Chapters (24)
My dear Collis,
You may be wondering why you are hearing from me, and not from Delphine. Well, the news may not have reached you yet, or you would understand. The Ohio Life and Mutual Trust Company, of which Mr Spooner is a vice-president and also a stockholder, has gone spectacularly bankrupt! It happened on 24 August, and many other Wall Street banks and brokers have been dragged to ruin. There is talk of specie payments being suspended at the banks, and thousands of men are out of work and roaming the streets. My father says that it is one of the worst crises of our age, but that it is the inevitable result of worthless speculation in mining and railroad bonds.
‘He should know,’ Collis said to himself, under his breath. Then he went on to read:
The Spooners will probably have to leave their house and sell most of their valuables to pay their debts. Delphine, of course, is stricken and she begged me not to tell you, but I thought it only fair for you to know, rather than to wait for months in vain for the letter she will not send you. I know she loves you still. She talks of you all the time. But she will not hear of your marrying a pauper bride, and she knows she must give you up.
Please write if you have news of yourself. For myself, I am very well, and would much appreciate some correspondence.
I remain your affectionate friend,
Alice Stride
As if by coincidence, the barefooted newsboy came past waving copies of the Tribune and calling, ‘New York banks suspend specie payment! New York banks suspend specie payment! Latest news by the Concord stage!’
Collis stood up and walked across the square. It was almost lunchtime, and he knew that he had to go back to Knickerbocker Jane’s to meet Charles. But somehow he felt that he wanted just a moment or two to reflect, on his own, on the morning’s losses. He began to walk up Sansome Street, past the shacks and the shanties and the cooking fires, watched by miners and loafers and gamblers, until eventually he came out on the sandy summit of Telegraph Hill, under the arms of the semaphore which signalled the arrival of incoming ships, with the wind whipping his hair, and the glittering bay spread beneath him.
He did not weep. But he stood there, with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders a little hunched, while across the rooftops of the business district a clock sonorously struck twelve, and seagulls turned and called above his head.