A great,eager,but doggedly-quiet crowd,of which each had his or her--for it was half women--individual terror to hide,his or her individual interest to fight for,and cared not a straw for that of any one else.
It was market-day,and this crowd was collected and collecting every minute,before the bank at Norton Bury.It included all classes,from the stout farmer's wife or market-woman,to the pale,frightened lady of "limited income,"who had never been in such a throng before;from the aproned mechanic to the gentleman who sat in his carriage at the street corner,confident that whatever poor chance there was,his would be the best.
Everybody was,as I have said,extremely quiet.You heard none of the jokes that always rise in and circulate through a crowd;none of the loud outcries of a mob.All were intent on themselves and their own business;on that fast-bolted red-baize door,and on the green blind of the windows,which informed them that it was "open from ten till four."The Abbey clock struck three quarters.Then there was a slight stirring,a rustling here and there of paper,as some one drew out and examined his bank notes;openly,with small fear of theft--they were not worth stealing.
John and I,a little way off,stood looking on,where we had once watched a far different crowd;for Mr.Jessop owned the doctor's former house,and in sight of the green bank blinds were my dear old father's known windows.
Guy's birthday had fallen on a Saturday.This was Monday morning.
We had driven over to Norton Bury,John and I,at an unusually early hour.He did not exactly tell me why,but it was not difficult to guess.Not difficult to perceive how strongly he was interested,even affected--as any man,knowing all the circumstances,could not but be affected--by the sight of that crowd,all the sadder for its being such a patient,decent,respectable crowd,out of which so large a proportion was women.
I noticed this latter fact to John.
"Yes,I was sure it would be so.Jessop's bank has such a number of small depositors and issues so many small notes.He cannot cash above half of them without some notice.If there comes a run,he may have to stop payment this very day;and then,how wide the misery would spread among the poor,God knows."His eye wandered pitifully over the heaving mass of anxious faces blue with cold,and growing more and more despondent as every minute they turned with a common impulse from the closed bank door to the Abbey clock,glittering far up in the sunshiny atmosphere of morning.
Its finger touched the one heel of the great striding X--glided on to the other--the ten strokes fell leisurely and regularly upon the clear frosty air;then the chimes--Norton Bury was proud of its Abbey chimes--burst out in the tune of "Life let us Cherish."The bells went through all the tune,to the very last note--then ensued silence.The crowd were silent too--almost breathless with intent listening--but,alas!not to the merry Abbey chimes.
The bank door remained closed--not a rattle at the bolts,not a clerk's face peering out above the blind.The house was as shut-up and desolate as if it were entirely empty.
Five whole minutes--by the Abbey clock--did that poor,patient crowd wait on the pavement.Then a murmur arose.One or two men hammered at the door;some frightened women,jostled in the press,begun to scream.
John could bear it no longer."Come along with me,"he said,hurriedly."I must see Jessop--we can get in at the garden door."This was a little gate round the corner of the street,well known to us both in those brief "courting days,"when we came to tea of evenings,and found Mrs.Jessop and Ursula March in the garden watering the plants and tying up the roses.Nay,we passed out of it into the same summer parlour,where--I cannot tell if John ever knew of the incident,at all events he never mentioned it to me--there had been transacted a certain momentous event in Ursula's life and mine.
Entering by the French window,there rose up to my mental vision,in vivid contrast to all present scenes,the picture of a young girl Ihad once seen sitting there,with head drooped,knitting.Could that day be twenty-five years ago?
No summer parlour now--its atmosphere was totally changed.It was a dull,dusty room,of which the only lively object was a large fire,the under half of which had burnt itself away unstirred into black dingy caverns.Before it,with breakfast untasted,sat Josiah Jessop--his feet on the fender,his elbows on his knees,the picture of despair.
"Mr.Jessop,my good friend!"
"No,I haven't a friend in the world,or shall not have an hour hence.Oh!it's you,Mr.Halifax?--You have not an account to close?
You don't hold any notes of mine,do you?"
John put his hand on the old man's shoulder,and repeated that he only came as a friend.
"Not the first 'friend'I have received this morning.I knew Ishould be early honoured with visitors;"and the banker attempted a dreary smile."Sir Herbert and half-a-dozen more are waiting for me up-stairs.The biggest fish must have the first bite--eh,you know?""I know,"said John,gloomily.
"Hark!those people outside will hammer my door down!--Speak to them,Mr.Halifax--tell them I'm an old man--that I was always an honest man--always.If only they would give me time--hark--just hark!
Heaven help me!do they want to tear me in pieces?"John went out for a few moments,then came back and sat down beside Mr.Jessop.
"Compose yourself,"--the old man was shaking like an aspen leaf.
"Tell me,if you have no objection to give me this confidence,exactly how your affairs stand."With a gasp of helpless thankfulness,looking up in John's face,while his own quivered like a frightened child's--the banker obeyed.
