The days passed on to a certain Saturday. An ominous Saturday for the Godolphins. Rumours, vague at the best, and therefore all the more dangerous, had been spreading in Prior’s Ash and its neighbourhood. Some said the Bank had had a loss; some said the Bank was shaky; some said Mr. George Godolphin had been lending money from the Bank funds; some said their London agents had failed; some actually said that Thomas Godolphin wasdead. The various turns taken by the rumour were extravagantly marvellous: but the whole, combined, whispered ominously of danger. Only let public fear be thoroughly aroused, and it would be all over. It was as a train of powder laid, which only wants one touch of a lighted match to set it exploding.
Remittances arrived on the Saturday morning, in the ordinary course of business. Valuable remittances. Sufficient for the usual demands of the day: but not sufficient for any unusual demands. On the Friday afternoon a somewhat untoward incident had occurred. A stranger presented himself at the Bank and demanded to see Mr. George Godolphin. The clerk to whom he addressed himself left him standing at the counter and went away: to acquaint, as the stranger supposed, Mr. George Godolphin: but, in point of fact, the clerk was not sure whether Mr. George was in or out. Finding he was out, he told Mr. Hurde, who went forward: and was taken by the stranger for Mr. George Godolphin. Not personally knowing (as it would appear) Mr. George Godolphin, it was a natural enough mistake. A staid old gentleman, in spectacles, might well be supposed by a stranger to be one of the firm.
“I have a claim upon you,” said the stranger, drawing a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Will you be so good as to settle it?”
Mr. Hurde took the paper and glanced over it. It was an accepted bill, George Godolphin’s name to it.
“I cannot say anything about this,” Mr. Hurde was beginning: but the applicant interrupted him.
“I don’t want anythingsaid. I want it paid.”
“You should have heard me out,” rejoined Mr. Hurde. “I cannot say or do anything in this myself: you must see Mr. George Godolphin. He is out, but——”
“Come, none of that gammon!” interposed the stranger again, who appeared to have come prepared to enter upon a contest. “I was warned there’d be a bother over it: that Mr. George Godolphin would deny himself, and say black was white, if necessary. You can’t dome, Mr. George Godolphin.”
“You are not taking me for Mr. George Godolphin?” exclaimed the old clerk, uncertain whether to believe his ears.
“Yes, I am taking you for Mr. George Godolphin,” doggedly returned the man. “Will you take up this bill?”
“I amnotMr. George Godolphin. Mr. George Godolphin will be in presently, and you can see him.”
“It’s a do,” cried the stranger. “I want this paid. I know the claims there are against Mr. George Godolphin, and I have come all the way from town to enforce mine.Idon’t want to come in with the ruck of his creditors, who’ll get a sixpence in the pound, maybe.”
A very charming announcement to be made in a banking-house. The clerks pricked up their ears; the two or three customers who were present turned round from the counters and listened for more: for the civil gentleman had not deemed it necessary to speak in a subdued tone. Mr. Hurde, scared out of his propriety, in mortal fear lest anything worse might come, hurried the man to a safe place, and left him there to await the entrance of Mr. George Godolphin.
Whether this incident, mentioned outside (as it was sure to be), put the finishing touch to the rumours already in circulation, cannot be known. Neither was it known to those interested, what Mr. George did with his loud and uncompromising customer, when he at length entered and admitted him to an interview. It is possible that but for this untoward application, the crash might not have come quite so soon.
Saturday morning rose busily, as was usual at Prior’s Ash. However stagnant the town might be on other days, Saturday was always full of life and bustle. Prior’s Ash was renowned for its grain market; and dealers from all parts of the country flocked in to attend it. But on this morning some unusual excitement appeared to be stirring the town; natives and visitors. People stood about in groups, talking, listening, asking questions, consulting; and as the morning hours wore on, an unwonted stream appeared to be setting in towards the house of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin. Whether the reports might be true or false, there would be no harm just to drawtheirmoney out and be on the safe side, was the mental remark made by hundreds. Could put it in again when the storm had blown over—if it proved to be only a false alarm.
Under these circumstances, little wonder that the Bank was unusually favoured with visitors. One strange feature in their application was, that they all wanted to draw out money: not a soul came to pay any in. George Godolphin, fully aware of the state of things, alive to the danger, was present in person, his words gracious, his bearing easy, his smile gay as ever. Only to look at him eased some of them of half their doubt.
But it did not arrest their cheques and old Hurde (whatever George might have done) grew paralyzed with fear.
“For the love of Heaven, send for Mr. Godolphin, sir!” he whispered. “We can’t go on long at this rate.”
“What good can he do?” returned George.
“Mr. George, heoughtto be sent for; he ought to know what’s goingon; it is an imperative duty,” remonstrated the clerk, in a strangely severe tone. “In fact, sir, if you don’t send, I must. I am responsible to him.”
“Send, then,” said George. “I only thought to spare him vexation.”
Mr. Hurde beckoned Isaac Hastings. “Fly for your life up to Ashlydyat, and see Mr. Godolphin,” he breathed in his ear. “Tell him there’s a run upon the Bank.”
Isaac, passing through the Bank with apparent unconcern, easy and careless as if he had taken a leaf from the book of George Godolphin, did not let the grass grow under his feet when hewasout. But, instead of turning towards Ashlydyat, he took the way to All Souls’ Rectory.
Arriving panting and breathless, he dashed in, and dashed against his brother Reginald, not five minutes arrived from a two years’ absence at sea. Scarcely giving half a moment to a passing greeting, he was hastening from the room again in search of his father.
“Do you callthata welcome, Isaac?” exclaimed Mrs. Hastings, in a surprised and reproving tone. “What’s your hurry? One would think you were upon an errand of life and death.”
“So I am: it is little short of it,” he replied in agitation. “Regy, don’t stop me: you will know all soon. Is my father in his room?”
“He has gone out,” said Mrs. Hastings.
“Gone out!” The words sounded like a knell. Unless his father hastened to the Bank, he might be a ruined man. “Where’s he gone, mother?”
“My dear, I have not the least idea. What is the matter with you?”
Isaac took one instant’s dismayed counsel with himself: he had not time for more.Hecould not go off in search of him; he must hasten to Ashlydyat. He looked up: laid summary hands upon his sister Rose, put her outside the door, closed it, and set his back against it.
“Reginald, listen to me. You must go out and find my father. Search for him everywhere. Tell him there’s a run upon the Bank, and he must make haste if he would find himself safe. Mother, could you look for him as well? The Chisholms’ money is there, you know, and it would be nothing but ruin.”
Mrs. Hastings gazed at Isaac with wondering eyes, puzzled with perplexity.
“Don’t you understand, mother?” he urged. “Ican’t look for him: I ought not to have come out of my way as far as this. He must be found, so do your best, Reginald. Of course you will be cautious to say nothing abroad: I put Rose out that she might not hear this.”
Opening the door again, passing the indignant Rose without so much as a word, Isaac sped across the road, and dashed through some cross-fields and lanes to Ashlydyat. Hisdétourhad not hindered him above three or four minutes, for he went at the pace of a steam-engine. He considered it—as Hurde had said by Mr. Godolphin—an imperative duty to warn his father. Thomas Godolphin was not up when he reached Ashlydyat. It was only between ten and eleven o’clock.
“I must see him, Miss Godolphin,” he said to Janet. “It is absolutely necessary.”
By words or by actions putting aside obstacles, he stood within Thomas Godolphin’s chamber. The latter had passed a night of suffering, its traces remaining on his countenance.
“I shall be down at the Bank some time in the course of the day, Isaac: though I am scarcely equal to it,” he observed, as soon as he saw him. “Am I wanted for anything in particular?”
“I—I—am sent up to tell you bad news, sir,” replied Isaac, feeling the communication an unpleasant one to make. “There’s a run upon the Bank.”
“A run upon the Bank!” repeated Thomas Godolphin, scarcely believing the information.
Isaac explained. A complete run. For the last hour, ever since the bank opened, people had been thronging in.
Thomas paused. “I cannot imagine what can have led to it,” he resumed. “Is my brother visible?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“That is well. He can assure them all that we are solvent: that there is no fear. Have the remittances come down?”
“Yes, sir. But they will be nothing, Mr. Hurde says, with a run like this.”
“Be so kind as to touch that bell for me, Isaac, to bring up my servant. I will be at the Bank immediately.”
Isaac rang the bell, left the room, and hastened back again. The Bank was fuller than ever: and its coffers must be getting low.
“Do you happen to know whether my father has been in?” he whispered to Layton, next to whom he stood.
Layton shook his head negatively. “I think not. I have not observed him.”
Isaac stood upon thorns. He might not quit his post. Every time the doors swung to and fro—and they were incessantly swinging—he looked for Mr. Hastings. But he looked in vain. By-and-by Mr. Hurde came forward, a note in his hand. “Put on your hat, Layton, and take this round,” said he. “Wait for an answer.”
“Let me take it,” almost shouted Isaac. And, without waiting for assent or dissent, he seized the note from Mr. Hurde’s hand, caught up his hat, and was gone. Thomas Godolphin was stepping from his carriage as he passed out.
Isaac had not, this time, to go out of his way. The delivery of the note would necessitate his passing the Rectory. “Rose!” he uttered, out of breath with agitation as he had been before, “is papa not in?”
Rose was sitting there alone. “No,” she answered. “Mamma and Reginald went out just after you. Where did you send them to?”
“Then they can’t find him!” muttered Isaac to himself, speeding off again, and giving Rose no answer. “It will be nothing but ruin.”
A few steps farther, and whom should he see but his father. The Reverend Mr. Hastings was coming leisurely across the fields, from the very direction which Isaac had previously travelled. He had probably been to the Pollard cottages: he did sometimes take that round. Hedges and ditches were nothing to Isaac in the moment’s excitement, and he leaped one of each to get to him; it cut off a step or two.
“Where were you going an hour ago?” called out Mr. Hastings before they met. “You were flying as swiftly as the wind.”
“Oh, father!” wailed Isaac; “did you see me?”
“What should hinder me? I was at old Satcherley’s.”
“If you had only come out to me! I would rather have seen you then than—than—heaven,” he panted. “There’s a run upon the Bank. If you don’t make haste and draw out your money, you’ll be too late.”
Mr. Hastings laid his hand upon Isaac’s arm. It may be that he did not understand him; for his utterance was rapid and full of emotion. Isaac, in his eagerness, shook it off.
“There’s not a moment to lose, father. I don’t fancy they can keep on paying long. Half the town’s there.”
Without another word of delay, Mr. Hastings turned and sped along with a step nearly as fleet as Isaac’s. When he reached the Bank the shutters were being put up.
“The Bank has stopped,” said an officious bystander to the Rector.
It was even so. The Bank had stopped. The good old firm of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin had—GONE!
We hear now and again of banks breaking, and we give to the sufferers a passing sympathy; but none can realize the calamity in its full and awful meaning, except those who are eye-witnesses of the distress it entails, or who own, unhappily, a personal share in it. When the Reverend Mr. Hastings walked into the Bank of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin, he knew that the closing of the shutters, then in actual process, was the symbol of a fearful misfortune, which would shake to its centre the happy security of Prior’s Ash. The thought struck him, even in the midst of his own suspense and perplexity.
One of the first faces he saw was Mr. Hurde’s. He made his way to him. “I wish to draw my money out,” he said.
The old clerk shook his head. “It’s too late, sir.”
Mr. Hastings leaned his elbow on the counter, and approached his face nearer to the clerk’s. “I don’t care (comparatively speaking) for my own money: that which you have held so long; but I must have refunded to me what has been just paid in to my account, but which is none of mine. The nine thousand pounds.”
Mr. Hurde paused ere he replied, as if the words puzzled him. “Nine thousand pounds!” he repeated. “There has been no nine thousand pounds paid in to your account.”
“There has,” was the reply of Mr. Hastings, given in a sharp, distinct tone. “I paid it in myself, and hold the receipt.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the clerk dubiously; “I had your account under my eye this morning, sir, and saw nothing of it. But there’s no fear, Mr. Hastings, as I hope and trust,” he added, confidentially.“We have telegraphed for remittances, and expect a messenger down with them before the day’s out.”
“You are closing the Bank,” remarked Mr. Hastings in answering argument.
“We are obliged to do that. We had not an inexhaustible fountain of funds here: and you see how people have been thronging in. On Monday morning I hope the Bank will be open again; and in a condition to restore full confidence.”
Mr. Hastings felt a slight ray of reassurance. But he would have felt a greater had the nine thousand pounds been handed to him, there and then. He said so: in fact, he pressed the matter. How ineffectually, the next words of the clerk told him.
“We have paid away all we had, Mr. Hastings,” he whispered. “There’s not a farthing left in the coffers.”
“You have paid the accounts of applicants in full, I presume?”
“Yes: up to the time that the funds, in hand, lasted to do it.”
“Was that just?—to the body of creditors?” asked the Rector in a severe tone.
“Where was the help for it?—unless we had stopped when the run began?”
“It would have been the more equable way—if you were to stop at all,” remarked Mr. Hastings.
“But we did not know we should stop. How was it possible to foresee that this panic was about to arise? Sir, all I can say is, I hope that Monday morning will see you, and every other creditor, paid in full.”
Mr. Hastings was pushed away from the counter. Panic-stricken creditors were crowding in, demanding to be paid. Mr. Hastings elbowed his way clear of the throng, and stood aside. Stood in the deepest perplexity and care. What if that money, entrusted to his hands, should begone? His brow grew hot at the thought.
Not so hot as other brows there: brows of men gifted with less equable temperaments than that owned by the Rector of All Souls’. One gentleman came in and worked his way to the front, the perspiration pouring off him, as from one in sharp agony.
“I want my money!” he cried. “I shall be a bankrupt next week if I can’t get my money.”
“I wantmymoney!” cried a quieter voice at his elbow; and Mr. Hastings recognized the speaker as Barnaby, the corn-dealer.
They received the same answer; the answer which was being reiterated in so many parts of the large room, in return to the same demand. The Bank had been compelled to suspend its payments for the moment. But remittances were sent for, and would be down, if not that day, by Monday morning.
“When I paid in my two thousand pounds a few days ago, I asked, before I would leave it, whether it was all safe,” said Mr. Barnaby, his tone one of wailing distress, though quiet still. But, quiet as it was, it was heard distinctly, for the people hushed their murmurs to listen to it. The general feeling, for the most part, was one of exasperation: and any downright good cause of complaint against the Bank and its management, would have been half as welcome to the unfortunate malcontents as their money. Mr. Barnaby continued:
“I had heard a rumour that the Bank wasn’t right. I heard it at Rutt’s. And I came down here with the two thousand pounds in my hand, and saw Mr. George Godolphin in his private room. He told me it was all right: there was nothing the matter with the Bank: and I left my money. I am not given to hard words; but, if I don’t get it paid back to me, I shall say I have been swindled out of it.”
“Mr. George couldn’t have told that there’d be this run upon the Bank, sir,” replied a clerk, giving the best answer he could, the most plausible excuse: as all the clerks had to exert their wits to do, that day. “The Bankwasall right then.”
“If it was all right then, why isn’t it all right now?” roared a chorus of angry voices. “Banks don’t get wrong in a day.”
“Why did Mr. George Godolphin pass his word to me that it was safe?” repeated Mr. Barnaby, as though he had not heard the refuting arguments. “I should not have left my money here but for that.”
The Rector of all Souls’ stood his ground, and listened. But that George Godolphin was his daughter’s husband, he would have echoed the complaint: that, but for his positive assertion of the Bank’s solvency, he should not have lefthismoney there—the trust-money of the little Chisholms.
When the Bank had virtually closed, the order gone forth to put up the shutters, Mr. Godolphin had retired to an inner room. These clamorous people had pushed in since, in defiance of the assurance that business for the day was over. Some of them demanded to see Mr. Godolphin. Mr. Hurde declined to introduce them to him. In doing so, he was acting on his own responsibility: perhaps to save that gentleman vexation, perhaps out of consideration to his state of health. He knew that his master, perplexed and astounded with the state of affairs, could only answer them as he did—that on Monday morning, all being well, the Bank would be open for business again. Did any undercurrent of doubt that this would be the case, run in Mr. Hurde’s own heart? If so, he kept it down, refusing to admit it even to himself. One thing is certain until that unpleasant episode of the previous day, when the rough, unknown man had applied so loudly and inopportunely for money, Mr. Hurde would have been ready to answer with his own life for the solvency of the house of Godolphin. He had believed, not only in the ability of the house to meet its demands and liabilities, but to meet them, if needed, twice over. That man’s words, reflecting upon Mr. George Godolphin, grated upon Mr. Hurde’s ears at the time, and they had grated on his memory ever since. But, so far as he could do so, he had beaten them down.
The crowd were got rid of. They became at length aware that to stay there would not answer their purpose in any way, would not do them good. They were fain to content themselves with that uncertain assurance, touching Monday morning, and went out, the doors being immediately barred upon them. If the catastrophe of the day was unpleasant for the principals, it was not much less unpleasant for the clerks: and they lost no time in closing the entrance when the opportunity occurred. The only man who had remained was the Rector of All Souls’.
“I must see Mr. Godolphin,” said he.
“You can see him, sir, of course,” was Mr. Hurde’s answer. Mr. Hastings was different from the mob just got rid of. He had, so to say, a right of admittance to the presence of the principals in a three-fold sense: as a creditor, as their spiritual pastor, and as a near connexion; a right which Mr. Hurde would not presume to dispute.
“Mr. Godolphin will see you, I am sure, sir,” he continued, leading the way from the room towards Thomas Godolphin’s. “He would have seen every soul that asked for him, of those now gone out. I knew that, and that’s why I wouldn’t let messages be taken to him. Of what use, to-day?”
Thomas Godolphin was sitting alone, very busily occupied, as it appeared, with books. Mr. Hastings cast a rapid glance round the room, but George was not in it.
It was not two minutes ago that George had left it, and Mr. Hastings had escaped seeing him by those two minutes. George had stood there, condoling with Thomas upon the untoward event of the day, apparently as perplexed as Thomas was, to account for its cause: and apparently as hopeful; nay, as positive; that ample funds would be down, ere the day should close, to set all things right.
“Mr. Godolphin, I have been asking Hurde for my money,” were the first words uttered by the Rector. “Will you not give it me?”
Thomas Godolphin turned his earnest eyes, terribly sad then, on Mr. Hastings, a strangely yearning look in their light. “I wish I could,” he answered. “But, even were it possible for us to do so—to give you a preference over others—it is not in our power. All funds in hand are paid out.”
The Rector did not go over the old ground of argument, as he had to Mr. Hurde—that it was unfair to give preference to the earlier comers. It would answer no end now: and he was, besides, aware that he might have been among those earlier applicants, but for some untoward fate, which had taken him out of the way to the Pollard cottages, and restrained him from speaking to Isaac, when he saw him fly past. Whether Mr. Hastings would have had his nine thousand pounds is another matter. More especially if—as had been asserted by Mr. Hurde—the fact of the payment did not appear in the books.
“Where is George?” asked Mr. Hastings.
“He has gone to the telegraph office,” replied Thomas Godolphin. “There has been more than time for answers to arrive—to be brought here—since our telegrams went up. George grew impatient, and has gone to the station.”
“I wish to ask him how he could so have deceived me,” resumed the Rector. “He assured me only yesterday, as it were, that the Bank was perfectly safe.”
“As he no doubt thought. Nothing would have been the matter, but for this run upon it. There’s quite a panic in Prior’s Ash, I am told; but what can have caused it, I know not. Some deeds of value belonging to Lord Averil have been lost or mislaid, and the report may have got about: but why it should have caused this fear, is to me utterly incomprehensible. I would have assured you myself yesterday, had you asked me, that we were perfectly safe and solvent. That we are so still, will be proved on Monday morning.”
Mr. Hastings bent forward his head. “It would be worse than ruin to me, Mr. Godolphin. I should be held responsible for the Chisholms’ money; should be called upon to refund it; and I have no means of doing so. I dare not contemplate the position.”
“What are you talking of?” asked Thomas Godolphin. “I do not understand. We hold no money belonging to the Chisholms.”
“Indeed you do,” was the reply. “You had it all. I paid in the proceeds of the sale, nine thousand and forty-five pounds.”
Mr. Godolphin paused at the assertion, looking at the Rector somewhat as his head clerk had done. “When did you pay it in?” he inquired.
“A few days ago. I brought it in the evening, after banking hours. Brierly came over from Binham and paid it to me in cash, and I brought it here at once. It was a large sum to keep in the house. As things have turned out, I wish I had kept it,” concluded the Rector, speaking plainly.
“Paid it to George?”
“Yes. Maria was present. I have his receipt for it, Mr. Godolphin,” added the Rector. “You almost appear to doubt the fact. As Hurde did, when I spoke to him just now. He said it did not appear in the books.”
“Neither does it,” replied Thomas Godolphin. “But I do not doubt you, now that you tell me of the transaction. George must have omitted to enter it.”
That “omission” began to work in the minds of both, more than either cared to tell. Thomas Godolphin was marvelling at his brother’s reprehensible carelessness: the Rector of All Souls’ was beginning to wonder whether “carelessness” was the deepest sin about to be laid open in the conduct of George Godolphin. Very unpleasant doubts, he could scarcely tell why, were rising up within him. His keen eye searched the countenance of Thomas Godolphin: but he read nothing there to confirm his doubts. On the contrary, that countenance, save for the great sorrow and vexation upon it, was, as it ever was, clear and open as the day. Not yet, not quite yet, had the honest faith of years, reposed by Thomas Godolphin in his brother, been shaken. Very, very soon was it to come: not the faith to be simply shaken, but rudely destroyed: blasted for ever; as a tree torn up by lightning.
It was useless for Mr. Hastings to remain. All the satisfaction to be obtained was—the confidently-expressed hope that Monday would set things straight. “It would be utter ruin to me, you know,” he said, as he rose.
“It would be ruin to numbers,” replied Thomas Godolphin. “I pray you, do not glance at anything so terrible. There is no cause for it: there is not indeed: our resources are ample. I can only say that I should wish I had died long ago, rather than have lived to witness such ruin, brought upon others, through us.”
Lord Averil was asking to see Thomas Godolphin, and entered his presence as Mr. Hastings left it. He came in, all impulse. It appeared that he had gone out riding that morning after breakfast, and knew nothing of the tragedy then being enacted in the town. Do you think the word too strong a one—tragedy? Wait and see its effects. Inpassing the Bank on his return, Lord Averil saw the shutters up. In the moment’s shock, his fears flew to Thomas Godolphin. He forgot that the death, even of the principal, would not close a Bank for business. Lord Averil, having nothing to do with business and its ways, may have been excused the mistake.
He pulled short up, and sat staring at the Bank, his heart beating, his face growing hot. Only the day before he had seen Thomas Godolphin in health (comparatively speaking) and life; and now, could he be dead? Casting his eyes on the stragglers gathered on the pavement before the banking doors—an unusual number of stragglers, though Lord Averil was too much occupied with other thoughts to notice the fact—he stooped down and addressed one of them. It happened to be Rutt the lawyer, who in passing had stopped to talk with the groups gathered there. Whydidgroups gather there? The Bank was closed for the rest of the day, nothing to be obtained from its aspect but blank walls and a blank door. What good did it do to people to halt there and stare at it? What good does it do them to halt before a house where murder has been committed, and stare at that?
The Viscount Averil bent from his horse to Rutt the lawyer. “What has happened? Is Mr. Godolphin dead?”
“It is not that, my lord. The Bank has stopped.”
“The—Bank—has——stopped?” repeated Lord Averil, pausing between each word, in his astonishment, and a greater pause before the last.
“Half an hour ago, my lord. There has been a run upon it this morning; and now they have paid out all their funds, and are obliged to stop.”
Lord Averil could not recover his consternation. “What occasioned the run?” he asked.
“Well—your lordship must understand that rumours are abroad. I heard them, days ago. Some say, now, that they have no foundation, and that the Bank will resume business on Monday as usual, when remittances arrive. The telegraph has been at work pretty well for the house the last hour or so,” concluded Mr. Rutt.
Lord Averil leaped from his horse, gave it to a lad to hold, and went round to the private door. Thence he was admitted, as you have seen, to the presence of Thomas Godolphin. Not of his own loss had he come to speak—the sixteen thousand pounds involved in the disappearance of the deeds—and which, if the Bank ceased its payments, might never be refunded to him. No. Although he saw the premises closed, and heard that the Bank had stopped, not a doubt crossed Lord Averil of its real stability. That the run upon it had caused its temporary suspension, and that all would be made right on the Monday, as Mr. Rutt had suggested, he fully believed. The Bank held other deeds of Lord Averil’s, and a little money: not much; his present account was not great. The deeds were safe; the money might be imperilled.
“I never heard of it until this moment,” he impulsively cried, clasping the hand of Thomas Godolphin. “In returning now from a ride, I saw the shutters closed, and learned what had happened. There has been a run upon the Bank, I understand.”
“Yes,” replied Thomas, in a subdued tone, that told of mental pain. “It is a very untoward thing.”
“But what induced it?”
“I cannot imagine. Unless it was the rumour, which has no doubt spread abroad, of the loss of your deeds. I suppose it was that: magnified in telling, possibly, into the loss of half the coffers of the Bank. Panics have arisen from far slighter causes; as those versed in the money market could tell you.”
“But how foolish people must be!”
“When a panic arises, people are not themselves,” remarked Thomas Godolphin. “One takes up the fear from another, as they take an epidemic. I wish our friends and customers had had more confidence in us. But I cannot blame them.”
“They are saying, outside, that business will be resumed.”
“Yes. As soon as we can get remittances down. Sunday intervenes, and of course nothing can be done until Monday.”
“Well, now, my friend, can I help you?” rejoined Lord Averil. “I am a richer man than the world gives me credit for; owing to the inexpensive life I have led, since that one false step of mine, when I was in my teens. I will give you my signature to any amount. If you can contrive to make it known, it may bring people to their senses.”
Thomas Godolphin’s generous spirit opened to the proof of confidence: it shone forth from his quiet dark-grey eyes as he gazed at Lord Averil.
“Thank you sincerely for the kindness. I shall gratefully remember it to the last day of my life. An hour or two ago I do not know but I might have availed myself of it: as it is, it is too late. The Bank is closed for the day, and nothing more, good or bad, can be done until Monday morning. Long before that, I expect assistance will have arrived.”
“Very well. But if you want further assistance, you know where to come for it,” concluded Lord Averil. “I shall be in Prior’s Ash. Do you know,” he continued, in a musing sort of tone, “since I renounced that proposed sea expedition, I have begun to feel more like a homeless man than I ever yet did. If there were a desirable place for sale in this neighbourhood, I am not sure but I should purchase it, and settle down.”
Thomas Godolphin gave only a slight answer. His own business was enough for him to think of, for one day. Lord Averil suddenly remembered this, and said something to the effect, but he did not yet rise to go. Surely he could not, at that moment, contemplate speaking to Mr. Godolphin about Cecil! Another minute, and Mr. Hurde had come into the room, bearing a telegraphic despatch in his hand.
“Has Mr. George brought this?” Thomas inquired, as he took it.
“No, sir. It came by the regular messenger.”
“George must have missed him then,” was Thomas Godolphin’s mental comment.
He opened the paper. He cast his eyes over the contents. It was a short message; only a few words in it, simple and easy to comprehend: but Thomas Godolphin apparently could not understand it. Such at least was the impression conveyed to Lord Averil and Mr.Hurde. Both were watching him, though without motive. The clerk waited, for any orders there might be to give him: Lord Averil sat on, as he had been sitting. Thomas Godolphin read it three times, and then glanced up at Mr. Hurde.
“This cannot be for us,” he remarked. “Some mistake must have been made. Some confusion, possibly, in the telegraph office in town; and the message, intended for us, has gone elsewhere.”
“That could hardly be, sir,” was Mr. Hurde’s reply.
In good truth, Thomas Godolphin himself thought it could “hardly be.” But—if the message had come right—what did it mean? Mr. Hurde, racking his brains to conjecture the nature of the message that was so evidently disturbing his master, contrived to catch sight of two or three words at the end: and they seemed to convey an ominous intimation that there were no funds to be forthcoming.
Thomas Godolphinwasdisturbed; and in no measured degree. His hands grew cold and his brow moist, as he gazed at the despatch in its every corner. According to its address, it was meant for their house, and in answer to one of the despatches he had sent up that morning. But—its contents! Surelytheycould not be addressed to the good old house of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin!
A moment or two of wavering hesitation and then he drew to him a sheet of paper, wrote a few words, and folded it. “Take this yourself with all speed to the telegraph station,” he said to Mr. Hurde. “Send the message up at once, and wait there for the answer. It will not be long in coming. And if you meet Mr. George, tell him I wish to see him.”
“And now I dare say you will be glad to get rid of me,” remarked Lord Averil, as Mr. Hurde hastened out. “This is not a day to intrude upon you for long: and I dare say the fellow to whom I intrusted my horse is thinking something of the sort.”
He shook hands cordially and went away, leaving Thomas Godolphin to battle alone with his care. Ah me! no human aid, henceforth, could help him, by so much as a passing word, with the terrible battle already set in. God alone, who had been with Thomas Godolphin through life, could whisper to him a word of comfort, could shed down a few drops of sustaining strength, so that he might battle through and bear. That God had been with him, in the midst of the deep sorrows He had seen fit to cast upon him, Thomas knew: he knew that He would be with him always, even unto the end.
“You had better accept my offer of assistance,” Lord Averil turned back to say.
“No,” broke from Thomas Godolphin in a sharp tone of pain, very different from the calm, if grateful, answer he had previously given to the same proposition. “What sort of justice would it be, if I robbed you to pay the claims of others?”
“You can refund me when the panic’s over,” returned the viscount, somewhat surprised at the nature of the reply.
“Yes. But—but—it might be a risk,” was the rejoinder, given with unwonted hesitation. “In a crisis, such as this, it is, I believe, impossible to foresee what the end may be. Thank you greatly, Averil, all the same.”
Mr. Hurde was not very long before he returned, bringing with him an answer to the last message. Colder and moister became Thomas Godolphin’s brow as he read it; colder and colder grew his hand. It appeared to be only a confirmation of the one received before.
“I cannot understand this,” he murmured.
Mr. Hurde stood by. That some ominous fear had arisen, he saw. He was an old and faithful servant of the house, entirely devoted to its interests. His master said a few words of explanation to him.
They aroused Mr. Hurde’s fears. Had some deep-laid treachery been at work?—some comprehensive scheme of duplicity been enacting for some time past, making a bankrupt house appear to be still a flourishing concern? If so, it could only have been done by falsifying the books: and that could only have been done by George Godolphin.
Mr. Hurde did not dare to give vent to his thoughts. Indeed, he did not seriously contemplate that they could be realities. But, in the uncertainty created, he deemed himself perfectly justified in mentioning to Mr. Godolphin the untoward occurrence of the previous day; the rude demand of the man for money, and the unpleasant expressions he had used of the state of Mr. George Godolphin’s affairs. He was clearing his throat to begin in his usual slow fashion, when Mr. Godolphin spoke.
“I shall go to town by the first train, Hurde. The express. It will pass through in half an hour.”
Then Mr. Hurde told his tale. It did not tend to reassure Thomas Godolphin.
He rang the bell. He caused George to be inquired for. But George was not in the house. He had not returned since that errand of his, ostensibly to the telegraph office.
Thomas could not wait. He wrote a note to George, and sealed it. He then charged a servant with a message for Miss Godolphin at Ashlydyat, gave a few directions to Mr. Hurde, proceeded on foot to the station without further preparations, and started on his journey.
Started on his journey, strange doubts and fears making havoc of his beating heart.
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 theroom, 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.Hadhe 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 tothink. He knew that, if treated accordingto 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 theprosandconsof 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 ofrepose, 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 specialcadeauis 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.Nowhe 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—shehad 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.”
Howcould 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. Tellhim.”
“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 torun 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 shouldgothatday. 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.