by Ellen Wood
They subsided into conversation: its theme, as was natural, the bankruptcy and its attendant details. Lord Averil found that Thomas was blaming himself.
“Why should you?” he asked impulsively. “Is it not enough that the world should do so, without yourself indorsing it?”
A faint smile crossed Thomas Godolphin’s face at the thoughtless admission spoken so openly: but he knew, none better, how great a share of blame was dealt out to him. “It is due,” he observed to Lord Averil. “I ought not to have reposed trust so implicit in George. Things could not have come to this pass if I had not done so.”
“If we cannot place implicit trust in a brother, in whom can we place it?”
“True. But in my position as trustee to others, I ought not to have trusted that things were going on right. I ought to have known that they were so.”
They went on to the future. Thomas spoke of the selling up of all things, of their turning out of Ashlydyat. “Is that decree irrevocable?” Lord Averil interrupted. “Must Ashlydyat be sold?”
Thomas was surprised at the question. It was so superfluous a one. “It will be sold very shortly,” he said, “to the highest bidder. Any stranger who bids most will get Ashlydyat. I hope,” he added, with a half start, as if the possibility occurred to him then for the first time, “that the man Verrall will not become a bidder for it — and get it! Lady Godolphin turns him out of the Folly.”
“Never fear,” said Lord Averil. “He will only be too glad to relieve Prior’s Ash of his presence. Thomas, can nothing be done to the man? Your brother may have been a willing tool in his hands, but broad whispers are going about that it is Verrall who has reaped the harvest. Can no legal cognizance be taken of it?”
Thomas shook his head. “We may suspect a great deal — in fact, it is more than suspicion — but we can prove nothing. The man will rise triumphantly from it all, and carry his head higher than ever. I hope, I say, that he will not think of Ashlydyat. They were in it once, you know.”
“Why could not Ashlydyat be disposed of privately? — by valuation? It might be, if the assignees approved.”
“Yes, I suppose it might be.”
“I wish you would sell it to me,” breathed Lord Averil.
“To you!” repeated Thomas Godolphin. “Ay, indeed. Were you to have Ashlydyat I should the less keenly regret its passing from the Godolphins.”
Lord Averil paused. He appeared to want to say something, but to hesitate in doubt.
“Would it please you that one of the Godolphins should still inhabit it?” he asked at length.
“I do not understand you?” replied Thomas. “There is no chance — I had almost said no possibility — of a Godolphin henceforward inhabiting Ashlydyat.”
“I hope and trust there is,” said Lord Averil with emotion. “If Ashlydyat is ever to be mine, I shall not care for it unless a Godolphin shares it with me. I speak of your sister Cecilia.”
Thomas sat in calmness, waiting for more. Nothing could stir him greatly now. Lord Averil gave him the outline of the past. Of his love for Cecilia, and her rejection of him.
“There has been something,” he continued, “in her manner of late, which has renewed hope within me — otherwise I should not say this to you now. Quite of late; since her rejection of me; I have observed that — that —— I cannot describe it, Thomas,” he broke off. “But I have determined to risk my fate once more. And you — loving Cecil as I do — you thought I could prosecute George!”
“But I did not know that you loved Cecil.”
“I suppose not. It has seemed to me, though, that my love must have been patent to the world. You would give her to me, would you not?”
“Ay; thankfully,” was the warm answer. “The thought of leaving Cecil unprotected has been one of my cares. Janet and Bessy are older and more experienced. Let me give you one consolation, Averil: if Cecilia has rejected you, she has rejected others. Janet has fancied she had some secret attachment. Can it have been to yourself?”
“If so, why should she have rejected me?”
“In truth I do not know. Cecil has seemed grievously unhappy since these troubles arose: almost as one who has no further hope in life. George’s peril has told upon her.”
“His peril?”
“From you.”
Lord Averil bit his lip. “Cecil, above all others — unless it were yourself — might have known that he was safe.”
A silence ensued. Lord Averil resumed: “There is one upon whom I fear these troubles are telling all too greatly, Thomas. And that is your brother’s wife.”
“May God comfort her!” was the involuntary answer that broke from the lips of Thomas Godolphin.
“Had I been ever so harshly inclined, I think the sight of her to-day would have disarmed me. No, no: had I never owned friendship for you; had I never loved Cecil, there is certainly enough evil, cruel, unavoidable evil, which must fall with this calamity, without my adding to it.”
“When I brought word home this afternoon that you were well disposed towards George — that he had nothing to fear from you, Cecil burst into tears.”
A glow arose to Lord Averil’s face. He looked out on the setting sun in silence. “Has your brother been sent for?” he presently asked.
“Maria and I have both written for him now. I should think he will come. What is it, Bexley?”
“A message from Mrs. Pain, sir, about some of the fixtures at Lady Godolphin’s Folly. Mrs. Pain wants to know if you have a list of them. She forgets which belong to the house, and which don’t.”
Thomas Godolphin said a word of apology to Lord Averil, and left the room. In the hall he met Cecil crossing to it. She went in, quite unconscious who was its inmate. He rose up to welcome her.
A momentary hesitation in her steps: a doubt whether she should not run away again, and then she recalled her senses and went forward.
She recalled what he had done that day for her brother; she went forward to thank him. But ere the thanks had well begun, they came to an end, for Cecil had burst into tears.
How it went on, and what was exactly said or done, neither of them could remember afterwards. A very few minutes, and Cecil’s head was resting upon his shoulder, all the mistakes of the past cleared up between them.
She might not have confessed to him how long she had loved him — ever since that long past time when they were together at Mrs. Averil’s — but for her dread lest he should fear that she was only accepting him now out of gratitude — gratitude for his noble behaviour to her erring brother. And so she told him the truth: that she had loved him, and only him, all through.
“Cecil, my darling, what long misery might have been spared me had I known this!”
Cecil looked down. Perhaps some might also have been spared to her. “It is not right that you should marry me now,” she said.
“Why?”
“On account of this dreadful disgrace. George must have forgotten how it would fall upon — —”
“Hush, Cecil! The disgrace, as I look upon it — as I believe all just people must look upon it — is confined to himself. It is indeed. Not an iota of the respect due to Thomas by the world, of the consideration due to the Miss Godolphins, will be lessened. Rely upon it I am right.”
“But Thomas is being reflected upon daily: personally abused.”
“By a few inconsiderate creditors, smarting just now under their loss. That will all pass away. If you could read my heart and see how happy you have made me, you would know how little cause you have to talk of ‘disgrace,’ Cecil.”
She was happy also, as she rested there against him; too happy.
“Would you like to live at Ashlydyat, Cecil? Thomas would rather we had it than it should lapse to strangers. I should wish to buy it.”
“Oh yes — if it could be.”
“I dare say it can be. Of course it can. Ashlydyat must be sold, and I shall be as welcome a purchaser as any other would be. If it must be put up to auction, I can be its
highest bidder; but I dare say they will be glad to avoid the expense of an auction, and let me purchase it privately. I might purchase the furniture also, Cecil; all the old relics that Sir George set so much store by — that Janet does still.”
“If it could be!” she murmured.
“Indeed I think it may be. They will be glad to value it as it stands. And Cecil, we will drive away all the ghostly superstitions, and that ominous Shadow — —”
Cecil lifted her face, an eager light upon it. “Janet says that the curse has been worked out with the ruin of the Godolphins. She thinks that the dark Shadow will never come any more.”
“So much the better. We will have the Dark Plain dug up and made into a children’s playground, and a summer-house for them shall be erected on the very spot which the Shadow has made its own. There may be children here some time, Cecil.”
Cecil’s eyelashes were bent on her flushed cheeks. She did not raise them.
“If you liked — if you liked, Cecil, we might ask Janet and Bessy to retain their home here,” resumed Lord Averil, in thoughtful consideration. “Ashlydyat is large enough for all.”
“Their home is decided upon,” said Cecil, shaking her head. “Bessy has promised to make hers at Lady Godolphin’s Folly. Lady Godolphin exacted her promise to that effect, before she decided to return to it. I was to have gone to it also. Janet goes to Scotland. I am quite sure that this place has become too painful for Janet to remain in. She has an annuity, as perhaps you know; it was money left her by mamma’s sister; so that she is independent, and can live where she pleases; but I am sure she will go to Scotland, as soon as — as soon as — —”
“I understand you, Cecil. As soon as Thomas shall have passed away.”
The tears were glistening in her eyes. “Do you not see a great change in him?”
“A very great one. Cecil, I should like him to give you to me. Will you waive ceremony, and be mine at once?”
“I will see,” murmured Cecil. “When a little of this bustle, this disgrace shall have passed away. Let it die out first.”
A grave expression arose to Lord Averil’s face. “It must not be very long first, Cecil: if you would be mine while your brother is in life.”
“I will, I will; it shall be as you wish,” she answered, her tears falling. And before Lord Averil could make any rejoinder, she had hastily left him, and was standing against the window, stealthily drying her eyes: for the door had opened to admit Thomas Godolphin.
CHAPTER XXVI. 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 con tained. 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 tr
iumphant 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.