Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Do you mean to tell me that there are no suspicions in the Bank that something, more than the public yet knows, is amiss with George Godolphin?” persisted Grace.

  Isaac answered lightly and evasively. He was aware that such suspicions were afloat with the clerks. Chiefly led to by that application from the stranger, and his rude and significant charges, made so publicly. Isaac had not been present at that application. It was somewhat curious, perhaps — for a freemasonry runs amidst the clerks of an establishment, and they talk freely one with another — that he never heard of it until after the stoppage of the firm. If he had heard of it, he would certainly have told his father. But whatever suspicions he and his fellow-clerks might be entertaining against George Godolphin, he was not going to speak of them to Grace Akeman.

  Grace turned to her mother. “Papa has a thousand pounds or two there, has he not?”

  “Ah, child! if that were all!” returned Mrs. Hastings, with a groan.

  “Why? What more has he there?” asked Grace, startled by the words and the tone. Rose, startled also, turned round to await the answer.

  Mrs. Hastings seemed to hesitate. But only for a moment. “I do not know why I should not tell you,” she said, looking at her daughters. “Isaac and Reginald both know it. He had just lodged there the trust-money belonging to the Chisholms: nine thousand and forty-five pounds.”

  A silence fell upon the room. Grace and her sister were too dismayed to speak immediately. Reginald, who had now seated himself astride on a chair, his face and arms over the back of it, set up a soft lugubrious whistle, the tune of some old sea-song, feeling possibly the silence to be uncomfortable. To disclose a little secret, Mr. Reginald was not in the highest of spirits, having been subjected to some hard scolding that day on the part of his father, and some tears on the part of his mother, touching the non-existence of any personal effects. He had arrived at home, for the fourth time since his first departure for sea, baggageless, his luggage consisting exclusively of what he stood up in. Of everything else belonging to him, he was able to give no account whatever. It is rather a common complaint amongst young sailors. And then he was always changing his ships.

  “Is papa responsible for it?” The half-frightened question came from Rose.

  “Certainly he is,” replied Mrs. Hastings. “If the Bank should not go on, why — we are ruined. As well as those poor children, the Chisholms.”

  “Oh, mamma! why did he not draw it out this morning?” cried Grace in a tone of pain. “Tom told me that many people were paid in full.”

  “Had he known the state the Bank was in, that there was anything the matter with it, no doubt he would have drawn it out,” returned Mrs. Hastings.

  “Did Maria know it was paid in?”

  “Yes.”

  Grace’s eyes flashed fire. Somehow, she was never inclined to be too considerate to Maria. She never had been from their earliest years. “A dutiful daughter! Not to give her father warning!”

  “Maria may not have been able to do it,” observed Mrs. Hastings. “Perhaps she did not know that anything was wrong.”

  “Nonsense, mamma!” was Grace’s answer. “We have heard — when a thing like this happens, you know people begin to talk freely, to compare notes, as it were — we have heard that George Godolphin and Maria are owing money all over the town. Maria has not paid her housekeeping bills for ever so long. Of course she must have known what was coming!”

  Mrs. Hastings did not dispute the point with Grace. The main fact troubled her too greatly for minor considerations to be very prominent with her yet. She had never found Maria other than a considerate and dutiful daughter: and she must be convinced that she had not been so in this instance, before she could believe it.

  “She was afraid of compromising George Godolphin,” continued Grace in a bitter tone. “He has ever been first and foremost with her.”

  “She might have given a warning without compromising him,” returned Mrs. Hastings; but, in making the remark, she did not intend to cast any reflection on Maria. “When your papa went to pay the money in, it was after banking hours. Maria was alone, and he told her what he had brought. Had she been aware of anything wrong, she might have given a hint to him, then and there. It need never have been known to George Godolphin — even that your papa had any intention of paying money in.”

  “And this was recently?”

  “Only a week or two ago.”

  Grace pushed her shawl more off her shoulders, and beat her knee up and down as she sat on the low stool. Suddenly she turned to Isaac.

  “Had you no suspicion that anything was wrong?”

  “Yes, a slight one,” he incautiously answered. “A doubt, though, more than a suspicion.”

  Grace took up the admission warmly. “And you could hug the doubt slyly to yourself and never warn your father!” she indignantly uttered. “A fine son you are, Isaac Hastings!”

  Isaac was of equable temperament. He did not retort on Grace that he had warned him, but that Mr. Hastings had not acted upon the hint; at least not effectually. “When my father blames me, it will be time enough for you to blame me, Grace,” was all he said in answer. “And — in my opinion — it might be just as well if you waited to hear whether Maria deserves blame, before you cast so much on her.”

  “Pshaw!” returned Grace. “The thing speaks for itself.”

  Had Grace witnessed the bitter sorrow, the prostration, the uncertainty in which her sister was sunk at that moment, she might have been more charitable in her judgment. Practical and straightforward herself, it would have been as impossible for Grace to remain ignorant of her husband’s affairs, pecuniary or else, as it was for her to believe that Maria Godolphin had remained so. And, if fully convinced that such had indeed been the fact, Grace would have deemed her state of contented ignorance to be little less than a crime. She and Maria were as essentially different as two people can well be. Pity but she could have seen Maria then!

  Maria was in her dining-room. She had made a pretence of going down to dinner, not to excite the observation and remarks of the servants: in her excessive sensitiveness she could not bear that they should even see she was in grief. Grace, in her place, might have spoken openly and angrily before the household of the state of affairs. Not so Maria: she buried it all within her.

  She could not eat. Toying with this plate and that plate, she knew not how to swallow a morsel or to make pretence of doing so, before the servants, standing by. But it came to an end, that dinner, and Maria was left alone.

  She sat on, musing; her brain racked with busy thoughts. To one of the strangely refined organization of Maria Hastings, a blow, such as the one fallen, appeared more terrible even than it was. Of the consequences she as yet knew little, could foresee less; therefore they were not much glanced at by her: but of the disgrace Maria took an exaggerated view. Whether the Bank went on again or not, they seemed to have fallen from their high pedestal; and Maria shrank with a visible shudder at the bare thought of meeting her friends and acquaintances; at the idea of going out to show herself in the town.

  Many would not have minded it; some would not have looked upon it in the light of a disgrace at all: minds and feelings, I say, are differently constituted. Take Mrs. Charlotte Pain, for example. Had she enjoyed the honour of being George Godolphin’s wife, she would not have shed a tear, or eaten a meal the less, or abstained by so much as a single day from gladdening the eyes of Prior’s Ash. Walking, riding, or driving, Charlotte would have shown herself as usual.

  Pierce came in. And Maria lifted her head with a start, and made a pretence of looking up quite carelessly, lest the man should see how full of trouble she was.

  “Here’s that Mrs. Bond at the door, ma’am,” he said. “I can’t get rid of her. She declares that you gave her leave to call, and said that you would see her.”

  Maria seemed to grow hot and cold. That the woman had come for her ten-pound note, she felt convinced, induced to it, perhaps, by the misfortune
of the day, and — she had it not to give her. Maria would have given a great deal for a ten-pound bank-note then.

  “I will see her, Pierce,” she said. “Let her come in.”

  Mrs. Bond, civil and sober to-night, came in, curtseying. Maria — ah, that sensitive heart! — felt quite meek and humbled before her; very different from what she would have felt had she had the money to refund. Mrs. Bond asked for it civilly.

  “I am sorry that I cannot give it to you to-night,” answered Maria. “I will send it to you in a day or two.”

  “You promised, ma’am, that I should have it whenever I axed,” said she.

  “I know I did,” replied Maria. “If I had it in the house I would give it you now. You shall have it next week.”

  “Can I have it on Monday?” asked Mrs. Bond.

  “Yes,” answered Maria. “Shall I send it to you?”

  “I’d not give you the trouble,” said Mrs. Bond. “I’ll make bold to step up again and get it, ma’am, on Monday.”

  “Very well,” replied Maria. “If Miss Meta was here, she would ask after the parrot.”

  “It’s beautiful,” exclaimed Dame Bond. “It’s tail’s like a lovely green plume o’ feathers. But I ain’t got used to its screeching yet. Then I’ll be here on Monday, ma’am, if you please.”

  Maria rang the bell, and Pierce escorted her to the door. To return again on Monday.

  Maria Godolphin never deemed that she was not safe in making the promise. Thomas Godolphin would be home then, and she could get the note from him.

  And she sat on alone, as before; her mind more troubled, her weary head upon her hand.

  CHAPTER XXI. A DREAD FEAR.

  Can you picture the sensations of Maria Godolphin during that night? No: not unless it has been your lot to pass through such. She went up to her bedroom at the usual time, not to excite any gossip in the household; she undressed mechanically; she went to bed. It had been much the custom with herself and George to sleep with the blinds up. They liked a light room; and a large gas-lamp in Crosse Street threw its full light in. Now, she lay with her eyes closed: not courting sleep; she knew that there would be no sleep for her, no continuous sleep, for many and many a night to come: now, she turned on her uneasy couch and lay with her eyes open: anything for a change in the monotonous hours. The dressing-table, its large glass, its costly ornaments, stood between the windows; she could trace its outlines, almost the pattern of its white lace drapery over the pink silk. The white window-curtains were looped up with pink; some of the pretty white chairs were finished off with pink beading. A large cheval-glass swung in a corner. On a console of white marble, its frettings of gilt, stood Maria’s Prayer-book and Bible, with “Wilson’s Supper and Sacra Privata:” a book she frequently opened for a few minutes in a morning. A small ornamental bookcase was on the opposite side, containing some choice works culled from the literature of the day. On the table, in the centre of the room, lay a small travelling-desk of George’s, which he had left there when packing his things. All these familiar objects, with others, were perfectly visible to Maria’s eyes; and yet she saw them not. If the thought intruded that this comfortable bedchamber might not much longer be hers, she did not dwell upon it. That phase of the misfortune had scarcely come to her. Her chief sensation was one of shivering cold: that nervous coldness which only those who have experienced intense dread or pain of mind, ever have felt. She shivered inwardly and outwardly — and she said perpetually, “When will the night be gone?” It was only the precursor of worse nights, many of them, in store for her.

  Morning dawned at last. Maria watched in the daylight; and lay closing her eyes against the light until it was the usual time for rising. She got up, shivering still, and unrefreshed. Many a one might have slept through the night, just as usual, have risen renovated, have been none the worse, in short, in spirit or in health, for the blow which had fallen. Charlotte Pain might have slept all the better. Il y a des femmes et des femmes.

  It was Sunday morning, and the church bells were giving token of it, as it is customary for them to do at eight o’clock. When Maria went down to breakfast, it was nearly nine. The sun was bright, and the breakfast-table, laid with its usual care in the pleasant dining-room, was bright also with its china and silver.

  Something else looked bright. And that was Miss Meta. Miss Meta came in, following on her mamma’s steps, and attended by Margery. Very bright in her Sunday attire. An embroidered white frock, its sleeves tied up with blue ribbons, and a blue sash. Careful Margery had put a large white pinafore over the whole, lest the frock should come to grief at breakfast. On Sunday mornings Meta was indulged with a seat at her papa and mamma’s breakfast-table.

  The child was a little bit of a gourmande, as it is in the nature of many children at that age to be. She liked nice things very much indeed. Bounding to the breakfast-table, she stood on tiptoe, her chin up, regarding what might be on it. Maria drew her to a chair apart, and sat down with the child on her knee, to take her morning kiss.

  “Have you been a good girl, Meta? Have you said your prayers?”

  “Yes,” confidently answered Meta to both questions.

  “She has said ’em after a fashion,” cried Margery. “It’s not much prayers that’s got out of her on a Sunday morning, except hurried ones. I had to make her say the Lord’s Prayer twice over, she gabbled it so. Her thoughts are fixed on coming down here; afraid breakfast should be eaten, I suppose.”

  Maria was in no mood for bestowing admonition. She stroked the child’s fair golden curls fondly, and kissed her pretty lips.

  “Where’s papa?” asked Meta.

  “He is out, dear. Don’t you remember? Papa went out yesterday. He has not come home yet.”

  Meta drew a long face. Papa indulged her more than mamma did, especially in the matter of breakfast. Mamma was apt to say such and such a dainty was not good for Meta: papa helped her to it, whether good for her or not.

  Maria put her down. “Place her at the table, Margery. It is cold this morning, is it not?” she added, as Meta was lifted on to a chair.

  “Cold!” returned Margery. “Where can your feelings be, ma’am? It’s a hot summer’s day.”

  Maria sat down herself to the breakfast-table. Several letters lay before her. On a Sunday morning the letters were brought into the dining-room, and Pierce was in the habit of laying them before his master’s place. To-day, he had laid them before Maria’s.

  She took them up. All, except three, were addressed to the firm. Two of these bore George’s private address; the third was for Margery.

  “Here is a letter for you, Margery,” she said, putting the others down, that they might be carried into the Bank.

  “For me!” returned Margery in surprise. “Are you sure, ma’am?”

  Maria handed her the letter, and Margery, searching her pocket for her spectacles, opened it without ceremony, and stood reading it.

  “I dare say! what else wouldn’t they like!” was her ejaculatory remark.

  “Is it from Scotland, Margery?” asked her mistress.

  “It wouldn’t be from nowhere else,” answered Margery in vexation. “I have no other kin to pull and tug at me. They’re going on to Wales, she and her son, and she wants me to meet her on the journey to-morrow, just for an hour’s talk. Some people have consciences! Ride a matter of forty mile, and spend a sight o’ money in doing it!”

  “Are you speaking of your sister — Mrs. Bray?”

  “More’s the pity, I am,” answered Margery. “Selina was always one of the weak ones, ma’am. She says she has been ill again, feels likely to die, and is going to Wales for some months to his friends, to try if the air will benefit her. She’d be ever grateful for a five-pound note, she adds, not having a penny-piece beyond what will take her to her journey’s end. I wonder how much they have had from me in the whole, if it came to be put down!” wrathfully concluded Margery.

  “You can have a day’s holiday, you know, Margery, if you wish t
o meet her on the journey.”

  “I must take time to consider,” shortly answered Margery, who was always considerably put out by these applications. “She has been nothing but a trouble to me, ma’am, ever since she married that ne’er-do-well Bray. Now, Miss Meta! you be a good child, and don’t upset the whole cup of coffee over your pinafore, as you did last Sunday morning!”

  The parting admonition was addressed to Meta, in conjunction with a slight shake administered to that young lady, under the pretence of resettling her on her chair. Meta was at once the idol and the torment of Margery’s life. Margery withdrew, and Maria, casting her spiritless eyes on the breakfast-table, took a modest piece of dry toast, and put a morsel into her mouth.

  But she found some difficulty in swallowing it. Throat and bread were alike dry. She drew the butter towards her, thinking it might help her to eat the toast. No; no. She could not swallow it any more than the other. The fault did not lie there.

  “Would Meta like a nice piece of toast?” she asked.

  Meta liked anything that was good in the shape of eatables. She nodded her head several times, by way of answer. And Maria spread the toast and passed it to her.

  Breakfast came to an end. Maria took the child on her knee, read her a pretty Bible story, her daily custom after breakfast, talked to her a little, and then sent her to the nursery. She, Maria, sat on alone. She heard the bells ring out for service, but they did not ring for her. Maria Godolphin could no more have shown her face in church that day, than she could have committed some desperately wrong act. Under the disgrace which had fallen upon them, it would have seemed, to her sensitive mind, something like an act of unblushing impudence. She gathered her books around her, and strove to make the best of them alone. Perhaps she had scarcely yet realized the great fact that God can be a comforter in the very darkest affliction. Maria’s experience that way was yet limited.