BOBBING JOAN.
Maria Godolphin was in her own pretty sitting-room upstairs. She had
been sitting there ever since breakfast: had not yet stirred from it,
though noon had passed, for she was very busy. Not fond of sewing in a
general way, she was plying her needle quickly now: some work of fine
intricate braiding, to be converted into a frock for Miss Meta. Maria
worked as if her heart were in it: it was for her child.
The door was closed, the window was open to the summer air. The scent of
the flowers ascended from the garden below, the gentle hum of the
insects was heard as they sported in the sun, the scene altogether was
one of perfect tranquillity. There was an air of repose about the room,
about Maria in her cool muslin dress, about the scene altogether. Who,
looking at it, would have suspected the commotion that was being
enacted--or that had been enacted so recently--in another part of the
house?
It is a positive fact that Maria knew nothing yet of the grievous
calamity which had fallen--the stoppage of the Bank. The servants knew
it fast enough; were more correctly acquainted with its details (to hear
them speak) than the Bank itself. They stood about in groups and talked
in whispers, letting their work go. But not one of them had presumed to
acquaint their unconscious mistress. They knew how ignorant of it all
she was: they felt certain that not a suspicion of anything going wrong
had ever crossed her. Indeed, it had not crossed their own inquisitive
selves, and the blow had burst upon them that morning as a thunder-clap.
As a thunder-clap, it was soon to burst upon Maria. A few minutes'
respite yet, ere it should come. She certainly had heard the
visitors'-bell ring three or four times, which was somewhat unusual,
considering that no message for her had followed upon it. That bell in
the daytime generally heralded guests for herself. Once, when Pierce
came in, bringing a small parcel for her from the bookseller's, Maria
had inquired who it was that had just rung at the hall-door. Pierce
answered that it was Lord Averil; his lordship had asked to see Mr.
Godolphin. Maria could not remember afterwards, when looking back on the
circumstances of the day, whether or not it had occurred to her to
wonder why Lord Averil should come to the private door, when his visit
was to the Bank and Thomas Godolphin. Pierce ventured not another word.
He put down the parcel and hurried off, very much after the manner of
one who is afraid of being asked questions.
And yet, the man, in his sober judgment, believed that there was little
danger of any troublesome questions being put by his mistress. There was
none. Of all people living, none were so completely unconscious that
anything wrong was looming, as Mrs. George Godolphin. If there was one
house in the kingdom more safe, more staid, more solid than other
houses, she believed it to be theirs. Yes, it was a notable fact, that
Maria, sitting there so serenely tranquil, knew nothing of what was
stirring Prior's Ash, from one end of it to the other, to the highest
point of excitement. Perhaps it would not be too much to say that she
was the last person in it whom the news reached.
The work--her work, that she held in her hand--was approaching
completion, and she looked at it with fond eyes. She had been two or
three weeks over it, sitting steadily to it several of the days. It was
very pretty, certainly; a new sort of work just come up, done with a new
sort of braid; and would, beyond question, look charming on Miss Meta.
Now and then Maria would be visited with doubtful visions as to whether
the thing would "wash." That is, wash and look as well afterwards as it
did now. She could only hope for the best, and that Miss Meta would be
upon her good behaviour when wearing it, and not spoil it beyond
redemption the first time it was on.
"I hope I shall have enough braid," deliberated Maria, comparing the
small portion of work, yet remaining to do, with the braid in hand. "I
wish I had told Margery to bring me in another piece; she will pass the
shop. I must send, if I find it running short. If I am not interrupted
to-day, I shall finish it."
One interruption occurred almost as Maria was speaking. The entrance of
her husband. With him in the room she was continually looking off to
talk, if she did not quite lay the work down; altogether she did not get
on as fast as when alone. He had just come in from that excursion to the
telegraph office. _Had_ he been there? Or had his supposed visit been
but a plea set forth, an excuse to get out of his brother's presence,
away from that troubled scene, the Bank?
There was no knowing. George never said how it was, then or afterwards.
Never said whether his return now was the result of his having
accidentally seen his brother at a distance, walking along at a quick
pace. He came in by the hall-door (there was no other way open to-day),
letting himself in with his latch-key. Mr. Hurde was still there,
posting or doing something or other to a pile of books.
"Has Mr. Godolphin gone for the day?" asked George.
"Mr. Godolphin's gone to London, sir."
"To London?" echoed George, in surprise. "What is taking him there?"
"Some queer messages have come down by telegraph," returned Mr. Hurde,
pushing his spectacles up, and looking George full in the face. "Mr.
Godolphin could not understand them, and he has gone to town."
George did not make any observation for a minute. Was he afraid to make
further inquiries? "What were the messages?" he presently asked.
"Mr. Godolphin did not show them to me, sir," was the answer, spoken, or
George fancied it, in a curt tone. "He said enough to tell me that there
appeared to be some great cause for disquiet--and he has gone to see
about it. He left a note in the parlour, sir, for you."
Mr. Hurde buried his face over his books again, a genteel hint, perhaps,
that he wished the colloquy to end--if his master would be pleased to
take it. George entered the parlour and caught up the note.
"'Be at home to callers; answer all inquiries,'" repeated he, reciting
the last words of the note. "I wish Thomas may get it! Now that the
explosion has come, Prior's Ash is no place for me."
Many and many a day had there intruded into George Godolphin's mind a
vision of this very time, when the "explosion" should have "come." He
had never dwelt upon it. He had driven it away from him to the utmost of
his power. Perhaps it is not in the nature of those, whose course of
conduct is such as to bring down these explosions as a natural sequence,
to anticipate with uncomfortable minuteness the period of their arrival,
or their particular manner of meeting them. Certainly George Godolphin
had not done so: but there had been ever an undercurrent of conviction
lying dormant in his heart, that he should not face it in person. When
the brunt of the scandal was over, then he might return to home and
Prior's Ash: but he would not wait there to be present at its fall.
He crushed Thomas Godolphin's note into his pocket, and stood upright on
the hearthrug to _think_. He knew that, if treated according to his
deserts, this would be the last friendly note written him by his brother
for many a day to come. Thomas was then being whirled on his way to the
full knowledge of his, George's, delinquency; or, if not to the full
knowledge, which perhaps could only be unfolded by degrees, as we turn
the pages of a book, to quite enough of it. It was time for him to be
off now. If inquisitive callers must be seen, Hurde could see them.
Conscience makes cowards of us all: a saying, not more trite than true.
Very absurd cowards it makes of us now and then. As George Godolphin
stood there, revolving the _pros_ and _cons_ of his getting away, the
ways and means of his departure, a thought flashed into his mind as to
whether he should be allowed to depart, if an inkling of his exodus got
wind. It actually did so; unfounded as was any cause for it. The fear
came from his lively conscience; but from nothing else. He might be seen
at the railway station, and stopped: he might----"Tush!" interrupted
George angrily, coming out of the foolish fear and returning to his
sober senses. "People here know nothing yet, beyond the bare fact that
the Bank has suspended payment. They can't arrest a man for that."
But, how about ways and means? Ay, that was a greater necessity for
consideration. The money in George's pockets amounted--_I am telling you
truth_--to three and sixpence. With all his faults, he was open-hearted,
open-handed. He had been weak, imprudent, extravagant; he had enacted a
course of deceit to his brother and to the world, forced to it (he would
have told you) by his great need and his great dread; he had made use of
other men's property: he had, in short, violated those good rules that
public lamentation is made for every Sunday--he had left undone those
things that he ought to have done, and he had done those things that he
ought not to have done; but it was not for himself (in one sense) that
he had done this. It was not for himself, selfishly. He had not been
laying up in store for the evil day, or put by money to serve his wants
when other moneys should fail. As long as he had money he spent it:
whether in paying claims, or in making charming presents to Charlotte
Pain and similarly esteemed friends--elegant little trifles that of
course cost nothing, or next to it; or in new dolls for Meta; or in
giving a five-pound note to some poor broken-down tradesman, who wanted
to get upon his legs again. In one way or other the money had been
spent; not a single shilling had George hoarded up; so, in that sense,
though in that alone, he had been neither selfish nor dishonest.
And, now that the crash had come, he was without means. He had not so
much as the fare in his pocket that would suffice to convey him away
from the troubled scene, which the next week would evidently bring
forth. The Bank funds were exhausted: so he had not them to turn to.
But, get away he must: and, it seemed to him, the sooner the better.
He came forth through the door separating the Bank from the dwelling,
and entered the dining-room. The tray was laid for luncheon, and for
Meta's dinner: but no one was in the room. He went upstairs to Maria's
sitting-room. She was there, quietly at work: and she looked up at him
with a glad smile of welcome. Her attitude of repose, her employment,
the expression of calm happiness pervading her countenance, told George
that she was as yet in ignorance of what had occurred.
"What money have you in your purse, Maria?" asked he, speaking
carelessly.
Maria laughed. "Why, none," she answered quite merrily. "Or as good as
none. I have been telling you ever so long, George, that I must have
some money; and I must. A good deal, I mean; to pay my housekeeping
bills."
"Just see what you have," returned George. "I want to borrow it."
Maria put her hand into her pocket, and then found that her purse was in
her desk. She gave the keys to George, and asked him to unlock it.
The purse was in a small compartment, lying on a ten-pound note. In the
purse there proved to be a sovereign and seven shillings. George put the
money and the purse back again, and took up the note.
"You sly girl!" cried he, pretending to be serious. "To tell me you had
no money! What special _cadeau_ is this put by for? A gold chain for
Meta?"
"That is not mine, George. It is old Dame Bond's. I told you about it,
if you remember."
"I'll take this," said George, transferring the note to his pocket.
"Oh no, George; don't take that!" exclaimed Maria. "She may come for it
at any hour. I promised to return it to her whenever she asked for it."
"My dear, you shall have it again. She won't come to-day."
"Why can you not get a note from the Bank instead of taking that?"
George made no answer. He turned into his bedroom. Maria thought nothing
of the omission: she supposed his mind to be preoccupied. In point of
fact, she thought little of his taking the note. With coffers full (as
she supposed) to turn to, borrowing a ten-pound note seemed an affair of
no moment.
She sat on about ten minutes, hard at work. George remained in his
bedroom, occupied (as it appeared to Maria) in opening and shutting
various drawers. Somewhat curious as to what he could be doing, she at
length rose from her seat and looked in. He was packing a large
portmanteau.
"Are you going out, George?" she exclaimed in surprise.
"For a few days. Business is calling me to town. Look here, Maria. I
shall take nothing with me, beyond my small black leather hand-case; but
you can send this by one of the men to the station to-night. It must
come after me."
"What a very sudden determination, George!" she cried. "You did not say
anything about it this morning."
"I did not know then I should have to go. Don't look sad, child. I
shan't be long away."
"It seems to me that you are always going away now, George," she
observed, her tone as sad as her looks.
"Business must be attended to," responded George, shaking out a coat
that he was about to fold. "I don't in the least covet going, I assure
you, Maria."
What more she would have said, was interrupted by a noise. Some one had
entered the sitting-room with much commotion. Maria returned to it, and
saw Meta and Margery.
Meta had been the whole morning long in the hayfield. Not the particular
hayfield already mentioned; that one was cleared of hay now; but to some
other hayfield, whose cocks were in full bloom--if such an expression
may be used in regard to hay. There were few things Miss Meta liked so
much as a roll in the hay; and, so long as cocks were to be found in the
neighbourhood, Margery would be coaxed over to take her to them. Margery
did not particularly dislike it herself. Margery's rolling days were
over; but, seated at the foot of one of the cocks, her knitting in hand,
and the child in view, Margery found the time pass agreeably enough. As
she had found it, this day: and the best proof of it was, that she
stayed beyond her time. Miss Meta's dinner was waiting.
Miss Meta was probably aware of the fact by sundry inward warnings. She
had gone flying into her mamma's sitting-room, tugging at the strings of
her hat, which had got into a knot. Margery had flown in, almost as
quickly; certainly in greater excitement.
"Is it true, ma'am?" she gasped out, the moment she saw Maria.
"Is what true?" inquired Maria.
"That the Bank has broke. When I saw the shutters up and the door
barred, for all the world as if everybody in the house was dead, you
might have knocked me down with a feather. There's quite a crowd round:
and one of 'em told me the Bank had broke."
George came out of his bedroom. "Take this child to the nursery, and get
her ready for her dinner," said he in the quick, decisive, haughty
manner that he now and then used, though rarely to Margery.
Margery withdrew with the child, and George looked at his wife. She was
standing in perplexity; half aghast, half in disbelief; and she turned
her questioning eyes on George.
But for those words of Margery's, whose sound had penetrated to his
bedroom, would he have said anything to Maria before his departure? It
must remain a question. _Now_ he had no resource left but to tell her.
"The fact is, Maria, we have had a run upon the Bank this morning; have
been compelled to suspend payment. For the present," added George,
vouchsafing to Maria the hopeful view of the case which his brother, in
his ignorance, had taken.
She did not answer. She felt too much dismayed. Perhaps, in her mind's
confusion, she could not yet distinctly understand. George placed her in
a chair.
"How scared you look, child! There's no cause for that. Such things
happen every day."
"George--George!" she reiterated, struggling as it were for utterance:
"do you mean that the Bank has failed? I don't think I understand."
"For the present. Some cause or other, that we can none of us get to the
bottom of, caused a run upon us to-day."
"A run? You mean that people all came together, wanting to withdraw
their money?"
"Yes. We paid as long as our funds held out. And then we closed."
She burst into a distressing flood of tears. The shock, from unclouded
prosperity--_she_ had not known that that prosperity was fictitious--to
ruin, to disgrace, was more than she could bear calmly. George felt
vexed. It seemed as if the tears reproached him.
"For goodness' sake, Maria, don't go on like that," he testily cried.
"It will blow over; it will be all right."
But he put his arm round her in spite of his hasty words. Maria leaned
her face upon his bosom and sobbed out her tears upon it. He did not
like the tears at all; he spoke quite crossly; and Maria did her best to
hush them.
"What will be done?" she asked, choking down the rebellious sobs that
rose in spite of her.
"Don't trouble yourself about that. I have been obliged to tell you,
because it is a thing that cannot be concealed; but it will not affect
your peace and comfort, I hope. There's no cause for tears."
"Will the Bank go on again?"
"Thomas has gone up to London, expecting to bring funds down. In that
case it will open on Monday morning."
_How_ could he tell it her? Knowing as he did know, and he alone, that
through his deep-laid machinations, there were no longer funds available
for the Bank or for Thomas Godolphin.
"Need you go to London," she asked in a wailing tone, "if Thomas has
gone? I shall be left alone."
"I must go. There's no help for it."
"And which day shall you be back again? By Monday?"
"Not perhaps by Monday. Keep up your spirits, Maria. It will be all
right."
Meta came bursting in. She was going down to dinner. Was mamma coming to
luncheon?
No, mamma did not want any. Margery would attend to her. George picked
up the child and carried her into his room. In his drawers he had found
some trifling toy; brought home for Meta weeks ago, and forgotten to be
given to her. It had lain there since. It was one of those renowned
articles, rarer now than they once were, called Bobbing Joan. George had
given sixpence for it. A lady, with a black head and neck, a round body,
and no visible legs. He put it on the top of the drawers, touched it,
and set it bobbing at Meta.
She was all delight; she stretched out her hands for it eagerly. But
George, neglecting the toy, sat down on a chair, clasped the child in
his arms, and showered upon her more passionately heartfelt embraces
than perhaps he had ever given to living mortal, child or woman. He did
not keep her: the last long lingering kiss was pressed upon her rosy
lips, and he put her down, handed her the toy, and bade her run and show
it to mamma.
Away she went; to mamma first, and then in search of Margery.
Maria went into the bedroom to her husband. He was locking his
portmanteau.
"That is all, I believe," he said, transferring the keys to his pocket,
and taking up the small hand-case. "Remember that it is sent off by
to-night's train, Maria. I have addressed it."
"You are not going now, George?" she said, her heart seeming to fail her
strangely.
"Yes, I am."
"But--there is no train. The express must have passed this half-hour."
"I shall ride over to Crancomb and take the train there," he answered.
"I have some business in the place," added he, by way of stopping any
questions as to the why and wherefore. "Listen, Maria. You need not
mention that I have gone until you see Thomas on Monday morning. Tell
_him_."
"Shall you not see him yourself in London?" she returned. "Are you not
going to meet him?"
"I may miss him: it is just possible," was the reply of George, spoken
with all the candour in life, just as though his mission to London was
the express one of meeting his brother. "If Thomas should return home
without having seen me, I mean."
"What am I to tell him?" she asked.
"Only that I am gone. There's no necessity to say anything else. I
shall--if I miss seeing him in town--write to him here."
"And when shall you be back again?"
"Soon. Good-bye, my darling."
He held his wife folded in his arms, as he had recently held Meta. The
tears were raining down her cheeks.
"Don't grieve, Maria. It will blow over, I say. God bless you. Take care
of Meta."
Maria's heart felt as if it were breaking. But in the midst of her own
distress, she remembered the claims of others. "That ten-pound note,
George? If you are not back in a day or two, how shall I have it? The
woman may come for it."
"Oh, I shall be back. Or you can ask Thomas."
In his careless indifference he thought he should be back before long.
He was not going to _run away_: only to absent himself from the brunt of
the explosion. That his delinquencies would be patent to Thomas and to
others by Monday morning, he knew: it would be just as well to let some
of their astonishment and anger evaporate without his presence; be far
more agreeable to himself, personally. In his careless indifference,
too, he had spoken the words, "You can ask Thomas." A moment's
consideration would have told him that Thomas would have no ten-pound
notes to spare for Maria. George Godolphin was one who never lost heart.
He was indulging, now, the most extravagantly sanguine hopes of raising
money in London, by some means or other. Perhaps Verrall could help him?
He strained his wife to his heart, kissed her again, and was gone. Maria
sat down in the midst of her blinding tears.
Walking round to the stables, he waited there while his horse was got
ready, mounted him, the small black case in front, and rode away alone.
The groom thought his master was only going out for a ride, as he did on
other days: but the man did wonder that Mr. George should go _that_ day.
Crancomb was a small place about five miles off: it had a railway
station, and the ordinary trains stopped there. What motive induced him
to go there to take the train, he best knew. Probably, he did not care
to excite the observation and comment, which his going off from Prior's
Ash on that day would be sure to excite. Seriously to fear being
stopped, he did not.
He rode along at a leisurely pace, reaching Crancomb just before the
up-train was expected. Evidently the day's great disaster had not yet
travelled to Crancomb. George was received with all the tokens of
respect, ever accorded to the Godolphins. He charged the landlord of the
inn to send his horse back to Prior's Ash on Monday morning, changed
Mrs. Bond's ten-pound note, and chatted familiarly to the employés at
the station, after taking his ticket.
Up came the train. Two or three solitary passengers, bound for the
place, descended, two or three entered. The whistle sounded; the engine
shrieked and puffed: and George Godolphin, nodding familiarly around
with his gay smile, was carried on his road to London.
Maria had sat on, her blinding tears falling. What an alteration it was!
What a contrast to the happiness of the morning! That a few minutes
should have power to bring forth so awful a change! The work she had
done so eagerly before, lay on the table. Where had its enjoyment gone?
She turned from it now with a feeling not far removed from sickness.
Nothing could be thought of but the great trouble which had fallen;
there was no further satisfaction to be derived from outward things. The
work lay there, untouched; destined, though she knew it not, never to
have another stitch set in it by its mistress; and she sat on and on,
her hands clasped inertly before her, her brain throbbing with its
uncertainty and its care.