The Master of Greylands. Mrs. Henry Wood

       CHAPTER VIII.

      COMMOTION AT STILBOROUGH.

      On that same fatal Tuesday--and fatal it might well be called, so much of evil did it bring in its train--there was commotion at Stilborough. Disagreeable rumours of some kind had got abroad, touching the solvency of the bank. Whence they arose, who had originated them, and what they precisely meant, nobody knew, nobody could tell: but they were being whispered about from one man to another, and the bank's creditors rose up in astonishment and fear.

      "Is it true? It cannot be." "What is it?--what's amiss? Not possible for Peter Castlemaine to be shaky. Where did you hear it? I'd trust the bank with my life, let alone my money." "But it's said that some gigantic speculation has failed?" "Nonsense the bank would stand twenty failures: don't believe a syllable of it." "Well, rumour says the bank will stop to-morrow." "Stop to-morrow! What shall we do for our money?" "Don't know. I shall get mine out to-day."

      The above sentences, and others similar to them, might be heard from different people in the streets of Stilborough. Those who were ultra-cautious went into the bank and asked for their money. At first Thomas Hill paid: he thought the demands were only in the regular course of business: but in a short while he saw what it was--that a run upon the bank was setting in; and he went into Mr. Peter Castlemaine's private room to consult his master. Fortunately the rumours had only got afloat late in the afternoon, and it was now within a few minutes of the usual time of closing. Not that, earlier or later, it could have made much difference in the calamity; but it saved some annoyance to the bank's inmates.

      Had the bank been solvent, it would of course have kept its doors open, irrespective of hours and customs; being insolvent, it closed them to the minute, and the shutters too. Had Mr. Peter Castlemaine been able to meet the demands for money, he would have been in the public room with a clear face, reassuring the applicants: as it was, he bolted himself in his parlour. The clerks drew down the shutters and shut the doors against the public: two or three of the young men, who had to go out with letters or messages, got away through the private entrance. Back went Thomas Hill to his master, knocking at the door when he found it fastened.

      "It is only me, sir. All's safe."

      Peter Castlemaine opened it. A change, that the faithful old clerk did not like to see, was in his face. Hill's own face was scared and white enough just then, as he well knew; but it could not wear the peculiar, sickly, shrunken look he saw on his master's.

      "Where are they, Thomas? Is it really a run?"

      "Really and truly, sir. What an unfortunate circumstance! A few days, and you would have tided it over."

      "But where are they all?"

      "Outside, sir, in the street, kicking and thumping at the doors and windows; a great crowd of them by this time, and growing a bigger one every minute. We managed to get the doors shut as tie clock struck, and then put down the shutters."

      Mr. Castlemaine drew his hand across his aching brow. "I think this must have been caused by Fosbrook," he remarked. "He may have let an incautious word drop."

      "He'd not do it, sir."

      "Not intentionally: for his own sake. I knew it boded no good when I found he meant to stay on at the Turk's Head. Alas! Alas!"

      "There has not been a regular stoppage," said Thomas Hill. "And if we can manage to get assistance, and open again to-morrow morning----"

      "Don't, Hill," interrupted the banker, in a tone of painful wailing. "Don't speak of hope! There's no hope left."