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

"Curse the bank!" said Planner fretfully. "Would to Heaven I had never heard of it!"

"Leave it then, and rid yourself of the annoyance. You are free to do it!"

"What! and leave behind me every chance of realizing a competency for my old age! Oh, Michael, Michael—shame, shame!"

"Competency! Are you serious? Are you sane? Competency! Why, the labour of your life will not make good a tithe of what you have squandered."

"Come, come, Michael, you know better. You know well enough that one lucky turn would set us up at last. Speak like a man. Say that you want to grasp all—that you are tired of me—that you are sick of the old face, and wish to see my back. Put the thing in its proper light, and you shall not find me hard to deal with."

"Planner, you are deceived. Your mind is full of fancy and delusion, and that has been your curse and mine."

"Very well. Have your way; but look you, Michael, you are anxious to get rid of me—there's no denying that. There is no reason why we should quarrel on that account. I would sacrifice my prospects, were they double what they are, rather than beg you to retain me. I did not ask for a share in your bank. You sought me, and I came at your request. Blot out the past. Release me from the debt that stands against my name, and I am gone. As I came at your bidding, so, at your bidding, I am ready to depart."

"Agreed," said Allcraft, almost before the wily Planner finished. "It is done. I consent to your proposal. A dissolution shall be drawn up without delay, and shall be published in the next gazette."

"And publish with it," said Planner, like a martyr as he was, "the fate of him who gave up all to his own high sense of honour, and his friend's ingratitude."

So Planner spake, scarcely crediting his good fortune, and almost mad with joy at his deliverance. He had no rest until the seals were fixed to parchment, and the warrant of his release appeared in public print. Within a week, the fettered man was free. Within another week, his bounding spirits came like a spring-tide back to him, and in less than eight-and-twenty days of freedom and repose, he recovered quite as many years of sweet and precious life. He made quick use of his wings. At first, like a wild and liberated bird, he sported and tumbled in the air, and fixed upon no particular aim; a thousand captivating objects soon caught his eagle eye, and then he mounted, dazzled by them all, and soon eluded mortal sight and reach. But, glad as was the schemer, his delight and sense of freedom were much inferior to those of his misguided and unlucky partner. Michael breathed as a man relieved from nightmare. The encumbrance which had for years prevented him from rising, that had so lately threatened his existence, was gone, could no longer hang upon him, haunt and oppress him. What a deliverance!—Yet, what a price had he paid for it! True, but was not the money already sacrificed? Would it have been restored, had the luckless speculator himself remained? Never! Well, fearful then as was the sum, let it go, taking the incubus along with it. Allcraft took care to obtain the consent of Bellamy to his arrangement. He wrote to him, explaining the reasons for parting with their partner; and an answer came from the landed proprietor, acquiescing in the plan, but slightly doubting the propriety of the movement. As for Brammel, he consented, as he was ready to agree to any thing but a personal visit to the great metropolis. And then, what was Michael's next step? A proper one—to put out effectually the few sparks of scandal which might, possibly, be still flying about after the discovery of Planner's scheme. He worked fiercer than ever—harder than the day-labourer—at his place of business. It was wise in him to do so, and thus to draw men's thoughts from Planner's faults to his own unquestioned merits. And here he might have stopped with safety; but his roused, suspicious, sensitive nature, would not suffer him. He began to read, then to doubt and fear men's looks; to draw conclusions from their innocent words; to find grounds of uneasiness and torture in their silence. A vulgar fellow treated him with rudeness, and for days he treasured up the man's words, and repeated them to himself. What could they mean? Did people smell a rat? Were they on the watch? Did they suspect that he was poor? Ah, that was it! He saw it—he believed he did—that was equivalent to sight, and enough for him. Men did not understand him. He would not die so easily—they must be undeceived. Miserable Allcraft! He speedily removed from his small cottage—took a mansion, furnished it magnificently, and made it a palace in costliness and hospitality. Ah! was he poor? The trick answered. The world was not surprised, but satisfied. There was but one opinion. He deserved it all, and more. The only wonder was, that he had hitherto lived so quietly, rich as he was, in virtue of his wife's inheritance, and from his own hard-earned gains. His increasing business still enlarged. Customers brought guests, and, in their turn, the guests became good customers. It was a splendid mansion, with its countless rooms and gorgeous appointments. What pleasure-grounds—gardens—parks—preserves! Noble establishment, with its butler, under-butler, upper-servant, and my lady's (so the working people called poor Margaret) footman! In truth, a palace; but, alas! although it took a prince's revenue to maintain it, and although the lady's purse was draining fast to keep it and the bank upon its legs, yet was there not a corner, a nook, a hole in the building, in which master or mistress could find an hour's comfort, or a night's unmingled sleep. As for the devoted woman, it made very little difference to her whether she dwelt in a castle or a hovel, provided she could see her husband cheerful, and know that he was happy. This was all she looked for—cared for—lived for. He was her life. What was her money—the dross which mankind yearned after—but for its use to him, but for the power it might exercise amongst men to elevate and ennoble him? What was her palace but a dungeon if it rendered her beloved more miserable than ever, if it added daily to the troubles he had brought there—to the cares which had accumulated on his head from the very hour she had become his mate? Michael Allcraft! you never deserved this woman for your wife; you told her so many times, and perhaps you meant what was wrung from your heart in its anguish. It was the truth. Why, if not in rank cowardice and pitiful ambition, entangle yourself in the perplexities of such a household with all that heap of woe already on your soul? Why, when your London agents refused, in consequence of your irregularity and neglect, to advance your further loans—why take a base advantage of that heroic generosity that placed its all, unquestioning, at your command? Why, when you pretended with so much ceremony and regard, to effect an insurance on your worthless life, did you fail to pay up the policy even for a second year, and so resign all claim and right to such assurance, making it null and void? Let it stand here recorded to your disgrace, that, in the prosecution of your views, in the working out of your insane ambition, no one single thought of her, who gave her wealth as freely as ever fount poured forth its liberal stream, deterred you in your progress for an instant; that no one glow or gush of feeling towards the fond and faithful wife interposed to save her from the consequences of your selfishness, and to humble you with shame for inhumanity as vile as it was undeserved. It is not surprising, that after the taking of the great house the demands upon the property of Margaret were made without apology or explanation. He asked, and he obtained. The refusal of aid, on the part of the London house, terrified him when it came, and caused him to rush, with a natural instinct, to the quarter whence he had no fear of denial and complaint. He drew largely from her resources. The money was sucked into the whirlpool; there was a speedy cry for more; and more was got and sacrificed. It would have been a miracle had Allcraft, in the midst of his crushing cares, retained his early vigour of mind and body, and passed through ten years of such an existence without suffering the penalties usually inflicted upon the man prodigal of the blessings and good gifts of Providence. In his appearance, and in his temperament, he had undergone a woful change. His hair—all that remained of it, for the greater part had fallen away—was grey; and, thin, weak, and straggling, dropped upon his wrinkled forehead—wrinkled with a frown that had taken root there. His face was sickly, and never free from the traces of acute anxiety that was eating at his heart. His body was emaciated, and, at times, his hand shook like a drunkard's. It was even worse with the spiritual man. He had become irritable, peevish, and ill-natured; he had lost, by degrees, every generous sentiment. As a young man he had been remarkable for his liberality in pecuniary matters. He had been wont to part freely with his money. Inconsistent as it may seem, notwithstanding his heavy losses through his partners, and his fearful expenditure, he was as greedy of gain as though he were stinting himself of every farthing, and secretly hoarding up his chests of gold. He would haggle in a bargain for a shilling, and economize in things beneath a wise man's notice or consideration. For a few years, as it has been seen, Allcraft had denied himself the customary recreations of a man of business, and had devoted himself entirely to his occupation. It was by no means a favourable indication of his state of mind, that he derived no satisfaction at the grand mansion, either alone or in the mere society of his wife. He quitted the bank daily at a late hour, and reached his home just in time for dinner. That over, he could not sit or rest—he must be moving. He could not live in quiet. "Quietness"—it was his own expression—"stunned him." He rushed to the theatre, to balls, concerts, wherever there was noise, talk, excitement, crowds of people; wherever there was release from his own pricking conscience and miserable thoughts. And then to parties; of course there was no lack of them, for their society was in great request, and every one was eager for an invitation in return to Eden—such being the strange misnomer of their magnificent prison-house. And, oh, rare entertainments were they which the suffering pair provided for the cold-hearted crew that flocked to partake of their substance! How the poor creature smiled upon her guests as they arrived, whilst her wounded heart bled on! How she sang—exquisitely always—for their amusement and nauseous approbation, until her sweet voice almost failed to crush the rising tears! How gracefully she led off the merry dance whilst clogs were on her spirits, weighing upon every movement. Extravagant joyousness! Dearly purchased pleasure! Yes, dearly purchased, if only with that half hour of dreadful silence and remorse that intervened between the banquet and the chamber—not of sweet slumber and benevolent repose but of restlessness and horrid dreams!

CHAPTER V.

THE CRISIS

Michael was half mad in the midst of his troubles; and, in truth, they gathered so thickly and rapidly about him, that he is to be admired for the little check which he contrived to keep over his reason, saving him from absolute insanity and a lunatic asylum. Mr Bellamy, although away, made free with the capital of the bank, and applied it to his own private uses. Mr Brammel, senior, after having, for many years, made good to Allcraft the losses the latter had sustained through his son's extravagance, at length grew tired of the work, and left the neighbourhood, in disgust, as Michael thought, but, in sad truth, with a bruised and broken heart. At last he had dismissed the long-cherished hope of the prodigal's reformation, and with his latest hope departed every wish to look upon his hastening decay and fall. He crawled from the scene—the country; no one knew his course; not a soul was cognizant of his intentions, or could guess his resting-place. Augustus Theodore did not, in consequence of his father's absence, draw less furiously upon the bank! He had never heard of that father's generosity—how should he know of it now? And, if he knew it, was he very likely to profit by the information? Michael honoured his drafts for many reasons; two may be mentioned, founded on hope and fear—the hope of frightening the unfortunate Brammel senior into payment when he met with him again, the fear of making Brammel junior desperate by his refusal, and of his divulging all he knew. Could a man, not crazy, carry more care upon his brain? Yes, for demands on account of Planner poured in, the very instant that fortunate speculator had taken his lucky leave of the establishment—demands for which Michael had rendered himself liable in law, by the undertaking which he had drawn up and signed in his alarm and haste. Oh, why had he overwhelmed himself with partners—why had he married—why had he taken upon himself the responsibility of his parent's debts—why had he not explained every thing when he might have done it with honour and advantage—why had he not relied upon his own integrity—and why had he attempted, with cunning and duplicity, to overreach his neighbours? Why, oh why, had he done all this? When Michael was fairly hemmed in by his difficulties, and, as it is vulgarly said, had not a leg to stand upon, or a hole to creep through, then, and not till then, did he put these various questions to himself; and since it is somewhat singular that so shrewd a man should have waited until the last moment to put queries of such vast importance to himself, I shall dwell here for one brief moment on the fact, be it only to remind and to warn others, equally shrewd and equally clever, of the mischief they are doing when they postpone the consideration of their motives and acts until motives and acts both have brought them into a distress, out of which all their consideration will not move them an inch. "Why have I done?" was, is, and ever will be, the whining interrogative of stricken inability; "Why am I about to do?" the provident question of thoughtful, far-seeing success. Remember that.

I am really afraid to say how much of poor Margaret's fortune was dragged from her—how little of it still remained. It must have been a trifle, indeed, when Michael, with a solemn oath, swore that he would not touch one farthing more, let the consequences be what they might. Could it be possible that the whole of her splendid inheritance had shrunk to so paltry a sum, that the grasping man had ceased to think it worth his while to touch it? or did the dread of beholding the confiding woman, beggar'd at last, induce him to leave at her disposal enough to purchase for her—necessary bread? Whatever was his motive, he persisted in his resolution, and to the end was faithful to his oath. Not another sixpence did he take from her. And how much the better was he for all that he had taken already? Poor Michael had not time to enquire and answer the question. He could not employ his precious moments in retrospection. He lived from hand to mouth; struggled every hour to meet the exigencies of the hour that followed. He was absorbed in the agitated present, and dared not look an inch away from it. Now, thanks to the efforts of her people, England is a Christian country; and whenever fortune goes very hard with a man who has received all the assistance that his immediate connexions can afford him, there is a benevolent brotherhood at hand, eager to relieve the sufferer's wants, and to put an end to his anxiety. This charitable band is known by the name of Money-lenders—Jewish money-lenders; so called, no doubt, in profound humility and self-denial, displayed in the Christian's wish to give the honour of the work elsewhere, reserving to himself the labour and—the profit. When Michael needed fresh supplies, he was not long in gathering a gang of harpies about him. They kept their victim for a while well afloat. They permitted their principal to accumulate in his hands, whilst they received full half of their advances back in the form of interest. So he went on; and how long this game would have lasted, it is impossible to say, because it was cut short in its heighth by a circumstance that brought the toppling house down, as it were, with a blow and a run.

When Allcraft, one morning at his usual hour, presented himself at the bank, his confidential clerk approached him with a very serious face, and placed a newspaper in his hand. Michael had grown very timid and excitable; and when the clerk put his finger on the particular spot to which he desired to call his superior's attention, the heart of the nervous man leapt into his throat, and the blood rushed from his cheek, as if it were its duty to go and look after it. He literally wanted the courage to read the words. He attempted to smile indifferently, and to thank his servant as courteously as if he had given him a pleasant pinch of snuff; but at the same time, he pressed his thumb upon the paragraph, and made his way straight to his snug and private room. He was ready to drop when he reached it, and his heart beat like a hammer against his ribs. He placed the paper on the table, and, ere he read a syllable, he laboured to compose himself. What could it be? Was the thing exploded? Was he already the common talk and laugh of men? Was he ruined and disgraced? He read at length—The property and estates of Walter Bellamy, Esq., were announced for sale by auction. His first sensation on perusing the advertisement was one of overpowering sickness. Here, then, was his destruction sealed! Here was the declaration of poverty trumpeted to the world. Here was the alarum sounded—here was his doom proclaimed. Let there be a run upon the bank—and who could stop it now?—let it last for four-and-twenty hours, and he is himself a bankrupt, an outcast, and a beggar. The tale was told—the disastrous history was closed. He had spun his web—had been his own destiny. God help and pardon him for his transgressions! There he sat, unhappy creature, weeping, and weeping like a heart-broken boy, sobbing aloud from the very depths of his soul, frantic with distress. For a full half hour he sat there, now clenching his fists in silent agony, now accusing himself of crime, now permitting horrible visions to take possession of his brain, and to madden it with their terrible and truth-like glare. He saw himself—whilst his closed eyes were pressed upon his paralysed hands—saw himself as palpably as though he stood before himself, crawling through the public streets, an object for men's pity, scorn, and curses. Now men laughed at him, pointed to him with their fingers, and made their children mock and hoot the penniless insolvent. Labouring men, with whose small savings he had played the thief, prayed for maledictions on his head; and mothers taught their little ones to hate the very name he bore, and frightened them by making use of it. Miserable pictures, one upon the other, rose before him—dark judgments, which he had never dreamed of or anticipated; and he stood like a stricken coward, and he yearned for the silence and concealment of the grave. Ay—the grave! Delightful haven to pigeon-hearted malefactors—inconsistent criminals, who fear the puny look of mortal man, and, unabashed, stalk beneath the eternal and the killing frown of God. Michael fixed upon his remedy, and the delusive opiate gave him temporary ease; but, in an another instant, he derived even hope and consolation from another and altogether opposite view of things. A thought suddenly occurred to him, as thoughts will occur to the tossed and working mind—how, why, or whence we know not; and the drowning man, catching sight of the straw, did not fail to clutch it. What if, after all, Mr. Bellamy proposed to sell his property in favour of the bank!! Very likely, certainly; and yet Allcraft, sinking, could believe it possible—yes possible, and (by a course of happy reasoning and self-persuasion) not only so—but true. And if this were Mr. Bellamy's motive and design, how cruel had been his own suspicions—how vain and wicked his previous disturbance and complaints! And why should it not be? Had he not engaged to restore the money which he had borrowed; and had he not given his word of honour to pay in a large amount of capital? At the memorable meeting, had he not promised to satisfy Allcraft of the justice of his own proceedings, and the impropriety of Michael's attack upon his character? And had not the time arrived for the redemption of his word, and the payment of every farthing that was due from him? Yes; it had arrived—it had come—it was here. Mr Bellamy was about to assert his integrity, and the banking-house was saved. Michael rose from his chair—wiped the heavy sweat-drops from his brow—dried his tears, and gave one long and grateful sigh for his deliverance from that state of horror, by which, for one sad, sickening moment, he had been bewildered and betrayed. But, satisfied as he was, and rejoiced as he pretended to be, it could hardly be expected that a gentleman possessed of so lively a temperament as that enjoyed by Mr. Allcraft would rest quietly upon his convictions, and take no steps to strengthen and establish them. Michael for many days past had had no direct communication with his absent partner, and, at the present moment, he was ignorant of his movements. He resolved to make his way at once to the Hall, and to get what intelligence he could of its lord and master, from the servants left in charge of that most noble and encumbered property. Accordingly he quitted his apartment, threw a ghastly smile into his countenance, and then came quickly upon his clerks, humming a few cheerful notes, with about as much spirit and energy as a man might have if forced to sing a comic song just before his execution. Thoroughly persuaded that the officials had not obtained an inkling of what had transpired in his sanctum, and that he left them without a suspicion of evil upon their minds, he started upon his errand, and waited not for breath until he reached his destination. He arrived at the lodge—he arrived at the Hall. He rang the loud bell, and a minute afterwards he learned that Mr Bellamy was within—had made his appearance at home late on the evening before, and, at the present moment, was enjoying his breakfast. Michael, for sudden joy and excitement, was wellnigh thrown from his equilibrium. Here was confirmation stronger than ever! Would he have returned to the estate upon the very eve of disposing of it, if he had not intended to deal well and honestly in the transaction? Would he not have been ashamed to do it? Would he have subjected himself to the just reproaches and upbraidings of his partner, when, by his absence, he might so easily have avoided them? Certainly not. Michael Allcraft, for a few brief seconds, was a happier man than he had been for years. His eyes were hardly free of the tears which he had shed in the extremity of his distress, and he was now ready to weep again in the very exuberance and wildness of his delight. He presented his card to the corpulent and powdered footman; he was announced; he was ushered in. Walter Bellamy, Esquire, sitting in state, received his friend and partner with many smiles and much urbanity. He was still at breakfast, and advancing slowly in the meal, like a gentleman whose breakfast was his greatest care in life. Nothing could be more striking than the air of stately repose visible in the proprietor himself, and in the specious and solemn serving-man, who stood behind him—less a serving-man than a sublime dumb waiter. Michael was affected by it, and he approached his colleague with a rising sentiment of awe—partly, perhaps, the effect of the scene—partly the result of natural apprehension.

"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?"