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

CHAPTER IV.

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP

The most remarkable circumstance in that meeting of the partners, which ended in Brammel's first visit to London, was the behaviour of our very dear friend and ally—the volatile Planner—volatile, alas! no longer. His best friend would not have recognized him on that deeply interesting occasion. He was a subdued, a shaken man. Every drop of his brave spirit had been squeezed out of him, and he stood the mere pulp and rind of his former self. He who, for years, had been accustomed to look at men, not only in the face, but very impertinently over their heads, could not drag his shambling vision now higher than men's shoe-strings. His eye, his heart, his soul was on the ground. He was disappointed, crushed. Not a syllable did he utter; not a single word of remonstrance and advice did he presume to offer in the presence of his associates. He had a sense of guilt, and men so situated are sometimes tongue-tied. He had, in truth, a great deal to answer for, and enough to make a livelier man than he dissatisfied and wretched. Every farthing which had passed from the bank to the Pantamorphica Association was irrecoverably gone. The Association itself was in the same condition—gone irrecoverably likewise. Nothing remained of that once beautiful and promising vision, but some hundred acres of valueless land, a half-finished and straggling brick wall, falling rapidly to decay, the foundations of a theatre, and the rudiments of a temple dedicated to Apollo. Planner had gazed upon the scene once, when dismal rain was pouring down upon the ruins, and he burst into bitter tears, and sobbed like a child at the annihilation of his hopes. He had not courage to look a second time upon that desolation, and yet he found courage to turn away from it, and to do a thing more desperate. Ashamed to be beaten, afraid to meet the just rebuke of Allcraft, he flung himself recklessly into the hands of a small band of needy speculators, and secretly engaged in schemes that promised restitution of the wealth he had expended, or make his ruin perfect and complete. One adventure after another failed, cutting the thread of his career shorter every instant, and rendering him more hot-brained and impatient. He doubled and trebled his risks, and did the like, as may be guessed, to his anxieties and failures. He lived in a perpetual fear and danger of discovery; and discovery now was but another name, for poison—prison—death. Here was enough, and more than enough, to extinguish every spark of joy in the bosom of Mr Planner, and to account for his despondency and settled gloom. And yet Planner, in this, his darkest hour, was nearer to deliverance and perfect peace, than at any previous period of his history. Planner was essentially "a lucky dog." Had he fallen from a house-top, he would have reached terra firma on his feet. Had he been conducted to the gallows, according to his desserts, the noose would have slipped, and his life would certainly have been spared.

It happened, that whilst Michael was immersed in the management of his loans, a hint was forwarded to him of the pranks of his partner; a letter, written by an anonymous hand, revealed his losses in one transaction, amounting to many hundred pounds. The news came like a thunderbolt to Allcraft. It was a death-blow. Iniquitous, unpardonable as were the acts of his colleague—serious as was the actual sum of money gone; yet these were as nothing compared with the distressing fact, that intelligence of the evil work had already gone abroad, was in circulation, and might at any moment put a violent end to his own unsteady course. He carried the note to Planner—he thrust it into his face, and called him to account for his baseness and ingratitude. He could have struck his friend and partner to the earth, and trod him there to death, as he confronted and upbraided him.

"Now, sir," roared Allcraft in his fury—"What excuse—what lie have you at your tongue's end to palliate this? What can justify this? Will you never be satisfied until you have rendered me the same hopeless, helpless creature that I found you, when I dragged you from your beggaring.§ Answer me!"—

There is nothing like a plaintive retort when your case is utterly indefensible. Planner looked at the letter, read it—then turned his eyes mildly and reproachfully upon his accuser.

"Michael Allcraft," he said affectingly, "you treat me cruelly."

"I!" answered the other astounded. "I treat you! Planner, I intrusted you years ago with a secret. I paid you well for keeping it. Could I dream that nothing would satisfy your rapacity but my destruction? Could I suppose it? I have fed your ravenous desires. I have submitted to your encroachments. Do you ask my soul as well as body? Let me know what it is you ask—what I have to pay—let me hear the worst, and—prepare for all my punishment."

"I have listened to all you have said," continued Planner, "and I consider myself an ill-used man."

Michael stared.

"Yes—I mean it. I have worked like a negro for you Allcraft, and this is the return you make me. I get your drift; do not attempt to disguise it—it is cruel—most, most cruel!

"What do you mean?"

"Have I not always promised to share my gains with you?"

"Pshaw—your gains—where are they?"

"That's nothing to the point. Did I not promise?"

"Well—well."

"And now, after all my labour and struggling, because I have failed, you wish to turn me off, and throw me to the world. Now, speak the truth, man—is it not so?"

Oh! Planner was a cunning creature, and so was Michael Allcraft. Mark them both! This idea, which Planner deemed too good to be seriously entertained by his colleague, had never once occurred to Michael; but it seemed so promising, and so likely, if followed up, to relieve him effectually of his greatest plague, and of any floating ill report, that he found no hesitation in adopting it at once. He did not answer, but he tried to look as if his partner had exactly guessed his actual intention. Such §11 gentlemen both!

"I thought so," continued the injured Planner. "Michael, you do not know me. You do not understand my character. I am a child to persuade, but a rock if you attempt to force me. I shall not desert the bank, whilst there is a chance of paying back all that we have drawn."

"We, sir?"

"Yes—we. You and I together for our schemes, and you alone for private purposes. You recollect your father's debts"—

"Planner, do not think to threaten me into further compromise. You can frighten me no longer—be sure of that. Your transactions are the common talk of the city—the bank is stigmatized by its connexion with you."

"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!