The breeze that stirs his bonnet's plume, Shines like a star above the trees; The fisher's boat is in the bay, And rocking by the weedy shore; And bid the hush'd waves louder roar. Fills the grey air with shrieks of grief. A sudden gloom fills all the town, The wind comes sighing o'er the moors, And wandering, moaning up and down, Shakes with its trembling hand the doors,When slowly through the market-place A stranger rode, but spoke to none; The dealers stopped to stare and gaze, On every gossip's face amaze, In every mother's eye dismay; The matrons at the open pane Stayed all at once their spinning-wheels, The old wife hushed her wise old saying, The threads ceased running from the reels. A whisper through the long street ran- Unto the tailor's earnest face; The deaf man stared, half angry, posed, The pilgrim, by the way-side cross, Ceased half unsaid his votive prayer; The knight pulled up his weary horse, The ploughman stayed his glittering share; The miller stops the noisy mill, The ringers in the belfry rest, All through the valley to the hill Bear down the rain-clouds from the west. Another year-the tall grass grew, And seeded in the open street; At noon unmelted lay the dew, In spite of all the parching heat; The smith's red fire has long gone out, A mournful silence fills the mill, You cannot hear the reapers' shout, The very tailor's tongue is still. THE END OF FORDYCE BROTHERS. 225 THE END OF FORDYCE BROTHERS.* [JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD. See Page 170, Vol. I.] As long as I can remember, I have always loved | My most frequent haunt is an old nook in the heart of the City, which, although now thrown open as a public thoroughfare, must have been, in former times, the private garden of some wealthy merchant's mansion. The entrance is under a low archway, built with bricks of the deepest purple red; and over the archway, in a white niche, stands a short, weather-beaten figure of a man, cut in stone, in a costume of a former age. Passing over the well-worn pavement through the arch, you find yourself in a small quadrangle, containing that rarest of all things in these modern days, a city garden. Small care does it now receive, because no one can claim it as his own. The ground is black and hard-the yellow gravel having long since been trodden out-and the chief vegetation which it boasts are two large chestnut-trees, that seem to gain in breadth and vigour as the years roll on. A few drooping flowers in one corner show that some town-bred hand is near, fond of the children of the country, though little versed in their nature and their ways. Under the shade of one of the trees stands an old wooden seat, chipped in many places, and rudely carved with names and dates. Sitting on this bench, and looking before you to the other side of the quadrangle, the eye rests upon a short passage running under wooden arches, like an aisle in the old Flemish Exchange of Sir Thomas Gresham. On the face of the brickwork dwelling surmounting these arches (now turned into offices) is fixed a rain-washed sun-dial, and over this is a small turret that at one time contained a bell. clear and strong, although his body is bent with age. He is a kind of pensioner connected with the place, and is the owner of the few faded flowers in the corner of the ground, which he tends with his own hands. For eighty long, weary years he has lived in these old buildings, never having been out of the City further than Newington fields. From the day when I ventured to give him some advice about the management of a lilac bush, apparently in a dying state, he came and sat by my side, pouring into my willing ear all the stories that he knew about the old houses that surrounded us. At one corner of the quadrangle is a part of a building with several long, dark, narrow, dusty windows, closely shut up with heavy oaken shutters, scarcely visible through the dirt upon the glass. None of the panes are broken, like those of a house in chancery; but its general gloomy, ruined appearance would assuredly have given it up as a prey to destruction, if it had not been in its present secluded position. Its dismal aspect excited my interest, and I obtained from my companion his version of its story. I give it in his own person, though not exactly in his own words. About the middle of the last century, two brothers were in business in these houses as general merchants, whose names were James and Robert Fordyce. They were quiet, middleaged, amiable gentlemen, tolerably rich, honourable in their dealings, affable and benevolent to their servants, as I found during the few years that I was in their employment. Their transactions were large, and their correspondents very numerous; but, although they must have been constantly receiving information, by letter and otherwise, that would have been valuable to them in speculations on the stock-market, they never, to the best of my knowledge, made use of it for that purpose, but confined their attention strictly to their trade. This building was not divided then as you see it now. In that corner which is closed up were our counting-houses, the private room of the two brothers being on the groundfloor. The rest of the square was used as warehouses, except the side over the arches, and that Any time between twelve o'clock and four I may was set apart as the private residence of the be found seated upon that old bench under the partners, who lived there together, one being tree. Sometimes I bring a book, and read; some- a bachelor, and the other a widower without times I sit in listless repose, re-peopling the place children. I was quite a young man at this time with quaintly-dressed shadows of the old stout- but I remember everything as distinctly as if it hearted merchants of the past. My only fellow- was only yesterday that I am speaking about, visitor is an old clerk, whose years must have instead of seventy years ago. I have, perhaps, numbered nearly ninety, but whose memory is a strong reason for my sharpened memory-I way. consider myself the innocent cause of the destruction of the firm of Fordyce Brothers, through an accident resulting from my carelessness. One afternoon I went to the post-office, with a letter directed to a firm in Antwerp, with whom we had large dealings. I dropped it on the It contained a blank draft for a large amount, and, although every search was made for it that afternoon and evening, it was without success. The next morning, about eleven o'clock, it was brought to our counting-house by a rather short young man, of singular though pleasing aspect, named Michael Armstrong. He had a long interview with the elder partner, Mr. James Fordyce, in the private room, and what transpired we never exactly knew; but the result was, that from that hour Michael Armstrong took his seat in our office as the junior clerk. I had many opportunities of observing our new companion, and I used them to the best of my ability. His appearance was much in his favour, and he had a considerable power of making himself agreeable when he thought proper to use it. It was impossible to judge of his age. He might have been fifteen-he might have been thirty. His face, at times, looked old and careworn, at others smiling and young; but there was sometimes a vacant, calculating, insincere expression in his eye that was not pleasant. He made no friends in the place-none sought him, none did he seek-and I do not think he was liked enough by any of the clerks to be made the subject of those little pleasantries that are usually indulged in at every office. They had probably detected his ability and ambition, and they already feared him. I thought at one time I was prejudiced against him, because I had been the chance instrument of bringing him to the place, and because his presence constantly reminded me of a gross act of carelessness that had brought down upon me the only rebuke I ever received from my employers. But I found out too well afterwards, that my estimate of his character was correct-more correct than that of my fellow-clerks, many of whom were superior to me in education and position, though not in discernment. My constant occupation-when I was not actively employed in the duties of the office-was watching Michael Armstrong; and I soon convinced myself that everything he did was the result of deep, quick, keen, and selfish calculation. I felt that the bringing back of the letter was not the result of any impulse of honesty, but of a conviction that it was safer and more profitable to do so, coupled with a determination to make the most of his seeming virtue. What the elder Mr. Fordyce gave him I never knew; but I judge from his liberal character that it was something considerable; and I know that when Michael sent. Armstrong took his place in our counting-house, he was only doing that which he had willed to do from the first moment that he had opened the lost letter, and ascertained the firm from whom it was There was, at times, something fearfully, awfully fascinating in watching the silent, steady working of a will like his, and to see it breaking down in its progress every barrier opposed against it, whether erected by God or man; others saw it, and watched it, like me, and were equally dazzled and paralysed. Michael Armstrong affected to be somewhat deaf-I said affected, for I have good reason to believe that the infirmity was put on to aid him in developing his many schemes. During the greater part of the day he acted as private secretary of the two brothers, sitting in one corner of their large room, by that window on the groundfloor to the left, which is now closed up, like all the others in that portion of the building. I have said before that the firm were often in the receipt of early and valuable intelligence, which they used for the legitimate purposes of their trade, but never for speculations in the stockmarket. A good deal of our business lay in corn and sugar, and the information that the brothers got enabled them to make large purchases and sales with greater advantage. Sometimes special messengers came with letters, sometimes pigeon expresses, as was the custom in those days. Whatever words dropped from the partners' table and they dropped with less reserve, as there was only a half-deaf secretary in the room-were drunk in by that sharp, calm, smiling, deceitful face at the window. But perhaps his greatest opportunity was during the opening of the morning lettersmany of them valuable, as coming from important correspondents abroad. Michael Armstrong's duty was to receive the key of the strong-room from the partners, when they came to business in the morning, and to prepare the books for the clerks in the outer offices. This strong-room was just at the back of Mr. James Fordyce's chair, and as he opened the most important correspondence, reading it to his brother, who rested on the corner of the table, there must have been a sharp eye and a sharper ear watching through the crevices of the iron door behind them. The next duty that fell to Michael Armstrong, after the letters were read and sorted, was to take any drafts that might be in them to the bankers, and bring back the cashbox, which was always deposited there for safety over night. This journey gave him an opportunity of acting upon the information that he had gathered, and he lost no time in doing so. Of course, we never knew exactly what he did, or how he did it; but we guessed that through some agents, with the money that Mr. James Fordyce had given him when he brought back the letter, he THE END OF FORDYCE BROTHERS. made purchases and sales in the stock-market, with more or less success. He never altered in his manner or appearance; never betrayed by word or signs to any of the clerks his losses or his gains; and never neglected his mechanical duties, although he must have been much troubled in mind at times, by the operations he was conducting secretly out of doors. Although not a favourite with the clerks, he became a favourite with the partners. There was no undue partiality exhibited towards him, for they were too scrupulously just for that-but his remarkable business aptitude, his care and industry, his manners, and probably his supposed infirmity, brought immediately before them every hour in the day, by his position as private secretary, had a natural influence, and met with adequate reward. In this way five years passed, quietly enough, to all outward appearance; but Michael Armstrong was working actively and desperately beneath the surface, and biding his time. In those upper rooms to the right, exactly facing our counting-houses, lived an old clerk, named Barnard, with one child, a daughter, named Esther. The place was a refuge provided for an old and faithful, poor, and nearly worn-out servant of the house; and the salary he received was more like a pension, for his presence was never required in the office, except when he chose to render it. The daughter superintended the home of the two brothers, who, as I have said before, lived upon the premises in those rooms over the arches. Esther Barnard, at this time, was not more than twenty years of age; rather short in figure, very pretty and interesting, with large, dark, thoughtful eyes. Her manners were quiet and timid, the natural result of a life spent chiefly within these red-bricked walls, in attendance upon an infirm father, and two old merchants. She went out very seldom, except on Sundays and Wednesday evenings, and then only to that old city church just beyond the gateway, whose bells are ringing even now. In the summer time, after business hours, she used to bring her work and sit upon this bench, under this tree; and in winter her favourite place, while her father was dozing over the fire in a deep leathern chair, was in the dark recesses of that long window, in the corner of their sitting-room, overlooking the garden. She was very modest and retiring, never appearing more than was absolutely necessary during the day; but for all her care, many a busy pen was stopped in the office as her small, light form flitted rapidly under the arched passage; and many an old heart sighed in rememberance of its bygone youthful days, while many a young heart throbbed with something more of hope and love. 227 The one who saw her most was Michael Armstrong. His duty every night was to lock up the warerooms and counting-houses, rendering the keys to old Barnard, who placed them in the private apartments of the two brothers. Since the old clerk's bodily weakness had increased, this task was confided to his daughter, who executed it timidly at first, gaining courage, however, by degrees, until at last she came to consider it a part of the day's labour, even pleasant to look forward to. Whether Michael Armstrong ever really loved Esther Barnard is more than I can say. I have to judge him heavily enough in other and greater matters, and I am, therefore, loth to suspect him in this. He had no faith, no hope, no heartnothing but brain, brain, ceaseless brain; and small love, that I have found, ever came from a soul like this. What he thought and meant was always hidden behind the same calm, smiling mask-the same thoughtful, deceptive, even beautiful face. He used his appearance as only another instrument to aid him in his designs, and he seldom used it in vain. Esther's love for Michael Armstrong was soon no secret to the whole house, and many, while they envied him, sincerely pitied her, though they could scarcely give a reason for so doing. The partners, however, especially Mr. James Fordyce, looked with favour upon the match; but, from some cause, her father, old Barnard, felt towards it a strange repugnance. It may have been that there was some selfish feeling at the bottom of his opposition-some natural and pardonable disinclination to agree to a union that threatened to deprive him, in his sickness and his old age, of an only daughter, who was both his companion and his nurse. Be this as it may, he would not fix any definite time for the marriage, although, for his daughter's sake, he did not prohibit the visits of him upon whom her heart was bestowed. Michael Armstrong did not press just then for a more favourable determination, and for this reason, I am led to believe that he had attained his object-an excuse for being upon the premises unsuspected after the business hours of the day were over. I never knew him to allow his will to be opposed, and I must therefore conclude that in this instance he was satisfied with the ground that had been gained. Esther, too, was happy-happy in her confidence and pure affection-happy in the presence of him she loved-happy in being powerless to penetrate behind the stony, cruel, selfish mask, that, in her trusting eyes, seemed always lighted up with love and truth. In this way the daily life went on for several months. Michael Armstrong, by care-unceasing care-perseverance, and talent, rose, day by day, in the respect and estimation of the partners. Much was entrusted to him; and although he was not visibly promoted over the heads of his seniors, he was still the confidential clerk, and the one in whom was centred the management of the banking and financial transactions of the house. Our firm had an important branch house at Liverpool, through which it conducted its shipping-trade with America. Every six months it was the custom of one of the partners-either Mr. James or Mr. Robert-to go down and pay a visit of inspection to this house, a task that usually occupied ten or twelve days. Mr. James Fordyce, about this time, took his departure one morning for Liverpool, leaving his brother Robert in charge of the London affairs. I can see them even now, shaking hands, outside that old gateway, before Mr. James stepped into the family coach in which the brothers always posted the journey. For several days after Mr. James Fordyce's departure, everything went on as before. He started on a Friday, with a view of breaking the long, tedious journey by spending the Sunday with some friends in Staffordshire. On the following Wednesday, towards the close of the day, a pigeon-express arrived from Liverpool, bearing a communication in his handwriting, which was taken in to Mr. Robert Fordyce, in the private room. No one in the office-except, doubtless, Michael Armstrong-knew for many days what that short letter contained; but we knew too well what another short letter conveyed, which was placed in melancholy haste and silence, the next morning, under the pigeon's wing, and started back to Liverpool. This was in Michael Armstrong's handwriting. Mr. James Fordyce, upon his arrival at Liverpool, had found their manager committed to large purchases in American produce, without the knowledge of his principals, in the face of a market that had rapidly and extensively fallen. This gentleman's anxiety to benefit his employers was greater than his prudence; and, while finding that he had made a fearful error, he had not the courage to communicate it to London, although every hour rendered the position more ruinous. Mr. James Fordyce, after a short and anxious investigation, sent a despatch to his brother, for a sum of many thousands of pounds-an amount as great as the house could command upon so sudden an emergency. This money was to be forwarded by special messenger, without an hour's delay, in a Bank of England draft: nothing less would serve to extricate the local branch from its pressing difficulty, and save the firm from heavier loss. The letter arrived on the Wednesday, after the bank had closed, and when nothing could be done until the following morning. In the meantime, in all probability, Michael Armstrong received instructions to prepare a statement of the available resources of the firm. That evening, about half-past eight o'clock, when Esther Barnard returned from church, she found Michael Armstrong waiting for her at the gateway. He seemed more thoughtful and absent than usual; and his face, seen by the flickering light of the street oil-lamp (it was an October night), had the old, pale, anxious expression that I have before alluded to. Esther thought he was ill; but in reply to her gentle inquiries, as they entered the house together, he said he was merely tired with the extra labour he had undergone, consequent upon the receipt of the intelligence from Mr. James Fordyce, and his natural solici tude for the welfare of the firm. Mr. Robert Fordyce's habits-as indeed, the habits of both the brothers-were very simple. He walked for two hours during the evening, from six o'clock to eight, and then read until nine, at which time he took a light supper, consisting of a small roll and a glass of milk, which was always brought to him by Esther, who left the little tray upon the table by the side of his book, and wished him good night until the morning. She then returned to Michael Armstrong, on the nights he visited her, to sit until the clock of the neighbouring church struck ten, at which hour she let him out at the gate, and retired to rest. On the night in question she had placed the same simple supper ready upon her table; and, after retiring for a few moments to her room, to leave her hat and cloak, she returned, and took the tray to Mr. Robert's apartments. She did not notice Michael Armstrong particularly before she went; but when she came back she found him standing by the open doorway, looking wildly and restlessly into the passage. She again asked him anxiously if he was ill, and his answer was as before; adding that he thought he had heard her father's voice, calling her name, but he had been mistaken. They sat for some little time together over the fire. Michael Armstrong would not take any supper, although pressed by Esther to do so. His mind was occupied by some hidden thought, and he appeared as if engaged in listening for some expected sound. In this way passed about half an hour, when Esther thought she heard some distant groans, accompanied by a noise like that produced by a heavy body falling on the ground. Esther started up; and Michael Armstrong, who had heard the noise too, immediately suggested the probable illness of her father. Esther waited not for another word, but ran to his apartment, to find him sleeping calmly in his bed. On her return, a few minutes afterwards, to the room she had just left, she found Michael Armstrong entering the doorway with the light. He said he had been along the passages to make a search, but without finding |