BEARING THE BRUNT.
Thomas Godolphin sat in the Bank parlour, bearing the brunt of the
shock. With his pain upon him, mental and bodily, he was facing all the
trouble that George ought to have faced: the murmurs, the questions, the
reproaches.
All was known. All was known to Thomas Godolphin. Not alone to him.
Could Thomas have kept the terrible facts within his own breast, have
shielded his brother's reputation still, he would have done it: but that
was impossible. In becoming known to Mr. Godolphin, it had become known
to others. The discovery had been made jointly, by Thomas and by certain
business gentlemen, when he was in London on the Saturday afternoon.
Treachery upon treachery! The long course of deceit on George
Godolphin's part had come out. Falsified books; wrongly-rendered
accounts; good securities replaced by false; false balance-sheets. Had
Thomas Godolphin been less blindly trustful in George's honour and
integrity, it could never have been so effectually accomplished. George
Godolphin was the acting manager: and Thomas, in his perfect trust,
combined with his failing health, had left things latterly almost
entirely in George's hands. "What business had he so to leave them?"
People were asking it now. Perhaps Thomas's own conscience was asking
the same. But why should he not have left things to him, considering
that he placed in him the most implicit confidence? Surely, no
unprejudiced man would say Thomas Godolphin had been guilty of
imprudence. George was fully equal to the business confided to him, in
point of power and capacity; and it could not certainly matter which of
the brothers, equal partners, equal heads of the firm, took its
practical management. It would seem not: and yet they were blaming
Thomas Godolphin now.
Failures of this nature have been recorded before, where fraud has
played its part. We have only to look to the records of our law
courts--criminal, bankruptcy, and civil--for examples. To transcribe the
precise means by which George Godolphin had contrived to bear on in a
course of deceit, to elude the suspicion of the world in general, and
the vigilance of his own house, would only be to recapitulate what has
often been told in the public records: and told to so much more purpose
than I could tell it. It is rather with what may be called the domestic
phase of these tragedies that I would deal: the private, home details;
the awful wreck of peace, of happiness, caused _there_. The world knows
enough (rather too much, sometimes) of the public part of these affairs;
but what does it know of the part behind the curtain?--the, if it may be
so said, inner aspect?
I knew a gentleman, years ago, who was partner in a country
banking-house: a sleeping partner; and the Bank failed. Failed through a
long-continued course of treachery on the part of one connected with
it--something like the treachery described to you as pursued by Mr.
George Godolphin. This gentleman (of whom I tell you) was to be held
responsible for the losses, so the creditors and others decided: the
real delinquent having disappeared, escaped beyond their reach. They
lavished upon this gentleman harsh names; rogue, thief, swindler, and so
on!--while, in point of fact, he was as innocent and unconscious of what
had happened as they were. He gave up all he had; the bulk of his
fortune had gone with the Bank; and he went out of hearing of his
abusers for a while until things should become smoother; perhaps the bad
man be caught. A short time, and he became ill; and a medical man was
called in to him. Again, a short time, and he was _dead_: and the
doctors said--I heard them say it--that his malady had been brought on
by grief; that he had, in fact, died of a broken heart. He was a kindly
gentleman; a good husband, a good father, a good neighbour; a
single-hearted, honest man; the very soul of honour: but he was
misjudged by those who ought to have known him better; and he died for
it. I wonder what the real rogue felt when he heard of the death? They
were relatives. There are many such cases in the world: where reproach
and abuse are levelled at one whose heart is breaking.
There appeared to be little doubt that George Godolphin's embarrassments
had commenced years ago. It is more than probable that the money
borrowed from Verrall during that short sojourn in Homburg had been its
precursor. Once in the hands of the clever charlatan, the crafty,
unscrupulous bill-discounter, who grew fat on the folly of others, his
downward course was--perhaps not easy or swift, but at all events
certain. If George Godolphin had but been a little more clear-sighted,
the evil might never have come. Could he but have seen Verrall at the
outset as he was: not the gentleman, the good-hearted man, as George
credulously believed, but the low fellow who traded on the needs of
others, the designing sharper, looking ever after his prey, George would
have flung him off with no other feeling than contempt. George Godolphin
was not born a rogue. George was by nature a gentleman, and honest and
open; but, once in the clutches of Verrall, he was not able to escape.
Bit by bit, step by step, gradually, imperceptibly, George found himself
caught. He awoke to the fact that he could neither stir upwards nor
downwards. He could not extricate himself; he could not go on without
exposure; Verrall, or Verrall's agents, those working in concert with
him, though not ostensibly, stopped the supplies, and George was in a
fix. Then began the frauds upon the Bank. Slightly at first. It was only
a choice between that and exposure. Between that and ruin, it may be
said, for George's liabilities were so great, that, if brought to a
climax, they must then have caused the Bank to stop, involving Thomas in
ruin as well as himself. In his sanguine temperament, too, he was always
hoping that some lucky turn would redeem the bad and bring all right
again. It was Verrall who urged him on. It was Verrall who, with
Machiavellian craft, made the wrong appear right; it was Verrall who had
filled his pockets at the expense of George's. That Verrall had been the
arch-tempter, and George the arch-dupe, was clear as the sun at noonday
to those who were behind the scenes. Unfortunately but very few were
behind the scenes--they might be counted by units--and Verrall and Co.
could still blazon it before the world.
The wonder was, where the money had gone to. It very often is the wonder
in these cases. A wonder too often never solved. An awful amount of
money had gone in some way; the mystery was, in what way. George
Godolphin had kept up a large establishment; had been personally
extravagant, privately as well as publicly; but that did not serve to
account for half the money missing; not for a quarter of it; nay,
scarcely for a tithe. Had it been to save himself from hanging, George
himself could not have told how or where it had gone. When the awful sum
total came to be added up, to stare him in the face, he looked at it in
blank amazement. And he had no good to show for it; none; the money had
melted, and he could not tell how.
Of course it had gone to the discounters. The tide of discounting once
set in, it was something like the nails in the horseshoe, doubling, and
doubling, and doubling. The money went, and there was nothing to show
for it. Little marvel that George Godolphin stood aghast at the sum
total, when the amount was raked up--or, as nearly the amount as could
be guessed at. When George could no longer furnish legitimate funds on
his own account, the Bank was laid under contribution to supply them,
and George had to enter upon a system of ingenuity to conceal the
outgoings. When those contributions had been levied to the very utmost
extent compatible with the avoidance of sudden and immediate discovery,
and George was at his wits' end for money, which he _must_ have, then
Verrall whispered a way which George at first revolted from, but which
resulted in taking the deeds of Lord Averil. Had the crash not come as
it did, other deeds might have been taken. It is impossible to say. Such
a course once entered on is always downhill. Like unto some other
downward courses, the only safety lies in not yielding to the first
temptation.
Strange to say, George Godolphin could not see the rogue's part played
by Verrall: or at best he saw it but very imperfectly. And yet, not
strange; for there are many of these cases in the world. George had been
on intimate terms of friendship with Verrall; had been _lié_, it may be
said, with him and Lady Godolphin's Folly. Mrs. Verrall was pretty.
Charlotte had her attractions. Altogether, George believed yet in
Verrall. Let the dagger's point only be concealed with flowers, and men
will rush blindly on to it.
Thomas Godolphin sat, some books before him, pondering the one weighty
question--where could all the money have gone to? Until the present
moment, this morning when he had the books before him, and his thoughts
were more practically directed to business details, he had been
pondering another weighty question--where had George's integrity gone
to? Whither had flown his pride in his fair name, the honour of the
Godolphins? From the Saturday afternoon when the dreadful truth came to
light, Thomas had had little else in his thoughts. It was his companion
through the Sunday, through the night journey afterwards down to Prior's
Ash. He was more fit for bed than to take that journey: but he must face
the exasperated men from whom George had flown.
He was facing them now. People had been coming in since nine o'clock
with their reproaches, and Thomas Godolphin bore them patiently and
answered them meekly: the tones of his voice low, subdued, as if they
came from the sadness of a stricken heart. He felt their wrongs keenly.
Could he have paid these injured men by cutting himself to pieces, and
satisfied them with the "pound of flesh," he would have done so, oh how
willingly! He would have sacrificed his life and his happiness (his
happiness!) and done it cheerfully, if by that means they could have
been paid their due.
"It's nothing but a downright swindle. I'll say it, sir, to your face,
and I can't help saying it. Here I bring the two thousand pounds in my
hand, and I say to Mr. George Godolphin, 'Will it be safe?' 'Yes,' he
answers me, 'it will be safe.' And now the Bank has shut up, and where's
my money?"
The speaker was Barnaby, the corn-dealer. What was Thomas Godolphin to
answer?
"You told me, sir, on Saturday, that the Bank would open again to-day
for business; that customers would be paid in full."
"I told you but what I believed," rose the quiet voice of Thomas
Godolphin in answer. "Mr. Barnaby, believe me this blow has come upon no
one more unexpectedly than it has upon me."
"Well, sir, I don't know what may be your mode of carrying on business,
but I should be ashamed to conduct mine so as to let ruin come slap upon
me, and not have seen it coming."
Again, what was Thomas Godolphin to answer? Generous to the end, he
would not say, "My brother has played us both alike false." "If I find
that any care or caution of mine could have averted this, Mr. Barnaby, I
shall carry remorse to my grave," was all he replied.
"What sort of a dividend will there be?" went on the dealer.
"I really cannot tell you yet, Mr. Barnaby. I have no idea. We must have
time to go through the books."
"Where _is_ Mr. George Godolphin?" resumed the applicant; and it was a
very natural question. "Mr. Hurde says he is away, but it is strange
that he should be away at such a time as this. I should like to ask him
a question or two."
"He is in London," replied Thomas Godolphin.
"But what's he gone to London for now? And when is he coming back?"
More puzzling questions. Thomas had to bear the pain of many such that
day. He did not say, "My brother is gone, we know not why; in point of
fact he has run away." He spoke aloud the faint hopes that rose within
his own breast--that some train, ere the day was over, would bring him
back to Prior's Ash.
"Don't you care, Mr. Godolphin," came the next wailing plaint, "for the
ruin that the loss of this money will bring upon me? I have a wife and
children, sir."
"I do care," Thomas answered, his throat husky and a mist before his
eyes. "For every pang that this calamity will inflict on others, it
inflicts two on me."
Mr. Hurde, who was busy with more books in his own department, in
conjunction with some clerks, came in to ask a question, his pen behind
his ear; and Mr. Barnaby, seeing no good to be derived by remaining,
went out. Little respite had Thomas Godolphin. The next to come in was
the Rector of All Souls'.
"What is to become of me?" was his saluting question, spoken in his
clear, decisive tone. "How am I to refund this money to my wards, the
Chisholms?"
Thomas Godolphin had no satisfactory reply to make. He missed the
friendly hand held out hitherto in greeting. Mr. Hastings did not take a
chair, but stood up near the table, firm, stern, and uncompromising.
"I hear George is off," he continued.
"He has gone to London, Maria informs me," replied Thomas Godolphin.
"Mr. Godolphin, can you sit there and tell me that you had no suspicion
of the way things were turning? That this ruin has come on, and you
ignorant of it?"
"I had no suspicion; none whatever. None can be more utterly surprised
than I. There are moments when a feeling comes over me that it cannot be
true."
"Could you live in intimate association with your brother, and not see
that he was turning out a rogue and a vagabond?" went on the Rector in
his keenest and most cynical tone.
"I knew nothing, I suspected nothing," was the quiet reply of Thomas.
"How _dared_ he take that money from me the other night, when he knew
that he was on the verge of ruin?" asked Mr. Hastings. "He took it from
me; he never entered it in the books; he applied it, there's no doubt,
to his own infamous purposes. When a suspicion was whispered to me
afterwards, that the Bank was wrong, I came here to him. I candidly
spoke of what I had heard, and asked him to return me the money, as a
friend, a relative. Did he return it? No: his answer was a false,
plausible assurance that the money and the Bank were alike safe. What
does he call it? Robbery? It is worse: it is deceit; fraud; vile
swindling. In the old days, many a man has swung for less, Mr.
Godolphin."
Thomas Godolphin could not gainsay it.
"Nine thousand and forty-five pounds!" continued the Rector. "How am I
to make it good? How am I to find money only for the education of
Chisholm's children? He confided them and their money to me; and how
have I repaid the trust?"
Every word he spoke was as a dagger entering the heart of Thomas
Godolphin. He could only sit still, and bear. Had the malady that was
carrying him to the grave never before shown itself, the days of anguish
he had now entered upon would have been sufficient to induce it.
"If I find that Maria knew of this, that she was in league with her
husband to deceive me, I shall feel inclined to discard her from my
affections from henceforth," resumed the indignant Rector. "It was an
unlucky day when I gave my consent to her marrying George Godolphin. I
never in my heart liked his addressing her. It must have been instinct
warned me against it."
"I am convinced that Maria has known nothing," said Thomas Godolphin,
"She----"
Mr. Godolphin stopped. Angry sounds had arisen outside, and presently
the door was violently opened, and quite a crowd of clamorous people
entered, ready to abuse Thomas Godolphin, George not being there to
receive it. There was no question but that that day's work took weeks
from his short remaining span of life. Could a man's heart break
summarily, Thomas Godolphin's would have broken then. Many men would
have retaliated: _he_ felt their griefs, their wrongs, as keenly as they
did. They told him of their ruin, of the desolation, the misery it would
bring to them, to their wives and families; some spoke in a respectful
tone of quiet plaint, some were loud, unreasonable, insulting. They
demanded what dividend there would be: some asked in a covert tone to
have _their_ bit of money returned in full; some gave vent to most
unorthodox language touching George Godolphin; they openly expressed
their opinion that Thomas was conniving at his absence; they hinted that
he was as culpable as the other.
None of them appeared to glance at the great fact--that Thomas Godolphin
was the greatest sufferer of all. If they had lost part of their means,
he had lost all his. Did they remember that this terrible misfortune,
which they were blaming him for, would leave him a beggar upon the face
of the earth? He, a gentleman born to wealth, to Ashlydyat, to a
position of standing in the county, to honour, to respect? It had all
been rent away by the blow, to leave him homeless and penniless, sick
with an incurable malady. Had they only reflected, they might have found
that Thomas Godolphin deserved their condolence rather than their abuse.
But they were in no mood to reflect, or to spare him in their angry
feelings; they gave vent to all the soreness within them--and perhaps it
was excusable.
The Rector of All Souls' had had his say, and strode forth. Making his
way to the dining-room, he knocked sharply with his stick on the door,
and then entered. Maria rose and came forward: something very like
terror on her face. The knock had frightened her: it had conjured up
visions of the visitors suggested by Mrs. Charlotte Pain.
"Where is George Godolphin?"
"He is in London, papa," she answered, her heart sinking at the stern
tone, the abrupt greeting.
"When do you expect him home?"
"I do not know. He did not tell me when he went; except that he should
be home soon. Will you not sit down, papa?"
"No. When I brought that money here the other night, the nine thousand
and forty-five pounds," he continued, touching her arm to command her
full attention, "could you not have opened your lips to tell me that it
would be safer in my own house than in this?"
Maria was seized with inward trembling. She could not bear to be spoken
to in that stern tone by her father. "Papa, I could not tell you. I did
not know it."
"Do you mean to tell me that you knew nothing--_nothing_--of the state
of your husband's affairs? of the ruin that was impending?"
"I knew nothing," she answered. "Until the Bank closed on Saturday, I
was in total ignorance that anything was wrong. I never had the remotest
suspicion of it."
"Then, I think, Maria, you ought to have had it. Rumour says that you
owe a great deal of money in the town for your personal necessities,
housekeeping and the like."
"There is a good deal owing, I fear," she answered. "George has not
given me money to pay regularly of late, as he used to do."
"And did _that_ not serve to open your eyes?"
"No," she faintly said. "I never gave a thought to anything being
wrong."
She spoke meekly, softly, just as Thomas Godolphin had spoken. The
Rector looked at her pale, sad face, and perhaps a sensation of pity for
his daughter came over him, however bitterly he may have felt towards
her husband.
"Well, it is a terrible thing for us all," he said in a more kindly
voice, as he turned to move away.
"Will you not wait, and sit down, papa?"
"I have not the time now. Good day, Maria."
As he went out, there stood, gathered close against the wall, waiting to
go in, Mrs. Bond. Her face was rather red this morning, and a
perfume--certainly not of plain waters--might be detected in her
vicinity. That snuffy black gown of hers went down in a reverence as he
passed. The Rector of All Souls' strode on. Care was too great at his
heart to allow of his paying attention to extraneous things, even though
they appeared in the shape of attractive Mrs. Bond.
Maria Godolphin, her face buried on the sofa cushions, was giving way to
the full tide of unhappy thought induced by her father's words, when she
became aware that she was not alone. A sound, half a groan, half a sob,
coming from the door, aroused her. There stood a lady, in a crushed
bonnet and unwholesome stuff gown that had once been black, with a red
face, and a perfume of strong waters around her.
Maria rose from the sofa, her heart sinking. How should she meet this
woman? how find an excuse for the money which she had not to give? "Good
morning, Mrs. Bond."
Mrs. Bond took a few steps forward, and held on by the table. Not that
she was past the power of keeping herself upright; her face must be
redder than it was, by some degrees, ere she lost that; but she had a
knack of holding on to things.
"I have come for my ten-pound note, if you please, ma'am."
Few can imagine what this moment was to Maria Godolphin; for few are
endowed with the sensitiveness of temperament, the refined consideration
for the feelings of others, the acute sense of justice, which
characterized her. Maria would willingly have given a hundred pounds to
have had ten then. How she made the revelation, she scarcely knew--that
she had not the money that morning to give.
Mrs. Bond's face turned rather defiant. "You told me to come down for
it, ma'am."
"I thought I could have given it to you. I am very sorry. I must trouble
you to come when Mr. George Godolphin shall have returned home."
"Is he going to return?" asked Mrs. Bond in a quick, hard tone. "Folks
is saying that he isn't."
Maria's heart beat painfully at the words. _Was_ he going to return? She
could only say aloud that she hoped he would very soon be home.
"But I want my money," resumed Mrs. Bond, standing her ground. "I must
have it, ma'am, if you please."
"I have not got it," said Maria. "The very instant I have it, it shall
be returned to you."
"I'd make bold to ask, ma'am, what right you had to spend it? Warn't
there enough money in the Bank of other folks's as you might have took,
without taking mine--which you had promised to keep faithful for me?"
reiterated Mrs. Bond, warming with her subject. "I warn't a deposit in
the Bank, as them folks was, and I'd no right to have my money took. I
want to pay my rent to-day, and to get in a bit o' food. The house is
bare of everything. There's the parrot screeching out for seed."
It is of no use to pursue the interview. Mrs. Bond grew bolder and more
abusive. But for having partaken rather freely of that cordial which was
giving out its scent upon the atmosphere, she had never so spoken to her
clergyman's daughter. Maria received it meekly, her heart aching: she
felt very much as did Thomas Godolphin--that she had _earned_ the
reproaches. But endurance has its limits: she began to feel really ill;
and she saw, besides, that Mrs. Bond appeared to have no intention of
departing. Escaping out of the room in the midst of a fiery speech, she
encountered Pierce, who was crossing the hall.
"Go into the dining-room, Pierce," she whispered, "and try to get rid of
Mrs. Bond. She is not quite herself this morning, and--and--she talks
too much. But be kind and civil to her, Pierce: let there be no
disturbance."
Her pale face, as she spoke, was lifted to the butler almost pleadingly.
He thought how wan and ill his mistress looked. "I'll manage it, ma'am,"
he said, turning to the dining-room.
By what process Pierce did manage it, was best known to himself. There
was certainly no disturbance. A little talking, and Maria thought she
heard the sound of something liquid being poured into a glass near the
sideboard, as she stood out of view behind the turning at the back of
the hall. Then Pierce and Mrs. Bond issued forth, the best friends
imaginable, the latter talking amiably.
Maria came out of her hiding-place, but only to encounter some one who
had pushed in at the hall-door as Mrs. Bond left it. A little man in a
white neckcloth. He advanced to Mrs. George Godolphin.
"Can I speak a word to you, ma'am, if you please?" he asked, taking off
his hat.
She could only answer in the affirmative, and she led the way to the
dining-room. She wondered who he was: his face seemed familiar to her.
The first words he spoke told her, and she remembered him as the head
assistant at the linendraper's where she chiefly dealt. He had been sent
to press for payment of the account. She could only tell him as she had
told Mrs. Bond--that she was unable to pay it.
"Mr. Jones would be so very much obliged to you, ma'am," he civilly
urged. "It has been standing now some little time, and he hopes you will
stretch a point to pay him. If you could only give me part of it, he
would be glad."
"I have not got it to give," said Maria, telling the truth in her
unhappiness. She could only be candid: she was unable to fence with
them, to use subterfuge, as others might have done. She spoke the truth,
and she spoke it meekly. When Mr. George Godolphin came home, she hoped
she should pay them, she said. The messenger took the answer, losing
none of his respectful manner, and departed.
But all were not so civil; and many found their way to her that day.
Once a thought came across her to send them into the Bank: but she
remembered Thomas Godolphin's failing health, and the battle he had to
fight on his own account. Besides, these claims were for
personalities--debts owed by herself and George. In the afternoon,
Pierce came in and said a lady wished to see her.
"Who is it?" asked Maria.
Pierce did not know. She was not a visitor of the house. She gave in her
name as Mrs. Harding.
The applicant came in. Maria recognized her, when she threw back her
veil, as the wife of Harding, the undertaker. Pierce closed the door,
and they were left together.
"I have taken the liberty of calling, Mrs. George Godolphin, to ask if
you will not pay our account," began the applicant in a low,
confidential tone. "Do pray let us have it, if you can, ma'am!"
Maria was surprised. There was nothing owing that she was aware of.
There could be nothing. "What account are you speaking of?" she asked.
"The account for the interment of the child. Your little one who died
last, ma'am."
"But surely that is paid!"
"No, it is not," replied Mrs. Harding. "The other accounts were paid,
but that never has been. Mr. George Godolphin has promised it times and
again: but he never paid it."
Not paid! The burial of their child! Maria's face flushed. Was it
carelessness on George's part, or had he been so long embarrassed for
money that to part with it was a trouble to him? Maria could not help
thinking that he might have spared some little remnant for just debts,
while lavishing so much upon bill-discounters. She could not help
feeling another thing--that it was George's place to be meeting and
battling with these unhappy claims, rather than hers.
"This must be paid, of course, Mrs. Harding," she said. "I had no idea
that it was not paid. When Mr. George Godolphin comes home, I will ask
him to see about it instantly."
"Ma'am, can't you pay me _now_?" urged Mrs. Harding. "If it waits till
the bankruptcy's declared, it will have to go into it; and they
say--they do say that there'll be nothing for anybody. We can't afford
to lose it," she added, speaking confidentially. "What with bad debts
and long-standing accounts, we are on the eve of a crisis ourselves;
though I should not like it to be known. This will help to stave it off,
if you will let us have it."
"I wish I could," returned Maria. "I wish I had it to give to you. It
ought to have been paid long ago."
"A part of it was money paid out of our pocket," said Mrs. Harding
reproachfully. "Mrs. George Godolphin, you don't know the boon it would
be to us!"
"I would give it you, indeed I would, if I had it," was all Maria could
answer.
She could not say more if Mrs. Harding stopped until night. Mrs. Harding
became at last convinced of that truth, and took her departure. Maria
sat down with burning eyes; eyes into which the tears would not come.
What with one hint and another, she had grown tolerably conversant with
the facts patent to the world. One whisper startled her more than any
ether. It concerned Lord Averil's bonds. What was amiss with them? That
there was something, and something bad, appeared only too evident. In
her terrible state of suspense, of uncertainty, she determined to
inquire of Thomas Godolphin.
Writing a few words on a slip of paper, she sent it into the Bank
parlour. It was a request that he would see her before he left. Thomas
sent back a verbal message: "Very well."
It was growing late in the evening before he came to her. What a day he
had had! and he had taken no refreshment; nothing to sustain him. Maria
thought of that, and spoke.
"Let me get you something," she said. "Will you take some dinner here,
instead of waiting to get to Ashlydyat?"
He shook his head in token of refusal. "It is not much dinner that I
shall eat anywhere to-day, Maria. Did you wish to speak to me?"
"I want--to--ask----" she seemed to gasp for breath, and waited a moment
for greater calmness. "Thomas," she began again, going close to him, and
speaking almost in a whisper, "what is it that is being said about Lord
Averil's bonds?"
Thomas Godolphin did not immediately reply. He may have been
deliberating whether it would be well to tell her; perhaps whether it
_could_ be kept from her. Maria seemed to answer the thought.
"I must inevitably know it," she said, striving not to tremble outwardly
as well as inwardly. "Better that I hear it from you than from others."
He thought she was right--the knowledge must inevitably come to her. "It
may be better to tell you, Maria," he said. "George used the bonds for
his own purposes."
A dread pause. Maria's throat was working. "Then--it must have been he
who took them from the strong-room!"
"It was."
The shivering came on palpably now. "What will be the consequences?" she
breathed.
"I do not know. I dread to think. Lord Averil may institute a
prosecution."
Their eyes met. Maria controlled her emotion, with the desperate energy
of despair. "A--criminal--prosecution?"
"It is in his power to do it. He has not been near me to-day, and that
looks unfavourable."
"Does he know it yet--that it was George?"
"He must know it. In fact, I think it likely, he may have received
official notice of it from town. The report has spread from thence--and
that is how it has become known in Prior's Ash."
Maria moistened her dry lips, and swallowed down the lump in her throat
ere she could speak. "Would it be safe for him to return here?"
"If he does return, it must be at the risk of consequences."
"Thomas!--Thomas!" she gasped, the thought occurring to her with a sort
of shock, "is he in hiding, do you think?"
"I think it likely that he is. He gave you no address, it seems: neither
has he sent one to me."
She drew back to the wall by the mantel-piece, and leaned against it.
Every hour seemed to bring forth worse and worse. Thomas gazed with
compassion on the haggardness that was seating itself on her sweet face.
She was less able to cope with this misery than he. He laid his hand
upon her shoulder, speaking in low tones.
"It is a fiery trial for both of us, Maria: one hard to encounter. God
alone can help us to bear it. Be very sure that He will help!"
He went out, taking his way on foot to Ashlydyat. There was greater
grief there, if possible, than at the Bank. The news touching the bonds,
unhappily afloat in Prior's Ash, had penetrated an hour ago to
Ashlydyat.
Scarcely had he entered the presence of his sisters, when he was told
that Lady Sarah Grame wanted him.
Thomas Godolphin proceeded to the room where she had been shown. She was
not sitting, but pacing it to and fro; and she turned sharply round and
met him as he entered, her face flushed with excitement.
"You were once to have been my son-in-law," she said abruptly.
Thomas, astonished at the address, invited her to a seat, but made no
immediate reply. She would not take the chair.
"I cannot sit," she said. "Mr. Godolphin, you were to have been my
son-in-law: you would have been so now had Ethel lived. Do you consider
Ethel to be any link between us still?"
He was quite at a loss what to answer. He did not understand what she
meant. Lady Sarah continued.
"If you do; if you retain any fond remembrance of Ethel; you will prove
it now. I had seven hundred pounds in your Bank. I have been scraping
and saving out of my poor yearly income nearly ever since Ethel went;
and I had placed it there. Can you deny it?"
"Dear Lady Sarah, what is the matter?" he asked; for her excitement was
something frightful. "I know you had it there. Why should I deny it?"
"Oh, that's right. People have been saying the Bank was going to
repudiate all claims. I want you to give it me. Now: privately."
"It is impossible for me to do so, Lady Sarah----"
"I cannot lose it; I have been saving it up for my poor child," she
interrupted, in a most excited tone. "She will not have much when I am
dead. Would you be so cruel as to rob the widow and the orphan?"
"Not willingly. Never willingly," he answered in his pain. "I had
thought, Lady Sarah, that though all the world misjudged me, you would
not."
"Could you not, you who were to have married Ethel, have given me a
private hint of it when you found the Bank was going wrong? Others may
afford to lose their money, but I cannot."
"I did not know it was going wrong," he said. "The blow has fallen upon
me as unexpectedly as it has upon others."
Lady Sarah Grame, giving vent to one of the fits of passionate
excitement to which she had all her life been subject, suddenly flung
herself upon her knees before Thomas Godolphin. She implored him to
return the money, to avert "ruin" from Sarah Anne; she reproached him
with selfishness, with dishonesty, all in a breath. Can you imagine what
it was for Thomas Godolphin to meet this? Upright, gifted with lively
conscientiousness, tenderly considerate in rendering strict justice to
others, as he had been all his life, these unmerited reproaches were as
iron entering his soul.
Which was the more to be pitied, himself or Maria? Thomas had called the
calamity by its right name--a fiery trial. It was indeed such: to him
and to her. You, who read, cannot picture it. How he got rid of Lady
Sarah, he could scarcely tell: he believed it was by her passion
spending itself out. She was completely beside herself that night,
almost as one who verges on insanity, and Thomas found a moment to ask
himself whether that uncontrolled woman could be the mother of gentle
Ethel. Her loud voice and its reproaches penetrated to the household--an
additional drop of bitterness in the cup of the master of Ashlydyat.
But we must go back to Maria, for it is with her this evening that we
have most to do. Between seven and eight o'clock Miss Meta arrived,
attended by Charlotte Pain. Meta was in the height of glee. She was
laden with toys and sweetmeats; she carried a doll as big as herself:
she had been out in the carriage; she had had a ride on Mrs. Pain's
brown horse, held on by that lady; she had swung "above the tops of the
trees;" and, more than all, a message had come from the keeper of the
dogs in the pit-hole, to say that they were never, never coming out
again.
Charlotte had been generously kind to the child; that was evident; and
Maria thanked her with her eyes and heart. As to saying much in words,
that was beyond Maria to-night.
"Where's Margery?" asked Meta, in a hurry to show off her treasures.
Margery had not returned. And there was no other train now from the
direction in which she had gone. It was supposed that she had missed it,
and would be home in the morning. Meta drew a long face; she wanted
Margery to admire the doll.
"You can go and show it to Harriet, dear," said Maria. "She is in the
nursery." And Meta flew away, with the doll and as many other
encumbrances as she could carry.
"Have those bankruptcy men been here?" asked Charlotte, glancing round
the room.
"No. I have seen nothing of them."
"Well now, there's time yet, and do for goodness' sake let me save some
few trifles for you; and don't fret yourself into fiddle-strings,"
heartily returned Charlotte. "I am quite sure you must have some
treasures that it would be grief to part with. I have been thinking all
day long how foolishly scrupulous you are."
Maria was silent for a minute. "They look into everything, you say?" she
asked.
"_Look_ into everything!" echoed Charlotte. "I should think they do!
That would be little. They take everything."
Maria left the room and came back with a parcel in her hand. It was a
very small trunk--dolls' trunks they are sometimes called--covered with
red morocco leather, with a miniature lock.
"I would save this," she said in a whisper, "if you would be so kind as
to take care of it for me. I should not like them to look into it. It
cannot be any fraud," she added, in a sort of apology for what she was
doing. "The things inside would not sell for sixpence, so I do not think
even Mr. Godolphin would be angry with me."
Charlotte nodded, took up her dress, and contrived to thrust the trunk
into a huge pocket under her crinoline. There was another on the other
side. "I put them on on purpose," she said, alluding to the pockets. "I
thought you might think better of it by this evening. But this is
nothing, Mrs. George Godolphin. You may as well give me something else.
They'll be in to-morrow morning for certain."
Maria replied that she had nothing else to give, and Charlotte rose,
saying she should come or send for Meta again on the morrow. As she went
out, and proceeded up Crosse Street on her way home, she tossed her head
with a laugh.
"I thought she'd come to! As if she wouldn't like to save her jewels, as
other people do! She's only rather more sly over it--saying what she has
given me would not fetch sixpence! You may tell that to the geese, Mrs.
George Godolphin! I should like to see what's inside. I think I will."
And Charlotte put her wish into action. Upon reaching Lady Godolphin's
Folly, she flung off her bonnet and mantle, gathered together all the
small keys in the house, and had little difficulty in opening the simple
lock. The contents were exposed to view. A lock of hair of each of her
children who had died, wrapped in separate pieces of paper, with the age
of the child and the date of its death written respectively outside. A
golden lock of Meta's; a fair curl of George's; half a dozen of his
letters to her, written in the short time that intervened between their
engagement and their marriage, and a sort of memorandum of their
engagement. "I was this day engaged to George Godolphin. I pray God to
render me worthy of him! to be to him a loving and dutiful wife."
Charlotte's eyes opened to their utmost width, but there was nothing
else to see; nothing except the printed paper with which the trunk was
lined. "_Is_ she a fool, that Maria Godolphin?" ejaculated Charlotte.
Certainly that was not the class of things Mrs. Pain would have saved
from bankruptcy. And she solaced her feelings by reading Mr. George's
love-letters.
No, Maria was not a fool. Better that she had come under that
denomination just now, for she would have felt her position less keenly.
Charlotte perhaps might have found it difficult to believe that Maria
Godolphin was one of those who are sensitively intellectual, to a degree
that Mistress Charlotte herself could form little notion of.
It is upon these highly-endowed natures that sorrow tells. And the
sorrow must be borne in silence. In the midst of her great misery, so
great as to be almost irrepressible, Maria contrived to maintain a calm
exterior to the world, even to Charlotte and her outspoken sympathy. The
first tears that had been wrung from her she shed that night over Meta.
When the child came to her for her good-night kiss, and to say her
prayers, Maria was utterly unhinged. She clasped the little thing to her
heart and burst into a storm of sobs.
Meta was frightened.
Mamma! mamma! What was the matter with mamma?
Maria was unable to answer. The sobs were choking her. Was the child's
inheritance to be that of shame? Maria had grieved bitterly when her
other children died: she was now feeling that it might have been a mercy
had this dear one also been taken. She covered the little face with
kisses as she held it against her beating heart. Presently she grew calm
enough to speak.
"Mamma's not well this evening, darling."
Once more, as on the previous nights, Maria had to drag herself up to
her weary bed. As she fell upon her knees by the bedside, she seemed to
pray almost against faith and hope. "Father! all things are possible to
Thee. Be with me in Thy mercy this night, and help me to pass through
it!"
She saw not how she could pass through it. "Oh! when will the night be
gone?" broke incessantly from her bruised heart. Bitterly cold, as
before, was she; a chilly, trembling sensation was in every limb; but
her head and brain seemed burning, her lips were dry, and that painful
nervous affection, the result of excessive anguish, was attacking her
throat. Maria had never yet experienced that, and thought she was about
to be visited by some strange malady. It was a dreadful night of pain,
of apprehension, of _cold_; inwardly and outwardly she trembled as she
lay through it. One terrible word kept beating its sound on the room's
stillness--_transportation_. Was her husband in danger of it? Just
before daylight she dropped asleep, and for half an hour slept heavily;
but with the full dawn of day she was awake again. Not for the first
minute was she conscious of reality; but, the next, the full tide of
recollection had burst upon her. With a low cry of despair, she leaped
from her bed, and began pacing the carpet, all but unable to support the
surging waves of mental anguish which rose up one by one and threatened
to overmaster her reason. Insanity, had it come on, might have been then
more of a relief than a calamity to Maria Godolphin.
"How shall I live through the day? how shall I live through the day?"
were the words that broke from her lips. And she fell down by the
bedside, and lifted her hands and her heart on high, and wailed out a
cry to God to help her to get through it. Of her own strength, she truly
believed that she could not.
She would certainly have need of some help, if she were to bear it
patiently. At seven o'clock, a peal of muffled bells burst over the
town, deafening her ears. Some _mauvais sujets_, discontented sufferers,
had gone to the belfry of St. Mark's Church, and set them ringing for
the calamity which had overtaken Prior's Ash, in the stoppage of the
House of Godolphin.