The old man withdrew.
"When, where, and how is this business to be arranged?" demanded Tomlinson, after a short pause.
"The count is to call at my house at twelve. I have left a note to request him to come on hither."
"You had, then, already arranged this matter in your mind?" said the banker, ironically.
"Certainly," answered Greenwood, with his usual coolness. "I knew you would relieve me of this obligation; because I shall be enabled in return to afford you that assistance of which you stand so much in need."
"I must throw myself upon your generosity," said Tomlinson. "It is now twelve: the count will soon be here."
Half an hour passed away; and the Italian nobleman made his appearance.
"You see that I have kept my word, count," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, with an ironical smile of triumph. "Mr. Tomlinson holds in his hands certain funds of mine, which, according to the terms of agreement between us, he is to retain in his possession and use for a period of six months and six days from the present day, at an interest of four per cent. If you, Count Alteroni, be willing to accept a transfer of fifteen thousand pounds of such funds in Mr. Tomlinson's hands from my name to your own, the bargain can be completed this moment."
"I cannot hesitate, Mr. Greenwood," said the count, "to accept a guarantee of such known stability at the name of Mr. Tomlinson."
"Then all that remains to be done," exclaimed the financier, "is for you to return me my acknowledgment for the amount specified, and for Mr. Tomlinson to give you his in its place. Mr. Tomlinson has already received my written authority for the transfer."
The business was settled as Mr. Greenwood proposed. The count returned the financier his receipt, and accepted one from the banker.
"Now, that this is concluded, count," said Mr. Greenwood, placing the receipt in his pocket-book, "I hope that our friendship will continue uninterrupted."
"Pardon me, sir," returned the count, his features assuming a stern expression: "although I am bound to admit that you have not wronged me in respect to money, you have dared to talk to me of my daughter, who is innocence and purity itself."
"Count Alteroni," began Mr. Greenwood, "I am not aware——"
"Silence, sir!" cried the Italian noble, imperatively: "I have but one word more to say. Circumstances have revealed to me your profligate character; and never can I be too thankful that my daughter should have escaped an alliance with a man who bribes his agents to administer opiate drugs to an unprotected female for the vilest of purposes. Mr. Tomlinson," added the count, "pardon me for having used such language in your apartment, and in your presence."
Count Alteroni bowed politely to the banker, and, darting a withering glance of mingled contempt and indignation upon the abashed and astounded Greenwood, took his departure.
"He talks of things which are quite new to me," said Greenwood, recovering an outward appearance of composure, though inwardly he was chagrined beyond description.
Tomlinson made no reply: he was too much occupied with his own affairs to be able to afford attention to those of others.
Greenwood shortly took his leave—delighted at having effectually settled his pecuniary obligation with the count, in such a manner that it could never again be the means of molestation in respect to himself—but vexed at the discovery which the Italian nobleman had evidently made in respect to his conduct towards Eliza Sydney.
Immediately after Mr. Greenwood had left the bank-parlour, old Michael entered. This time he carried his snuff-box open in his left hand; and at every two paces he took a copious pinch with the fore-finger and thumb of his right. This was a fearful omen; and Tomlinson trembled.
"Well, Michael—well?"
"Not a deposit this morning. Draughts come in like wild-fire," said the old cashier. "There is but a hundred pounds left in the safe!"
"A hundred pounds!" ejaculated the banker, clasping his hands together: "and is it come to this at length, Michael?"
"Yes," said the cashier, gruffly.
"Then let us post a notice at once," cried Tomlinson: "the establishment must be closed without another moment's delay."
"Will you write out the notice of stoppage of payment, or shall I?" inquired Michael.
"Do it yourself, my good old friend—do it for me!" said the banker, whose countenance was ashy pale, and whose limbs trembled under him, as if he expected the officers of justice to drag him to a place of execution.
The old cashier seated himself at the table, and wrote out the announcement that the bank was unfortunately compelled to suspend its payments. He then read it to the ruined man who was now pacing the apartment with agitated steps.
"Will that do?"
"Yes," answered the banker; "but, in mercy, let me leave the house ere that notice be made public."
Tomlinson was about to rush distractedly out of the room, when the cashier was summoned into the public department of the establishment.
Five minutes elapsed ere his return—five minutes which appeared five hours to James Tomlinson.
At length the old man came back; and this time he did not carry his snuff-box in his hand.
Without uttering a word, he took the "notice of stoppage" off the table, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the fire.
"Saved once more," he murmured, as he watched the paper burning to tinder; and when it was completely consumed, he took a long and hearty pinch of snuff.
"Saved!" echoed Tomlinson: "do you mean that we are saved again?"
"Seven thousand four hundred and sixty-seven pounds just paid in to Dobson and Dobbins's account," answered the cashier, coolly and leisurely, as if he himself experienced not the slightest emotion.
In another hour there were fifteen thousand pounds in the safe; and when the bank closed that evening at the usual time, this sum had swollen up to twenty thousand and some hundreds.
This day was a specimen of the life of James Tomlinson, the banker.
Readers, when you pass by the grand commercial and financial establishments of this great metropolis, pause and reflect ere you envy their proprietors! In the parlours and offices of those reputed emporiums of wealth are men whose minds are a prey to the most agonising feelings—the most poignant emotions.
There is no situation so full of responsibility as that of a banker—no trust so sacred as that which is confided to him. When he fails, it is not the ruin of one man which is accomplished: it is the ruin of hundreds—perhaps thousands. The effects of that one failure are ramified through a wide section of society: widows and orphans are reduced to beggary—and those who have been well and tenderly nurtured are driven to the workhouse.
And yet the law punishes not the great banker who fails, and who involves thousands in his ruin. The petty trader who breaks for fifty pounds is thrown into prison, and is placed at the tender mercy of the Insolvents' Court, which perhaps remands him to a debtor's gaol for a year, for having contracted debts without a reasonable chance of paying them. But the great banker, who commenced business with a hundred thousand pounds, and who has dissipated five hundred thousand belonging to others, applies to the Bankruptcy Court, never sees the inside of a prison at all, and in due time receives a certificate, which clears him of all his liabilities, and enables him to begin the world anew. The petty trader passes a weary time in gaol, and is then merely emancipated from his confinement—but not from his debts. His future exertions are clogged by an impending weight of liability. One system or the other is wrong:—decide, O ye legislators who vaunt "the wisdom of your ancestors," which should be retained, and which abolished—or