MY LADY WASHES HER HANDS.
The summer was drawing towards its close; and so was the bankruptcy of
Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin.--If we adhere to the style of the old
firm, we only do as Prior's Ash did. Mr. Crosse, you have heard, was out
of it actually and officially, but people, in speaking or writing of the
firm, forgot to omit his name. One or two maddened sufferers raised a
question of his liability, in their desperation; but they gained nothing
by the motion: Mr. Crosse was as legally separated from the Godolphins
as if he had never been connected with them.--The labour, the confusion,
the doubt, attendant upon most bankruptcies, was nearly over, and
creditors knew the best and the worst. The dividend would be, to use a
common expression, shamefully small, when all was told: it might have
been even smaller (not much, though) but that Lord Averil's claim on the
sixteen thousand pounds, the value of the bonds, was not allowed to
enter into the accounts. Those bonds and all connected with them were
sunk in silence so complete, that at length outsiders began to ask
whether they and their reported loss had not been altogether a myth.
Thomas Godolphin had given up everything, even to his watch, and the
signet ring upon his finger. The latter was returned to him. The
jewellery of the Miss Godolphins was given up. Maria's jewellery also.
In short, there was nothing that was not given up. The fortune of the
Miss Godolphins, consisting of money and bank shares, had of course gone
with the rest. The money had been in the Bank at interest; the shares
were now worthless. Janet alone had an annuity of about a hundred a
year, rather more, which nothing could deprive her of: the rest of the
Godolphins were reduced to beggary. Worse off were they than any of
their clamorous creditors, since for them all had gone: houses, lands,
money, furniture, personal belongings. But that Thomas Godolphin would
not long be in a land where these things are required, it might have
been a question how he was for the future to find sufficient to live
upon.
The arrangement hinted at by Lord Averil had been carried out, and that
nobleman was now the owner of Ashlydyat and all that it contained. It
may have been departing a little from the usual order of things in such
cases to dispose of it by private arrangement; but it had been done with
the full consent of all parties concerned. Even the creditors, who of
course showed themselves ready to cavil at anything, were glad that the
expense of a sale by auction should be avoided. A price had been put
upon Ashlydyat, and Lord Averil gave it without a dissentient word; and
the purchase of the furniture, as it stood, was undoubtedly advantageous
to the sellers.
Yes, Ashlydyat had gone from the Godolphins. But Thomas and his sisters
remained in it. There had been no battle with Thomas on the score of his
remaining. Lord Averil had clasped his friend's hands within his own,
and in a word or two of emotion had given him to understand that his
chief satisfaction in its purchase had been the thought that he, Thomas,
would remain in his own home, as long---- Thomas Godolphin understood
the broken words: as long as he had need of one. "Nothing would induce
me to enter upon it until then," continued Lord Averil. "So be it," said
Thomas quietly, for he fully understood the feeling, and the
gratification it brought to him who conferred the obligation. "I shall
not keep you out of it long, Averil." The same words, almost the very
same words that Sir George Godolphin had once spoken to his son: "I
shall not keep you and Ethel long out of Ashlydyat."
So Thomas remained at Ashlydyat with his broken health, and the weeks
had gone on; and summer was now drawing to an end, and other things
also. Thomas Godolphin was beginning to be better understood than he had
been at the time of the crash, and people were repenting of the cruel
blame they had so freely hurled upon him. The first smart of the blow
had faded away, and with it the prejudice which had unjustly, though not
unnaturally, distorted their judgment, and buried for the time all
kindly impulse. Perhaps there was not a single creditor, whatever might
be the extent of the damage he had suffered by the Bank, but would have
stretched out his hand, and given him more gold, if by that means he
could have saved the life of Thomas Godolphin. They learnt to remember
that the fault had not lain with him: they believed that if by the
sacrifice of his own life he could have averted the calamity he would
have cheerfully laid it down: they knew that his days were as one long
mourning, for them individually--and they took shame to themselves for
having been so bitter against him, Thomas Godolphin.
Not so in regard to George. _He_ did not regain his place in their
estimation: and if they could have hoisted Mr. George on a pole in front
of the Bank and cast at him a few rotten eggs and other agreeable
missiles, it had been a relief to their spleen. Had George been
condemned to stand at the bar of a public tribunal by the nobleman he so
defrauded, half Prior's Ash would have gone to gratify their feelings by
staring at him during the trial, and have made it a day of jubilee.
Harsh epithets, exceedingly unpleasant when taken personally, were
freely lavished upon him, and would be for a long while to come. He
_had_ wronged them: and time alone will suffice to wash out the
ever-present remembrance of such wrongs.
He had been at Prior's Ash. Gay George still. So far as could be seen,
the calamity had not much affected _him_. Not a line showed itself on
his fair, smooth brow, not a shade less of colour on his bright cheek,
not a grey thread in his luxuriant hair, not a cloud in his dark-blue
eye. Handsome, fascinating, attractive as ever, was George Godolphin:
and he really seemed to be as gay and light of temperament. When any
ill-used creditor attacked him outright--as some did, through a casual
meeting in the street, or other lucky chance--George was triumphant
George still. No shame did he seem to take to himself--but so sunny, so
fascinating was he, as he held the hands of the half-reluctant grumbler,
and protested it should all come right some time, that the enemy was won
over to conciliation for the passing moment. It was impossible to help
admiring George Godolphin; it was impossible to avoid liking him: it was
impossible, when brought face to face with him, not to be taken with his
frank plausibility: the crustiest sufferer of them all was in a degree
subdued by it. Prior's Ash understood that the officers of the
bankruptcy "badgered" George a great deal when under examination; but
George only seemed to come out of it the more triumphantly. Safe on the
score of Lord Averil, all the rest was light in comparison; and easy
George never lost his good-humour or his self-possession. He appeared to
come scot-free out of everything. Those falsified accounts in the
bank-books, that many another might have been held responsible for, and
punished, he emerged from harmlessly. It was conjectured that the full
extent of these false entries never was discovered by the commissioners:
Thomas Godolphin and Mr. Hurde alone could have told it: and Thomas
preferred to allow the odium of loosely-kept books, of reckless
expenditure of money, to fall upon himself rather than betray George.
Were the whole thing laid bare and declared, it could not bring a
fraction of good to the creditors, so, from that point of view, it was
as well to let it rest. Are these careless, sanguine, gay-tempered men
always lucky? It has been so asserted; and I do think there is a great
deal of truth in it. Most unequivocally lucky in this instance was
George Godolphin.
It was of no earthly use asking him where all the money had gone--to
what use this sum had been put, to what use the other--George could not
tell. He could not tell any more than they could; he was as much
perplexed about it as they were. He ran his white hand unconsciously
through his golden hair, hopelessly trying his best to account for a
great many items that no one living could have accounted for. All in
vain. Heedless, off-handed George Godolphin! He appeared before those
inquisitive officials somewhat gayer in attire than was needful. A sober
suit, rather of the seedy order, might have been deemed appropriate at
such a time; but George Godolphin gave no indication of consulting any
such rules of propriety. George Godolphin's refined taste had kept him
from falling into the loose and easy style of dress which some men so
strangely favour in the present day, placing a gentleman in outward
aspect on a level with the roughs of society. George, though no coxcomb,
had always dressed well and expensively; and George appeared inclined to
do so still. They could not take him to task on the score of his fine
broadcloth or of his neatly-finished boot; but they did bend their eyes
meaningly on the massive gold chain which crossed his white waistcoat:
on the costly appendages which dangled from it; on the handsome repeater
which he more than once took out, as if weary of the passing hours. Mr.
George received a gentle hint that those articles, however ornamental to
himself, must be confiscated to the bankruptcy; and he resigned them
with a good grace. The news of this little incident travelled abroad, as
an interesting anecdote connected with the proceedings, and the next
time George saw Charlotte Pain, she told him he was a fool to walk into
the camp of the Philistines with pretty things about him. But George was
not wilfully dishonest (if you can by any possibility understand that
assertion, after what you know of his past doings), and he replied to
Charlotte that it was only right the creditors should make spoil of his
watch, and anything else he possessed. The truth, were it defined,
being, that George was only dishonest when driven so to be. He had made
free with the bonds of Lord Averil, but he could not be guilty of the
meanness of concealing his personal trinkets.
Three or four times now had George been at Prior's Ash. People wondered
why he did not remain; what it was that took him again and again to
London. The very instant he found that he could be dispensed with at
Prior's Ash, away he flew; not to return to it again until imperatively
demanded. The plain fact was that Mr. George did _not_ like to face
Prior's Ash. For all the easy self-possession, the gay good-humour he
displayed to its inhabitants, the place had become utterly distasteful
to him, almost unbearable; he shunned it and hated it as a pious Roman
Catholic hates and would shun purgatory. For that reason, and for no
other, George did his best to escape from it.
He had seen Lord Averil. And his fair face had betrayed its shame as he
said a few words of apology for what he had done--of thanks for the
clemency shown him--of promises for the future. "If I live, I'll make it
good to you," he murmured. "I did not intend to _steal_ them, Averil; I
did not, on my solemn word of honour. I thought I should have replaced
them before anything could be known. Your asking for them
immediately--that you should do so seemed a very fatality--upset
everything. But for that, I might have weathered it all, and the house
would not have gone. It was no light pressure that forced me to touch
them--Heaven alone knows the need and the temptation."
And the meeting between the brothers? No eye saw it; no ear heard it.
Good Thomas Godolphin was dying from the blow, dying before his time;
but not a word of reproach was given to George. How George defended
himself--or whether he attempted to defend himself, or whether he let it
wholly alone--the outside world never knew.
Lady Godolphin's Folly was no longer in the occupancy of the Verralls or
of Mrs. Pain: Lady Godolphin had returned to it. Not a day aged; not a
day altered. Time flitted lightly over Lady Godolphin. Her bloom-tinted
complexion was delicately fresh as ever; her dress was as becoming, her
flaxen locks were as youthful. She came with her servants and her
carriages, and she took up her abode at the Folly, in all the splendour
of the old days. Her income was large, and the misfortunes which had
recently fallen on the family did not affect it. Lady Godolphin washed
her hands of these misfortunes. She washed her hands of George. She told
the world that she did so. She spoke of them openly to the public in
general, to her acquaintances in particular, in a slighting,
contemptuous sort of manner, as we are all apt to speak of the
ill-doings of other people. They don't concern us, and it's rather a
condescension on our part to blame them at all.--This was no concern of
Lady Godolphin's. She told every one it was not so. George's disgrace
did not reflect itself upon the family, and of him she--washed her
hands. No: Lady Godolphin could not see that this break-up caused by
George should be any reason whatever why she or the Miss Godolphins
should hide their heads and go mourning in sack-cloth and ashes. Many of
her old acquaintances in the county agreed with Lady Godolphin in her
view of things, and helped by their visits to make the Folly gay again.
To wash her hands of Mr. George, was, equitably speaking, no more than
that gentleman deserved: but Lady Godolphin also washed her hands of
Maria. On her return to Prior's Ash she had felt inclined to espouse
Maria's part; to sympathize with and pity her; and she drove down in
state one day, and left her carriage with its powdered coachman and
footman to pace to and fro in Crosse Street before the Bank, while she
went in. She openly avowed to Maria that she considered herself in a
remote degree the cause which had led to her union with George
Godolphin: she supposed that it was her having had Maria so much at the
Folly, and afterwards on the visit at Broomhead, which had led to the
attachment. As a matter of course she regretted this, and wished there
had been no marriage, now that George had turned out so gracelessly. If
she could do anything to repair it she would: and, as a first step, she
offered the Folly as a present asylum to Maria. She would be safe there
from worry, and--from George.
Maria scarcely at first understood her. And when she did so, her only
answer was to thank Lady Godolphin, and to stand out, in her quiet,
gentle manner, but untiringly and firmly, for her husband. Not a shade
of blame would she acknowledge to be due to him; not a reverence would
she render him the less: her place was with him, she said, though the
whole world turned against him. It vexed Lady Godolphin.
"Do you know," she asked, "that you must choose between your husband and
the world?"
"In what way?" replied Maria.
"In what way! When a man acts as George Godolphin has acted, he places a
barrier between himself and society. But there's no necessity for the
barrier to extend to you, Maria. If you will come to my house for a
while, you will find this to be the case--it will not extend to you."
"You are very kind, Lady Godolphin. My husband is more to me than the
world."
"Do you approve of what he has done?"
"No," replied Maria. "But it is not my place to show that I blame him."
"I think it is," said Lady Godolphin in the hard tone she used when her
opinion was questioned.
Maria was silent. She never could contend with any one.
"Then you prefer to hold out against the world," resumed Lady Godolphin;
"to put yourself beyond its pale! It is a bold step, Maria."
"What can I do?" was Maria's pleading answer. "If the world throws me
over because I will not turn against my husband, I cannot help it. I
married him for better or for worse, Lady Godolphin."
"The fact is, Maria," retorted my lady sharply, "that you have loved
George Godolphin in a ridiculous degree."
"Perhaps I have," was Maria's subdued answer, the colour dyeing her face
with various reminiscences. "But surely there was no sin in it, Lady
Godolphin: he is my husband."
"And you cling to him still?"
"Oh yes."
Lady Godolphin rose. She shrugged her shoulders as she drew her white
lace shawl over them, she glanced at her coquettish blue bonnet in the
glass as she passed it, at her blush-rose cheeks. "You have chosen your
husband, Maria, in preference to me; in preference to the world; and
from this moment I wash my hands of you, as I have already done of him."
It was all the farewell she took: and she went out to her carriage,
thinking what a blind, obstinate, hardened woman was Maria Godolphin.
She saw not what it had cost that "hardened" woman to bear up before
her: that her heart was nigh unto breaking; that the sorrow laid upon
her was greater than she well knew how to battle with.