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

"Very well. You are aware, Mr Brammel, that your respected parent has yet to be made acquainted with sundry lively doings of your own, which you would rather, I believe, keep from his ears at present; you likewise are aware that if any thing happens to the serious injury of the bank through your imprudence—your inheritance from that respected parent would be dearly purchased for a shilling. I shall be sorry to hurt your feelings, or your pocket. I have no wish to do it; but depend upon me, sir, your father shall be a wiser man to-night, if you are obstinate and disobedient."

"I can't borrow money—I can't—I don't know how to do it," said Brammel peevishly.

"And who reproaches you for your inability, my dear sir," said Bellamy coaxingly. "No one, I am sure. You shall be taught. Every thing shall be made easy and agreeable. You will carry your credentials from the house, and your simple task shall be beforehand well explained to you."

"I am not used to it."

"And you never will be, Mr Brammel, if you don't begin to practise. Come, I am sure you don't wish me to see your father to-day. I am certain you are not anxious to part with your patrimony. You are too sensible a man. Pray let us have no delay, Mr Allcraft. See what we want. Mr Brammel will go to London to-morrow. We must take time by the forelock. Let us meet these heavy payments, and then we can think, and breathe, and talk. Till then it is idle to wrangle, and to lose one's temper. Very well: then there's little more, I imagine, to be done at present."

Augustus Theodore still opposed his nomination, like an irritable child; but a fly kicking against a stone wall, was as likely to move it, as Brammel to break down the resolution of such a personage as Mr Bellamy. After an hour's insane remonstrance, he gave in to his own alarm, rather than to the persuasion of his partner. He was fearfully in debt; his only hope of getting out of it rested in the speedy decease of his unfortunate parent, whom he had not seen for months, and who, he had reason to believe, had vowed to make him pay with his whole fortune for any calamity that might happen to the bank through his misconduct or extravagance. It was not from the lips of Mr Bellamy that he heard this threat for the first time. What he should do, if it were carried out, heaven only knows. He consented to go to London on this disgusting mission, and he could have bitten his tongue out for speaking his acquiescence, so enraged was he with himself, and all the world, at his defeat. He did not affect to conceal his anger; and yet, strange to say, it was not visible to Mr Bellamy. On the contrary, he thanked Mr Brammel for the cheerful and excellent spirit in which he had met his partners' wishes, and expressed himself delighted at the opportunity which now presented itself for introducing their young friend to life. Then, turning to Michael Allcraft, he begged him to prepare their deputation for his work immediately, and to place no obstacle in the way of his departure. Then he moved the adjournment of the meeting until the return of Mr Brammel; and then he finished by inviting all his partners to dine with him at the hall that day, and to join him in drinking success and happiness to their young adventurer. The invitation was accepted; and Mr. Bellamy's grand carriage drew up immediately with splash and clatter to the door.

CHAPTER III.

A CHAPTER OF LOANS

Augustus Brammel hated his partners with all his heart and soul. He had never been very fond of them, but the result of this interview gave an activity and a form to feelings which it required only sufficient occasion to bring into play. Notwithstanding the polite tone which Mr Bellamy had cunningly adopted in placing his mission before him, even he, the ignorant and obtuse Brammel, could not fail to see that he had been made the tool, the cat's-paw in a business from which his partners shrank. Now, had the young man been as full of courage as he was of vulgar conceit, he might, I verily believe, have turned his hatred, and his knowledge of affairs, to very good account. Lacking the spirit of the smallest animal that crawls, he was content to eject his odious malice in oaths and execrations, and to submit to his beating after all. No sooner was the meeting at an end, than he left the Banking-house, and turned his steps towards home. He had become—as it was very natural he should—a brute of a husband, and the terror of his helpless household. He remembered, all at once, that he had been deeply aggrieved in the morning by Mrs Brammel; that as many as two of his shirt buttons had given way whilst he was in the act of dressing, and unable to contain himself after the treatment of Mr Bellamy, he resolved forthwith to have his vengeance out upon his wife. But he had not walked a hundred yards, before his rancour and fury increased to such a height, that he was compelled to pull up short in the street, and to vow, with a horrible oath, that he would see all his partners roasting in the warmest place that he could think of, before he'd move one inch to save their souls from rotting. So, instead of proceeding homeward, he turned back again, with a view to make this statement; but before he could reach the Banking-house, a wiser thought entered his head, and induced him to retrace his steps. "He would go," he said, "to his father; and lay his complaint there. He would impeach all his partners, acknowledge his errors, and promise once more to reform. His father, easy old fool, would believe him, forgive him, and do any thing else, in his joy." It was certainly a bright idea—but, alas! his debts were so very extensive. Bellamy's threatening look rose before him, and made them appear even larger and more terrible than they were. What if his father insisted upon his going to London, and doing any other dirty work which these fellows chose to put upon him? Bellamy, he was sure, could make the old man do any thing. No, it wouldn't do. He stamped his foot to the ground in vexation, and recurred to his original determination. It was all he could do. He must go to London, and take what indemnification he might in the domestic circle previously to starting. And the miserable man did have his revenge, and did go to London. He was empowered to borrow twenty thousand pounds from the London house, and he was furnished by Michael Allcraft with particulars explanatory of his commission. And he walked into Lombard Street with the feelings of a culprit walking up the scaffold to his execution. His pitiful heart deserted him at the very instant when he most needed its support. He passed and repassed the large door of the establishment, which he saw opened and shut a hundred tines in a minute, by individuals, whose self-collectedness and independence, he would have given half his fortune to possess. He tried, time after time, to summon courage for his entry, and, as he afterwards expressed it, a ball rose in his throat—just as he got one foot upon the step—large enough to choke him. Impudent and reckless us he had been all his life, he was now more timid and nervous than an hysterical girl. Oh, what should he do! First, he thought of going to a neighbouring hotel, and writing at once to Allcraft; swearing that he was very ill, that he couldn't move, and was utterly unable to perform his duties. If he went to bed, and sent for a doctor, surely Allcraft would believe him; and in pity would come up and do the business. He dwelt upon this contrivance, until it seemed too complicated for success. Would it not be more advisable to write to the London house itself, and explain the object of his coming up? But if he could write, why couldn't he call? They would certainly ask that question, and perhaps refuse the loan. Oh, what was he to do! He could hit upon no plan, and he couldn't muster confidence to turn in. The porter of the firm mercifully interposed to rescue Mr Brammel from his dilemma. That functionary had watched the stranger shuffling to and fro in great anxiety and doubt, and at length he deemed it proper to enquire whether the gentleman was looking for the doorway of the house of Messrs —— and ——, or not. Augustus, frightened, answered yes at random, and in another instant found himself in what he called "THE SWEATING ROOM of the awfullest house of business he had ever seen in all his life." It was a large square apartment, very lofty and very naked-looking. There was an iron chest, and two shelves filled with giant books; and there was nothing else in the room but a stillness, and a mouldiness of smell, that hung upon his spirits like pounds of lead, dragging them down, and freezing them. Yet, cold as were his spirits, the perspiration that oozed from the pores of his skin was profuse and steady during the quarter of an hour that elapsed whilst he waited for the arrival of the worthy principal. During those memorable fifteen minutes—the most unpleasant of his life—Augustus, for two seconds together, could neither sit, stand nor walk with comfort. He knew nothing of the affairs of his house; he was not in a condition to answer the most trivial business question; he had heard that his firm was on the eve of bankruptcy, (and, judging from the part he had taken in its affairs, he could easily believe it;) he felt that his partners had thrown the odium of the present application upon him, not having courage to take it upon themselves; and he had an indistinct apprehension that this very act of borrowing money would lead to transportation or the gallows, should the business go to rack and ruin, as he could see it shortly would. All these considerations went far to stultify the otherwise weak and feeble Mr Brammel; when, in addition, he endeavoured to arrange in his mind the terms on which he would request the favour of a temporary loan of only (!) twenty thousand pounds, a sensation of nausea completely overpowered him, and the table, the chairs, the iron chest, swam round him like so many ships at sea. To recover from his sickness, and to curse the banking-house, every member of the same, and his own respectable parent for linking him to it, was one and the same exertion. To the infinite astonishment of Augustus Theodore, the acquisition of these twenty thousand pounds proved the most amusing and easiest transaction of his life. Mr Cutbill, the managing partner of the London house, received him with profound respect and pleasure. He listened most attentively to the stammering request, and put the deputation at his ease at once, by expressing his readiness to comply with Mr Allcraft's wishes, provided a note of hand, signed by all the partners, and payable in three months, was given as security for the sum required. Augustus wrote word home to that effect; the note of hand arrived—the twenty thousand pounds were paid—the dreaded business was transacted with half the trouble that it generally cost Augustus Theodore to effect the purchase of a pair of gloves.

Mr Bellamy remained at the hall just one week after the receipt of the cash, and then was carried to the north by pressing business. Before he started he complimented Allcraft upon their success, trusted that they should now go smoothly on, promised to return at the very earliest moment, and gave directions on his route by which all letters of importance might safely reach him. And Allcraft, relieved for a brief season, indefatigable as ever, strained every nerve and muscle to sustain his credit and increase his gains. As heretofore, he denied himself all diversion and amusement. The first at the bank, the last to leave it, he had his eye for ever on its doings. Visible at all times to the world, and most conspicuous there where the world was pleased to find him, he maintained his reputation as a thorough man of business, and held, with hooks of steel, a confidence as necessary to existence as the vital air around him. To lose a breath of the public approbation in his present state, were to give up fatally the only stay on which he rested. Wonderful that, as the prospects of the man grew darker, his courage strengthened, his spirit roused, his industry increased! And a bitter reflection was it, that reward still came to him—still a fair return for time and strength expended. He could not complain of the neglect of mankind, or of the ingratitude of those he served. In the legitimate transactions of the house, he was a prosperous and a prospering man. Such, to the outer world, did he appear in all respects, and such he would have been but for the hidden and internal sores already past cure or reparation. Who had brought them there? Michael did not ask the question—yet. Never did three months pass away so rapidly as those which came between the day of borrowing and the day of paying back those twenty thousand pounds. The moment the money had arrived, Michael's previous anxieties fled from his bosom, and left him as happy as a boy without a care. It came like a respite from death. Sanguine to the last, he congratulated himself upon the overthrow of his temporary difficulties, and relied upon the upturning of some means of payment, on the arrival of the distant day. But distant as it looked at first, it crept nearer and nearer, until at the end of two months, when—as he saw no possibility of relieving himself from the engagement—it appeared close upon him, haunting him morning, noon, and night, wheresoever he might be, and sickening him with its terrible and desperate aspect. When there wanted only a week to the fatal day, Michael's hope of meeting the note of hand was slighter than ever. He became irritable, distressed, and anxious—struggled hard to get the needful sum together, struggled and strove; but failed. Hours and minutes were now of vital consequence; and, in a rash and unprotected moment, he permitted himself to write a letter to the London house, begging them, as a particular favour, just for one week to retire the bill they held against him. The London house civilly complied with the request, and five days of that last and dreary week swept by, leaving poor Allcraft as ill prepared for payment as they had found him. What could he do? At length the gulf had opened—was yawning—to receive him. How should he escape it?

Heaven, in its infinite mercy, has vouchsafed to men angels to guide and cheer them on their difficult and thorny paths. Could Michael suffer, and Margaret not sympathize? Could he have a sorrow which she might chase away, and, having the power, lack the heart to do it? Impossible! Oh! hear her in her impassioned supplications; hear her at midnight, in their disturbed and sleepless bedchamber, whilst the doomed man sits at her side in agony, clasps his face, and buries it within his hand for shame and disappointment.

"Michael, do not break my heart. Take, dearest, all that I possess; but, I entreat you, let me see you cheerful. Do not take this thing to heart. Whatever may be your trouble, confide it, love, to me. I will try to kill it!"

"No, no, no," answered Allcraft wildly; "it must not be—it shall not be, dear Margaret. You shall be imposed upon no longer. You shall not be robbed. I am a villain!"

"Do not say so, Michael. You are kind and good; but this cruel business has worn you out. Leave it, I implore you, if you can, and let us live in peace."

"Margaret, it is impossible. Do not flatter yourself or me with the vain hope of extrication. Release will never come. I am bound to it for my life; it will take longer than a life to effect deliverance. You know not my calamities."

"But I will know them, Michael, and share them with you, if they must be borne. I am your wife, and have a right to this. Trust me, Michael, and do not kill me with suspense. What is this new affliction? Whatsoever it may be, it is fitting that I should know it—yes, will know it, dearest, or I am not worthy to lie beside you there. Tell me, love, how is it that for these many days you have looked so sad, and sighed, and frowned upon me. I am conscious of no fault. Have I done amiss? Say so, and I will speedily repair the fault?"

Michael pressed his Margaret to his heart, and kissed her fondly.

"Why, oh why, my Margaret, did you link your fate with mine?"

"Why, having done so, Michael, do you not love and trust me?"

"Love?"

"Yes—love! Say what you will, you do not love me, if you hide your griefs from me. We are one. Let us be truly so. One in our joys and in our sufferings."

"Dearest Margaret, why should I distress you? Why should I call upon you for assistance? Why drag your substance from you?—why prey upon you until you have parted with your all? I have taken too much already."

"Answer me one simple question, Michael. Can money buy away this present sorrow? Can it bring to you contentment and repose? Can it restore to me the smile which is my own? Oh, if it can, be merciful and kind; take freely what is needful, and let me purchase back my blessings!"

"Margaret, you deserve a better fate!"

"Name the sum, dear. Is it my fortune? Not more? Then never were peace of mind and woman's happiness so cheaply bought. Take it, Michael, and let us thank Heaven that it is enough. My fortune never gave me so much joy as now. I do not remember, Michael, that you have ever refused my smallest wish. It is not in your nature to be unkind. Come, dearest, smile a little. We have made the bargain—be generous, and pay me in advance."

He smiled and wept in gratitude.

Now Michael retired to rest, determined not to take advantage of the generous impulses of his confiding wife; yet, although he did so, it could not but be very satisfactory to his marital feelings to discover, and to be assured of the existence of, such devotedness and disregard of self and fortune as she displayed. Indeed, he was very much tranquillized and comforted; so much so, in fact, that he was enabled, towards morning, to wake up in a condition to review his affairs with great serenity of mind, and (notwithstanding his determination) to contrive some mode of turning the virtuous magnanimity of his wife to good account, without inflicting any injury upon herself. Surely if he could do this, he was bound to act. To save himself by her help, and, at the same time, without injuring her at all, was a very defensible step, to say the least of it. Who should say it wasn't his absolute duty to adopt it? Whatever repugnance he might have felt in asking a further loan from one who had already helped him beyond his expectations, it was certainly very much diminished since she had offered to yield to him, without reserve, every farthing that she possessed. Not that he would ever suffer her to do any thing so wild and inexcusable; still, after such an expression of her wishes, he was at liberty to ask her aid, provided always that he could secure her from any loss or risk. When Michael got thus far in his proposition, it was not very difficult to work it to the end. Once satisfied that it was just and honourable, and it was comparatively child's work to arrange the modus operandi. A common trick occurred to him. In former transactions with his wife, he had pledged his word of honour to repay her. It had become a stale pledge, and very worthless, as Michael felt. What if he put his life in pawn! Ah, capital idea! This would secure to her every farthing of her debt. Dear me, how very easy! He had but to insure his life for the amount he wanted, and let what would happen, she was safe. His spirit rejoiced. Oh, it was joy to think that she could save him from perdition, and yet not suffer a farthing's loss. Loss! So far from this, his ready mind already calculated how she might be a gainer by the arrangement. He was yet young. Let him insure his life at present for twenty thousand pounds, and how much more would it be worth—say that he lived for twenty years to come? He explained it to his lady—to his own perfect satisfaction. The willing Margaret required no more. He could not ask as freely as the woman's boundless love could grant. He, with all his reasoning, could not persuade his conscience to pronounce the dealing just. She, with her beating heart for her sole argument and guide, looked for no motive save her strong affection—no end but her beloved's happiness and peace. Woe is me, the twenty thousand pounds were griped—the precious life of Mr Allcraft was insured—the London house was satisfied. A very few weeks flew over the head of the needy man, before he was reduced to the same pitiable straits. Money was again required to carry the reeling firm through unexpected difficulties. Brammel was again dispatched to London. The commissioner, grown bolder by his first success, was ill prepared for hesitation and reproof, and awkward references to "that last affair." Ten thousand pounds were the most they could advance, and all transactions of the kind must close with this, if there should be any deviation from the strictest punctuality. Brammel attempted to apologise, and failed in the attempt, of course. He came home disgusted, shortening his journey by swearing over half the distance, and promising his partners his cordial forgiveness, if ever they persuaded him again to go to London on a begging expedition!

Oh, Margaret! Margaret! Oh, spirit of the mild and gentle Mildred! Must I add, that your good money paid this second loan—and yet a third—a fourth—a fifth? When shall fond woman cease to give—when shall mean and sordid man be satisfied with something less than all she has to grant?

CHAPTER IV.

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP

The most remarkable circumstance in that meeting of the partners, which ended in Brammel's first visit to London, was the behaviour of our very dear friend and ally—the volatile Planner—volatile, alas! no longer. His best friend would not have recognized him on that deeply interesting occasion. He was a subdued, a shaken man. Every drop of his brave spirit had been squeezed out of him, and he stood the mere pulp and rind of his former self. He who, for years, had been accustomed to look at men, not only in the face, but very impertinently over their heads, could not drag his shambling vision now higher than men's shoe-strings. His eye, his heart, his soul was on the ground. He was disappointed, crushed. Not a syllable did he utter; not a single word of remonstrance and advice did he presume to offer in the presence of his associates. He had a sense of guilt, and men so situated are sometimes tongue-tied. He had, in truth, a great deal to answer for, and enough to make a livelier man than he dissatisfied and wretched. Every farthing which had passed from the bank to the Pantamorphica Association was irrecoverably gone. The Association itself was in the same condition—gone irrecoverably likewise. Nothing remained of that once beautiful and promising vision, but some hundred acres of valueless land, a half-finished and straggling brick wall, falling rapidly to decay, the foundations of a theatre, and the rudiments of a temple dedicated to Apollo. Planner had gazed upon the scene once, when dismal rain was pouring down upon the ruins, and he burst into bitter tears, and sobbed like a child at the annihilation of his hopes. He had not courage to look a second time upon that desolation, and yet he found courage to turn away from it, and to do a thing more desperate. Ashamed to be beaten, afraid to meet the just rebuke of Allcraft, he flung himself recklessly into the hands of a small band of needy speculators, and secretly engaged in schemes that promised restitution of the wealth he had expended, or make his ruin perfect and complete. One adventure after another failed, cutting the thread of his career shorter every instant, and rendering him more hot-brained and impatient. He doubled and trebled his risks, and did the like, as may be guessed, to his anxieties and failures. He lived in a perpetual fear and danger of discovery; and discovery now was but another name, for poison—prison—death. Here was enough, and more than enough, to extinguish every spark of joy in the bosom of Mr Planner, and to account for his despondency and settled gloom. And yet Planner, in this, his darkest hour, was nearer to deliverance and perfect peace, than at any previous period of his history. Planner was essentially "a lucky dog." Had he fallen from a house-top, he would have reached terra firma on his feet. Had he been conducted to the gallows, according to his desserts, the noose would have slipped, and his life would certainly have been spared.

It happened, that whilst Michael was immersed in the management of his loans, a hint was forwarded to him of the pranks of his partner; a letter, written by an anonymous hand, revealed his losses in one transaction, amounting to many hundred pounds. The news came like a thunderbolt to Allcraft. It was a death-blow. Iniquitous, unpardonable as were the acts of his colleague—serious as was the actual sum of money gone; yet these were as nothing compared with the distressing fact, that intelligence of the evil work had already gone abroad, was in circulation, and might at any moment put a violent end to his own unsteady course. He carried the note to Planner—he thrust it into his face, and called him to account for his baseness and ingratitude. He could have struck his friend and partner to the earth, and trod him there to death, as he confronted and upbraided him.

"Now, sir," roared Allcraft in his fury—"What excuse—what lie have you at your tongue's end to palliate this? What can justify this? Will you never be satisfied until you have rendered me the same hopeless, helpless creature that I found you, when I dragged you from your beggaring.§ Answer me!"—

There is nothing like a plaintive retort when your case is utterly indefensible. Planner looked at the letter, read it—then turned his eyes mildly and reproachfully upon his accuser.

"Michael Allcraft," he said affectingly, "you treat me cruelly."

"I!" answered the other astounded. "I treat you! Planner, I intrusted you years ago with a secret. I paid you well for keeping it. Could I dream that nothing would satisfy your rapacity but my destruction? Could I suppose it? I have fed your ravenous desires. I have submitted to your encroachments. Do you ask my soul as well as body? Let me know what it is you ask—what I have to pay—let me hear the worst, and—prepare for all my punishment."

"I have listened to all you have said," continued Planner, "and I consider myself an ill-used man."

Michael stared.

"Yes—I mean it. I have worked like a negro for you Allcraft, and this is the return you make me. I get your drift; do not attempt to disguise it—it is cruel—most, most cruel!

"What do you mean?"

"Have I not always promised to share my gains with you?"

"Pshaw—your gains—where are they?"

"That's nothing to the point. Did I not promise?"

"Well—well."

"And now, after all my labour and struggling, because I have failed, you wish to turn me off, and throw me to the world. Now, speak the truth, man—is it not so?"

Oh! Planner was a cunning creature, and so was Michael Allcraft. Mark them both! This idea, which Planner deemed too good to be seriously entertained by his colleague, had never once occurred to Michael; but it seemed so promising, and so likely, if followed up, to relieve him effectually of his greatest plague, and of any floating ill report, that he found no hesitation in adopting it at once. He did not answer, but he tried to look as if his partner had exactly guessed his actual intention. Such §[11 - Original cut off between §s—Section completed with best guess of correct wording.] gentlemen both!

"I thought so," continued the injured Planner. "Michael, you do not know me. You do not understand my character. I am a child to persuade, but a rock if you attempt to force me. I shall not desert the bank, whilst there is a chance of paying back all that we have drawn."

"We, sir?"

"Yes—we. You and I together for our schemes, and you alone for private purposes. You recollect your father's debts"—

"Planner, do not think to threaten me into further compromise. You can frighten me no longer—be sure of that. Your transactions are the common talk of the city—the bank is stigmatized by its connexion with you."