Part 101 (1/2)

Meta finished the remainder of her breakfast and slid off her chair.

Rea.s.sured upon the subject of the dogs, she was eager to be off at once to the pleasures of the swing. Maria rang the bell for Harriet, and gave orders that she should be dressed.

”Let her come in this frock,” said Charlotte. ”There's no knowing what damage it may undergo before the day's out.”

Meta was taken away by Harriet. Charlotte finished her breakfast, and Maria sat burying her load of care, even from the eyes of friendly Charlotte. ”Do you like my Garibaldi s.h.i.+rt?” suddenly asked the latter.

”Like what?” questioned Maria, not catching the name.

”This,” replied Charlotte, indicating the yellow article by a touch.

”They are new things just come up: Garibaldi s.h.i.+rts they are called.

Mrs. Verrall sent me three down from London: a yellow, a scarlet, and a blue. They are all the rage, she says. Do you admire it?”

But for Maria's innate politeness, and perhaps for the sadness beating at her heart, she would have answered that she did not admire it at all: that it looked a shapeless, untidy thing. Charlotte continued, without waiting for a reply.

”You don't see it to advantage. It is soiled, and has lost a b.u.t.ton or two. Those dogs make horrid work of my things, with their roughness and their dirty paws. Look at this great rent in my gown which I have pinned up! Pluto did that this morning. He is getting fearfully savage, now he's old.”

”You must not allow them to frighten Meta,” said Maria somewhat anxiously. ”She should not see them.”

”I have told you she shall not. Can't you trust me? The dogs----”

Charlotte paused. Meta came running in, ready; in her large straw hat with its flapping brim, and her cool brown-holland outdoor dress.

Charlotte rose, drew her shawl about her shoulders, and carried her hat to the gla.s.s, to settle it on. Then she took Meta by the hand, said good morning, and sailed out; the effect of her visit having been partly to frighten, partly to perplex, Maria.

Maria sat on with her load of care, and her new apprehensions. These agreeable visitors that Charlotte warned her of--she wondered that Thomas had not mentioned it. Would they take all the clothes she had upstairs, leaving her only what she stood upright in? Would they take Meta's? Would they take her husband's out of his drawers and places?

Would they take the keeper off her finger? It was studded with diamonds.

Charlotte had said they would only leave her her wedding-ring. These thoughts were troubling and perplexing her; but only in a degree.

Compared with that other terrible thought, they were as nothing--the uncertain fear, regarding her husband, which had been whispered to her by the careless sailor, Reginald Hastings.

CHAPTER XXII.

BEARING THE BRUNT.

Thomas G.o.dolphin sat in the Bank parlour, bearing the brunt of the shock. With his pain upon him, mental and bodily, he was facing all the trouble that George ought to have faced: the murmurs, the questions, the reproaches.

All was known. All was known to Thomas G.o.dolphin. Not alone to him.

Could Thomas have kept the terrible facts within his own breast, have s.h.i.+elded his brother's reputation still, he would have done it: but that was impossible. In becoming known to Mr. G.o.dolphin, it had become known to others. The discovery had been made jointly, by Thomas and by certain business gentlemen, when he was in London on the Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

Treachery upon treachery! The long course of deceit on George G.o.dolphin's part had come out. Falsified books; wrongly-rendered accounts; good securities replaced by false; false balance-sheets. Had Thomas G.o.dolphin been less blindly trustful in George's honour and integrity, it could never have been so effectually accomplished. George G.o.dolphin was the acting manager: and Thomas, in his perfect trust, combined with his failing health, had left things latterly almost entirely in George's hands. ”What business had he so to leave them?”

People were asking it now. Perhaps Thomas's own conscience was asking the same. But why should he not have left things to him, considering that he placed in him the most implicit confidence? Surely, no unprejudiced man would say Thomas G.o.dolphin had been guilty of imprudence. George was fully equal to the business confided to him, in point of power and capacity; and it could not certainly matter which of the brothers, equal partners, equal heads of the firm, took its practical management. It would seem not: and yet they were blaming Thomas G.o.dolphin now.

Failures of this nature have been recorded before, where fraud has played its part. We have only to look to the records of our law courts--criminal, bankruptcy, and civil--for examples. To transcribe the precise means by which George G.o.dolphin had contrived to bear on in a course of deceit, to elude the suspicion of the world in general, and the vigilance of his own house, would only be to recapitulate what has often been told in the public records: and told to so much more purpose than I could tell it. It is rather with what may be called the domestic phase of these tragedies that I would deal: the private, home details; the awful wreck of peace, of happiness, caused _there_. The world knows enough (rather too much, sometimes) of the public part of these affairs; but what does it know of the part behind the curtain?--the, if it may be so said, inner aspect?

I knew a gentleman, years ago, who was partner in a country banking-house: a sleeping partner; and the Bank failed. Failed through a long-continued course of treachery on the part of one connected with it--something like the treachery described to you as pursued by Mr.

George G.o.dolphin. This gentleman (of whom I tell you) was to be held responsible for the losses, so the creditors and others decided: the real delinquent having disappeared, escaped beyond their reach. They lavished upon this gentleman harsh names; rogue, thief, swindler, and so on!--while, in point of fact, he was as innocent and unconscious of what had happened as they were. He gave up all he had; the bulk of his fortune had gone with the Bank; and he went out of hearing of his abusers for a while until things should become smoother; perhaps the bad man be caught. A short time, and he became ill; and a medical man was called in to him. Again, a short time, and he was _dead_: and the doctors said--I heard them say it--that his malady had been brought on by grief; that he had, in fact, died of a broken heart. He was a kindly gentleman; a good husband, a good father, a good neighbour; a single-hearted, honest man; the very soul of honour: but he was misjudged by those who ought to have known him better; and he died for it. I wonder what the real rogue felt when he heard of the death? They were relatives. There are many such cases in the world: where reproach and abuse are levelled at one whose heart is breaking.