“With all her might she cloth her business
To bringen him out of his heaviness.
* * * * *
Lo here what gentleness these women have,
If we could know it for our rudéness.
Alway right sorry for our distress!
In every manner thus show they ruth,
That in them is all goodness and all truth.”
CHAUCER.
AN exclamation of terror from Veronica’s maid startled Geoffrey and
made him look round, for in his madness of rage and misery he had
instinctively turned his face away from the eyes of his gentle friend.
The poor lady lay all but fainting, gasping for breath in a way piteous
to behold. The sight to some extent recalled the young man to himself.
In a few moments, by the exercise of strong self-control, Veronica
overcame the hysterical feeling which was half choking her, and allowed
Mr. Baldwin to carry her to the fly. Not a word was spoken by either
till they reached Miss Temple’s cottage; only just before they stopped,
Veronica took Geoffrey’s hand, and gently pressed it in her own.
“My poor boy,” she whispered.
He turned his head away; though there was no one in the carriage but
themselves, he could not bear her to see the tears which her sympathy
wrung from his manhood. But they did him good. He began to collect his
startled senses, and to consider how best to perform the terrible duty
before him, of breaking the news to his wife.
When they alighted at Miss Temple’s door, and the little bustle of
conveying the invalid to her sofa was safely accomplished, the servant
handed him a letter. The address was in Marion’s handwriting. “Mrs.
Baldwin,” said the girl, “had called this afternoon, and had inquired at
what time Miss Temple was expected home. Hearing it might be late, she
had left the letter and asked that it might be delivered immediately.”
The envelope contained a few words from Marion, enclosing a letter with
a German post-mark.
Mrs. Baldwin’s was as follows:
“DEAR GEOFFREY,
“The enclosed came by this morning’s post. I see it is from Mr. Framley
Vere, and as I know you are anxious to hear from him, I am going to
take it in to Mallingford, that you may get it on your arrival at Miss
Temple’s. I am so much better, that the doctor told me I should take a
drive to-day. I hope you have got on prosperously in your travels, and
that you will bring dear Veronica safe home. Give her my best love.
“Your affectionate wife,
MARION C. BALDWIN.”
Even at that moment Geoffrey held the letter tenderly, looked lovingly
at the words. It was the first letter he had ever had from his wife!
But it added a sharper pang to his wretchedness. “Your affectionate
wife!”
“Ah! my poor child, what have I ever caused you but misery?” he murmured
to himself.
He opened the enclosure. These were its contents:
“Baden, March 27th, 186—.
“DEAR BALDWIN,
“Your letter has only just reached me. I have been moving about lately
so much. I write in great haste to assure you that all you have been
told against the —— and —— is utter nonsense. There is no safer or
better investment in the united kingdom at present. Whoever told you
what you wrote of to me must be either a knave himself, with his own
purposes to serve, or the dupe of such a one. And if an honest man, I
don’t see why he should have bound you over not to give his name as your
authority to your co-trustee. The thing does not look well. Within the
last day or two I have heard, quite accidentally, from a friend in
your county, certain vague reports affecting the Mallingford Bank. Very
likely they have not reached you. Those on the spot, or most interested
in such rumours, are often the last to hear them. And they may very
probably be utterly unfounded. Still, all inclines me to lose no time in
with-drawing my young cousins’ money from its present quarters. I should
strongly advise you also to look to your own property in the bank, as I
believe it is of considerable amount. I should be glad to hear from
you that you have done as I advise. With regard to your wife’s and her
brother’s money, you have of course acted for the best: still the delay
makes me a little uneasy. Give my kind regards to Marion. I hear very
good accounts of her brother Hartford, from an officer in his regiment
who is a friend of mine.
“Yours very truly,
“FRAMLEY P. VERE.”
Geoffrey handed both letters to Veronica. She read them carefully before
she spoke. He watched her impatiently. As soon as she had finished, he
said in a dull, hopeless voice—
“How shall I tell her? And Harry too? She will feel his share of it even
more?”
Veronica considered a little. Then she replied—
“Are you not acting prematurely in deciding that all is so very bad as
you imagine? After all, it was a mere report you heard at the station.
Something must be wrong, doubtless, but it may not be so bad as you
think. Would it not be well, in the first place, to go to the bank, see
Mr. Wrexham, and hear particulars?”
“Of course,” said Geoffrey, starting up and seizing his hat; “what a
fool I was not to think of that before. But I really was stunned for the
moment.”
“You must have a cup of tea or a glass of wine before you go,” suggested
Veronica. “You will frighten everybody you meet, with that pale face of
yours. Now be a good boy. Five minutes will make no difference—for the
young man was chafing at the delay.
“And Marion?” he suddenly exclaimed, “she will be expecting me at home.”
“Stay here till the morning,” replied Miss Temple; “that will give
us time to talk over matters after you have learnt the exact state of
things. I will send a note to Marion while you are out, saying that I
have kept you as you were tired with your two days’ journey, and asking
her to send the carriage for you in the morning. I can get the gardener
to take the note. He can borrow Dr. Baker’s pony.”
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “That will do very well.”
And thankful for the temporary reprieve, he set off on his errand of
enquiry.
In about an hour’ time he returned. Veronica was anxiously waiting for
him. He entered the room slowly, and threw himself on the sofa, hiding
his face in its cushions.
“What have you heard?” asked Miss Temple at last, though his manner had
already prepare her for his answer. It came, after moment’s interval, in
a dull, dead tone.
“The very worst,” he replied.
“How?” she asked gently. It was better to rouse him, to force him to
face it, and as speedily as possible to make up his mind to what must be
done next.
He shivered slightly, then made an impatient gesture as if he would fain
push aside her enquiries and her sympathy. But she persisted bravely.
“How has it all been?” she asked. “Whom did you see?”
“The old clerk, Lee,” he replied; “he is heart-broken. All his savings
gone, and the disgrace, which I verily believe he feels more. As I
should if I were alone. Good God! why did I bind that poor child’s fate
to mine! To think of it all. Baldwin’s Bank—mv poor father’s bank—to
have come to this! It is an utter, complete smash, a perfectly hopeless
ruin. Some little trifle of Marion’s and Harry’s money I may possibly
recover eventually. But mine is all gone—gone for ever. You see I was
still legally a partner.”
“But how has it been caused?” Veronica enquired again.
“You may well ask,” he answered bitterly; that is the hideous part of
it--to think that it has all been the work of that oily devil, and that
he has taken himself off in time to escape the punishment he deserves.
What I should have given him if the law hadn’t! Cursed scamp that he
is!”
“Hush, Geoffrey,” pleaded Veronica. “I am not blaming you, my poor boy,
but when you speak so violently you startle me, and make me so nervous I
cannot think quietly, as I should wish, of what is to be done. Wrexham,
I suppose, you are talking of?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey; “I can’t name him. It is all his doing. His wealth
‘elsewhere invested’ was all moonshine. He has been left far too much to
himself, Lee says, the other partner having perfect confidence in him.
He has been speculating in the most reckless way, it now appears; and,
foreseeing the inevitable crash, has laid his plans accordingly and
taken himself off in time. It is suspected he has taken, in some form
or other—(diamonds perhaps, like the fellow in that book Marion was
reading—a fellow who wasn’t himself or was somebody else; I couldn’t
make it out)—a comfortable provision for himself.”
“But when was all this discovered? Can’t he be traced?” asked Veronica,
breathlessly.
“He had been away four days before anything wrong was suspected, replied
Geoffrey. “He didn’t run it too fine, you see. He was to have returned
three days ago with lots of money. When he didn’t come, and sent no
letter, they began to get frightened. Mr. Linthwaite, the other partner,
then thought it would be as well to look into things a little, and a
nice mess they found. They did what they could then, of course; sent
off for detectives and all the rest of it, by way of shutting the empty
stable-door, but it’s useless. He’s had too clear a start, and even if
they got him they would get nothing out of him. He’s prepared for that,
Lee says. If he has made off with property in any form it will be too
well hidden for us to get at it. My case is the worst, for Linthwaite’s
wife has money settled on herself, elsewhere invested, and no one had
property in the bank to anything like my amount. They kept the doors
open for a day or two, and paid out the little they had, for one or two
of the farmers in the neighbourhood happened to draw rather heavily on
Tuesday. But yesterday evening they lost all hope of the scamp’s turning
up, and didn’t even go through the farce this morning of taking down the
shutters.”
“But if old Lee has suspected that things were wrong, why in heaven’s
name did he not warn you?” asked Veronica.
“He didn’t suspect anything,” replied Mr. Baldwin. “He disliked Wrexham
personally, but he could have given no reason for doing so. Besides,
unless he had had something definite to tell, you couldn’t expect the
poor fellow to have risked losing his daily bread by talking against his
employers. Ten to one, had he come to me, I would have thought him mad.
No, that blackguard has deceived every one.”
For some minutes they sat still, Geoffrey moodily staring into the fire.
Then he repeated his old question.
“How am I to tell Marion, Veronica?”
“Shall I do so for you?” she said.
“I wish to Heaven you would!” he ejaculated. “It would be the greatest
proof of friendship you have ever shewn me, which is saying a good
deal.”
“I will do it if you so much wish it,” she replied, “still I do not feel
sure it is right for anyone to break it to her but yourself—her husband.
I think too you misjudge her in thinking this sort of bad news is likely
to shock and prostrate her as you seem to imagine it will. Your wife is
no fool, Geoffrey: she is a brave-spirited woman, and will find strength
to suffer and work for those she loves.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied, with a groan, “had all been different in other
respects, she would not have been found wanting. But you don’t know all,
Veronica. You never can. It was the only thing I could give her—a home
and all that money could buy! And now, my darling will, for the first
time in her life, be brought through me face to face with poverty. It is
too horrible.”
Miss Temple said nothing, but she had her own thoughts nevertheless.
They decided that the following day when Geoffrey returned home he
should tell his wife that Miss Veronica was anxious to see her, and
should arrange for her driving over as soon as possible to her friend’s
cottage.
But in this, they to some extent reckoned without their host. The
carriage which came the next morning to fetch Miss Temple’s guest home
to the Manor Farm, brought in it, early though it was, Mrs. Baldwin
herself, eager to welcome the travellers in person.
Geoffrey was already out. Off again to the scene of his troubles, the
Mallingford Bank, there to meet Mr. Linthwaite, and go over with him
all the details of the miserable story. But he was to be back in
half-an-hour. Veronica’s heart failed her when she heard her young
visitor’s step on the stair. It was no light or pleasant task which, in
her unselfishness, she had undertaken.
Suddenly it occurred to her, “might not Marion have already heard the
bad news, and this be the reason of her early visit? How stupid not to
have thought of this before!” She almost hoped it might be so, but a
glance at Marion’s face decided her that no bird of evil omen in the
shape a Miss Tremlett, or any of her gossiping cronies, had yet carried
the tidings to the young mistress of the Manor Farm. For Marion, though
somewhat pale from her recent illness, looked bright and cheerful:
happier by far than when last her friend had seen her; which did
not make things easier for poor Veronica! The girl kissed her
affectionately, and said something in her own sweet way (as far as
possible removed from the coldness of which by mere acquaintances she
was usually accused), of her pleasure at her safe return to them. Then
some little details of the journey were mentioned, and Veronica
remarked casually that Geoffrey had gone to the bank for half-an-hour on
business, but would be back shortly, as he was expecting the carriage to
meet him.
“Though he did not know you would be in it, dear Marion,” said Veronica,
“it was very good of you to come so soon. I was just writing a note to
ask you to come this afternoon. I wanted particularly to see you.”
Then there fell a little silence, and out of the heart of the elder
woman there crept to that of her friend a soft, mysterious message of
sympathy. Words were not wanted. A slight shiver ran through Marion, and
she turned to Veronica.
“What is wrong? What is it you are wishing to tell me and cannot find
strength to utter? Dear Veronica, do not fear for me.”
And Miss Temple laid her hand gently on Marion’s, and the girl’s brave,
clear eyes fixed on her drew forth the bare, unsoftened truth.
“My child, your husband is ruined. The Mallingford Bank in which was all
he possessed has failed, and he is utterly penniless.”
She had not meant to tell it so shortly and suddenly. She had thought of
“breaking it” by degrees, as even the wisest and tenderest of us
persist in doing to others, however we may suffer when the operation is
performed on ourselves. But with Marion’s eyes thus fixed on her she had
no option but to tell the whole sharply; to her own ears indeed cruelly,
in its matter-of-fact accuracy and stern reality.
Marion’s eyes never flinched. She said quietly, “And my money—and—and
Harry’s?” With the last word her face worked a little, and for a moment
Veronica fancied a dimness overspread the grey eyes, still resolutely
fixed on hers. But she too, answered calmly and deliberately.
“You and your brother rank as creditors. Eventually, therefore, some
small portion of your property may be recovered, once the affairs of the
bank are finally wound up. This however will probably not be known for
some months, and in any case it will not be much. Geoffrey’s settlements
on you at the time of your marriage, by-the-by, I never thought of.
I wonder if they will be considered your property. I am not enough
acquainted with such matters to say. But in any case, my dearest Marion,
I fear very, very little will be recovered. It is so dreadful. I don’t
understand how I am able to talk about it so coolly.”
Marion did not speak for a few moments. Then she said:
“Have many others suffered in the same way—to the same extent?”
Veronica looked rather conscience-stricken.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I did not ask; I was so absorbed
in your part of it. But no one I am sure can have suffered to the same
extent, for Mr. Linthwaite had not nearly so much money in the bank,
and his wife is rich besides. Doubtless many of the farmers in the
neighbourhood will have lost what to them will be as much as Geoffrey’s
is to him. It is all owing to his having unfortunately kept his whole
property there these last few months. A thing he never contemplated save
as a temporary convenience of course.”
“And Mr. Wrexham?” asked Marion.
“Mr. Wrexham!” repeated Veronica. “Did you not know it was all his
doing, that he has absconded? But, of course, not—how could you?”
And then she related to Marion the details she had gathered from
Geoffrey of the reputed millionaire’s little suspected rascality.
Mrs. Baldwin heard her in silence; but when all had been told she
exclaimed passionately:
“Then, Veronica, the whole is my doing. Geoffrey’s instinct was truer
than mine. He distrusted that man from the first, and I talked him out
of it. I thought him clever, and I see now how he was flattering me up!
What a fool I was! Oh, Veronica, those two or three weeks might have
saved poor Geoffrey this ruin. It will break his heart, I know, and it
is all my fault.”
“Hush, Marion,” said her friend, “it will make it no easier to Geoffrey
for you to blame yourself so exaggeratedly, and it is very unlikely
that the two or three weeks’ delay has made matters worse. Geoffrey’s
withdrawing any large sums when he first intended doing so would only
have accelerated the discovery without probably saving anything.”
But Marion had got it into her head that she alone was to blame for the
overwhelming catastrophe, and refused to listen to Veronica’s attempted
consolation.
It was the worst bit of the whole to her, the reflection that it was her
doing. What a curse she had been to this man, she thought to herself!
Saddening his whole life, as she had done: remorseful when, as she much
feared in her present mood, it was too late; and now, to crown all, the
cause of his finding himself a pauper; he who till now had known nothing
of battling with the world, struggling amidst the toilworn human beings
for the means of existence. In a very blackness of misery Marion Baldwin
sat in silence while she thus accused herself.
Veronica was grievously distressed. At last she hit on a new argument.
“Marion,” she said, “Geoffrey will be returning directly. The bitterest
part of this to him, I need not tell you, is the thought of what it will
be to you. It is for you only he dreads so fearfully the trials before
you both. I have been trying to comfort and strengthen him by telling
him he was exaggerating what it would be to you. You are brave and
strong, my dearest—braver and stronger than you perhaps think yourself.
I know it is not this misfortune in itself which is so crushing you. It
is this morbid notion that you have had a hand in bringing it on. But
even supposing it were so, Heaven knows you advised Geoffrey as you
thought for the best. It is unworthy of you to make yourself miserable
by this judging by results. And if Geoffrey finds you thus, how will
he, poor fellow, be able to stand it all? Don’t think me harsh, my poor
child, for speaking so at such a time. You will thank me afterwards for
urging you to show yourself a true wife by forgetting everything but
your husband’s suffering, and strengthening him to bear it.”
Marion looked up with a new light in her face, a glance of mingled
strength and tenderness in her eyes. A door was heard to open, a step
slowly and heavily sounded along the passage. She had only time to
whisper, “You shall not be disappointed in me, Veronica,” when the door
opened and Geoffrey entered.
He had not expected to see his wife; and when he caught sight of her,
his face flushed suddenly, and without attempting to greet her he sank
down on the nearest chair, burying his head in his hands.
Veronica glanced imploringly at Marion, but her appeal was not needed.
Without a word the young wife rose from her chair and crossed the room
quickly to where her husband was sitting. He did not see her, his face
was hidden, but he heard the rustle of her dress as she approached him.
He knew it could not be the cripple Veronica; the step came quick and
firm. A notion flashed into his mind that his wife was leaving the room
because he had entered it; hastening from the presence of the man who
had at last by his insane folly, put the finishing stroke to all the
misery he had brought on her fair young life.
He would not look up. Instinctively he kept his face hidden, preferring
to await blindly what he felt to be a crisis in his life. Less than a
moment passed while Marion crossed the room, but time enough for a
whole army of hopes and fears, doubts and misgivings to chase each other
across poor Geoffrey’s brain.
He felt weak and giddy, for he had gone through much and eaten little
in the last few hours; and a quiver ran all through him when a hand
was gently laid on his shoulder and a voice, sweeter to him than the
loveliest music, called him by name.
“Geoffrey,” it said, “my poor Geoffrey, my dear husband, look up and
show that you trust me. It is to the full as much my fault as yours that
this misfortune has come upon us. But why should either of us blame the
other? It is not the worst sorrow that could have happened to us. We are
young and strong, and we will meet it together bravely. Only, only—do
not turn from me. Do not punish me for all my selfish coldness—all my
wicked scorn, long ago, of your goodness and affection—do not punish me
by repulsing me now. Now, Geoffrey, in your time of sorrow when I brave
all and remind you that I am your wife.”
Her voice broke and faltered: the last few words were all but inaudible.
But they reached with perfect clearness and distinctness the ears of the
man to whom they were addressed; they fell on his sore heart like drops
of refreshing, invigorating rain on dried-up withered leaves. He lifted
his head, he stretched out his arms, and drew her to him in a long,
close embrace, and there were more tears on Marion’s face than those
which had come from her own eyes.
Neither spoke, and there was for a moment perfect silence in the room.
Then it was broken suddenly by a queer, irregular, stumping sound,
which passed across the floor and out at the door almost before it was
observed by the two so absorbed by their own emotion. It was Veronica’s
crutch! Never before or since was she known to get out of a room so
quickly, and she did it at no little risk to herself. But she felt that
the moment was a sacred one—one of those in which a third presence, even
though that of the most devoted friend, may jar on the sensitiveness of
the excited nerves; may unwittingly interfere with the perfect
healing of the disunited members, the sealing of the tacit bond of
reconciliation.
An hour or two later, when the invalid bade adieu to her friends, and
from her window watched them drive away to the home soon to be theirs no
longer, some half-formed words escaped her.
“How little, after all, we know of ourselves or each other, or what is
best for any of us! After all, who can say but what my two poor friends
may have reason to remember with thankfulness the failure of the
Mallingford Bank. Poverty and outward suffering and struggling may bring
them more happiness than they have yet found since they joined their
lives together. God grant it may prove so!”