It was the first of October, 1878, a day of fateful memory. Jean
Gloucester stood before the mirror in her bedroom, surveying a new gown
which she was wearing for the first time. The soft grey crepe was
swathed and draped in absolute disregard of the stiff fashion of the
day, two quaint silver buckles of Norman design held the folds together
over the breast, an old lace tucker was tied by a silver cord. Jean
affected delicate shades of grey, and the neutral colour formed a
perfect background for the vivid beauty of her face. She stood back
from the mirror, turning slowly round and round, patting, smoothing,
pressing with careful, deliberate touch, but the light in her eyes spoke
more of expectation than complacence. Jean was not vain. Really
beautiful people are seldom victims of this sin. It is your "rather
pretty" woman who spends her life in the effort to add to her charms.
Jean was accustomed to her beauty, and accepted it--with other such
blessings--as a matter of course, but Robert's fervid admiration was a
factor in her life. This afternoon she was feeling unusually well, and
as usual under these circumstances, was fired by the old girlish spirit
of mischief. Jean was ever a child at heart, loving to play tricks, to
plan surprises, and weave pretty, dramatic _denouements_ out of the
prose of life. A hundred times had she so taken Robert by storm, and
the hundredth time had found him as astounded, as unprepared, as blankly
mystified as the first. After years of matrimony Jean was still an
enigma, concerning which nothing could be foretold but the unexpected;
but the mystery added strength to her charm. Life with Jean might at
times be somewhat difficult and trying, but never by any possibility
could it become dull.
This evening Jean amused herself by planning an effective appearance for
herself in her new gown. Instead of awaiting Robert in the den, she
would stay in her bedroom until he was safely inside the hall, and would
then sweep down the staircase in all her bravery, while he stood gazing
upward with the glow of delight she loved to see shining in his hazel
eyes. Then he would affect to be overcome with surprise, would stagger
against the wall, and lean there helplessly while she stood beneath the
lamp, revolving slowly round and round to show herself from every point
of view. Then they would retreat into the den, and he would kiss her,
and call her his beautiful darling, his bonnie, bonnie Jean, and she
would preen herself, and ask if he were not a proud man to be allowed
the privilege of paying the bill for such a heavenly gown, and they
would laugh and spar, like a couple of happy children, rather than a
staid old married couple, Jean gave a little skip of anticipation even
as she crept to the head of the staircase to listen for Robert's return.
He was due now--this minute! She failed to catch his usual whistle,
but presently the key turned in the latch, and she drew back her head,
not wishing to be seen until the dramatic moment should arrive.
Robert shut the door and advanced a few steps into the hall. He did not
whistle again, which seemed curious, as no wife had appeared to greet
him, neither did he advance towards the carved oak armoire in which he
was used to hang his coat and hat. Jean gathered her skirts round her,
and stretched forward her lovely, laughing face to spy what was
happening. What she saw smote the smile from her lips in a flash of
agonised fear.
Robert had not taken off his hat. He stood still just within the
threshold, in the attitude of a man unable to move a step, the light of
the lamp shilling full on his face--the face of an old man, haggard,
contorted, vacant-eyed.
For one moment Jean stood still, paralysed with horror; at the next the
blood raced through her veins, and her heart swelled within her in an
anguish of love and longing. In the history of the last eight years
Jean had invariably been the one to need pity and help; Robert, the one
to strengthen and console. She had suffered, and he had ministered; she
had despaired, and he had consoled; she had repined, and he had
gallantly borne her burden as well as his own. Until this moment his
strength had made no demand on her weakness. But now, now it had come.
He was in trouble--her Robert--in desperate, aching need, and Jean's
whole being rushed out towards him in a passion of love and longing.
Dropping her skirts, she skimmed down the stairway, scarcely seeming to
touch the ground, so light and swift were her steps. Out of her white
face her eyes gleamed with unnatural light. There was something almost
tigerish in the flame of Jean's love at that moment. Some one had been
cruel to her mate, her man. She must fly to the rescue--hold him safe
in her arms.
"Robert! What is it?"
The vacant eyes looked into hers, those clear, brown eyes, which more
than any other eyes she had ever seen were the windows of the soul
within, and for the first time since their meeting there came no
lightening to greet hers. Jean's thoughts flew backward to that
afternoon years ago when she had seen the same dazed look in Vanna's
eyes. Her heart contracted with a sickening dread.
"Robert, are you ill? Have you seen a doctor? Has he said--"
He shook his head blankly.
"No! No--not that!"
Jean drew a long, thankful breath. Relieved of this dread, she felt
prepared to face all other ills; but first she must be alone with
Robert, behind shut doors, safe from intruding eyes. She slid her arm
through his, and leading him into the den, pushed him gently into his
own big chair. His hat was still on his head, she lifted it off,
smoothed the hair on his forehead with a swift, caressing touch, then
sinking on her knees before him, lifted her face to his.
"Robert, we are here together--you and I, in our own dear home. The
children are upstairs. There is nothing, nothing in all the world worth
grieving for so much!"
He looked at her hopelessly, blankly.
"But it's gone, Jean--it's gone. The home's gone! It's all gone--
everything! Gone! Ruined!"
"What, darling? What has gone? Tell me! I want to know--I want to
help!"
"The Bank, Jean! The Glasgow Bank. To-day! Ruin for us; ruin for
thousands."
Jean rested her hands on the arms of the chair, and braced herself to
thought. The Glasgow Bank! Father had disapproved of it from the
first, and had wished Robert to sell his shares, but he had objected
because of the high interest given. They were always hard up, and
needed every penny they could get. Besides, Robert declared that it was
perfectly safe--as safe as the Bank of England; it was absurd to doubt
it. And now it had stopped, and he talked of ruin. Jean's knowledge of
finance had not increased with her years of matrimony, and after the
first shock of surprise she told herself with a sigh of relief that,
after all, there could not be so much to lose. When she had spoken of
selling shares a few weeks ago, Robert had refused on the score that
there were so few left. Robert was so dazed, poor man, that he was
exaggerating his loss. He must be calmed and soothed.
"Dearest boy, I'm sorry--dreadfully, dreadfully sorry for all those poor
people; but you and I have not much to lose, have we? We have rubbed
along quite comfortably without a big balance at the Bank, and if a few
hundreds have gone--well, we'll do without them, too. I'll turn over a
new leaf, and be economical. We'll have no holiday, no new things, the
bills for the new furniture are all paid--we need nothing more. Don't
grieve so, dear. I'll help you. I _will_ help!"
Robert stretched out his arms and folded her close to his heart. The
dazed expression was beginning to give way to a yearning tenderness.
Jean had yet to be enlightened as to the full extent of the calamity.
He must brace himself to the task of explanation.
"Jean, it is not an ordinary bank--it's unlimited; that was why your
father disapproved. But I thought I knew best--I stuck to my own way.
If I could bear the consequences alone I wouldn't grumble; it's for you,
and the children. I have only five shares, but I'm responsible, to my
last penny. They can clean me out of everything I possess, can sell our
furniture above our heads--every stick in the house, leave us without a
bed. And they'll do it. The calls will be enormous--must be enormous.
I've ruined you, Jean, by my self-willed folly."
Jean lifted her lips and kissed him softly on the cheek. She felt faint
and limp, as though suddenly overpowered by fatigue; but the predominant
feeling was still that Robert was in trouble, that he was appealing to
her for strength, that whatever trials were to come, she must not fail
him now.
"You've given me everything worth having. All the riches in the world
couldn't give me happiness without you. If the money goes, we'll have
to love each other more, and no bank, no bank, can touch that.
Robert!"--her voice broke on a note of exquisite tenderness--"remember
what you called me that first day--remember the prophecy! If fortune
has gone, you have still your treasure!"
And Robert, blessing her, shedding tears of mingled joy and sorrow,
declared that he was rich indeed.