Allcraft, explaining the reason of my absence. You will yourself deliver the letter to her, with your own hands, Burrage. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," faltered Burrage, wishing himself deaf.

"Very well. I have no more to say. Good-by—good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said the man, walking slowly off.

"Stay, Burrage. You are a true old friend—my oldest. Give me your hand. I have spoken unkindly—very harshly and cruelly to-day. Do not think ill of me. My temper has been soured by the troubles of life. You forgive me for my anger—do you not?"

The old man did not answer. He could not. He held the hand of his master tightly in his own. He drew it to his lips and kissed it; and then, ashamed not of the act, but of his unmanly tears, he walked slowly to the door, and quitted the room—his head bending to the earth, whence it never again was raised.

Two hours later Michael was many miles away. He had followed to his humble home the aged man who had that morning paid his substance into the bank. Much as he had to answer for, Michael could not bear to carry about with him the knowledge that he had ruined and destroyed the grey-haired labourer. Why and how it was that he felt so acutely for the stranger, and selected him from the hundreds who were beggared by his failure, it is impossible to guess. It is certain that he restored every sixpence that had been deposited in the morning, and could not die until he had done so. Where Allcraft passed the night was never known. He was punctual to his appointment on the following morning; and so was Mr Bellamy. It is due to the latter to state, that, at the latest moment, he was willing, as far as in him lay, to settle the difference without proceeding to extreme measures. All that a man could offer, who did not wish to be suspected of rank cowardice, he offered without reservation. But Allcraft was inexorable. He repeated his insult on the field; and there was nothing to be done but to make him accountable for his words at the point of the pistol—to receive and give THE SATISFACTION OF A GENTLEMAN. Whatever satisfaction the mangled corpse of a man whom he had deeply injured, could afford the high-born Mr Bellamy, that gentleman enjoyed in a very few minutes after his arrival; for he shot his antagonist in the mouth, saw him spinning in the air, and afterwards lying at his feet—an object that he could not recognize—a spectacle for devils to rejoice in. Happy the low-born man who may not have or feel such exquisite and noble SATISFACTION!

Allcraft was not cold before Mr Bellamy was at sea, sailing for France. The latter had not put his feet upon foreign soil, before his property was seized by hungry creditors. The bank was closed. Burrage himself pasted on the shutters the paper that notified its failure. Augustus Theodore Brammel heard of the stoppage whilst he was at breakfast, sipping chocolate; and greatly he rejoiced thereat. His delight was sensibly diminished in the course of the morning, when he received a letter informing him of his father's death, and an intimation from a lawyer, that every farthing which he inherited would be taken from him, as goods and chattels, for the discharge of claims which the creditors of the bank might have against him. Later in the day, he heard of Allcraft's death and Bellamy's escape, and then he rushed into a chemist's shop and bought an ounce of arsenic; but after he had purchased it, he had not heart enough to swallow it. Enraged beyond expression—knowing not what to do, nor upon whom to vent his rage—it suddenly occurred to him to visit Mrs Allcraft, and to worry her with his complaints. He hurried to her house, and forced himself into her presence. We will not follow him, for grief is sacred; and who that had the heart of man, would desecrate the hearth hallowed by affliction, deep and terrible as that of our poor Margaret?