To bringen him out of his heaviness.
* * * * *
Lo here what gentleness these women have,
If we could know it for our rudéness.
In every manner thus show they ruth,
That in them is all goodness and all truth.”
CHAUCER.
AN exclamation3 of terror from Veronica’s maid startled Geoffrey and made him look round, for in his madness of rage and misery4 he had instinctively5 turned his face away from the eyes of his gentle friend. The poor lady lay all but fainting, gasping6 for breath in a way piteous to behold7. The sight to some extent recalled the young man to himself.
In a few moments, by the exercise of strong self-control, Veronica overcame the hysterical8 feeling which was half choking her, and allowed Mr. Baldwin to carry her to the fly. Not a word was spoken by either till they reached Miss Temple’s cottage; only just before they stopped, Veronica took Geoffrey’s hand, and gently pressed it in her own.
“My poor boy,” she whispered.
He turned his head away; though there was no one in the carriage but themselves, he could not bear her to see the tears which her sympathy wrung10 from his manhood. But they did him good. He began to collect his startled senses, and to consider how best to perform the terrible duty before him, of breaking the news to his wife.
When they alighted at Miss Temple’s door, and the little bustle11 of conveying the invalid12 to her sofa was safely accomplished13, the servant handed him a letter. The address was in Marion’s handwriting. “Mrs. Baldwin,” said the girl, “had called this afternoon, and had inquired at what time Miss Temple was expected home. Hearing it might be late, she had left the letter and asked that it might be delivered immediately.”
The envelope contained a few words from Marion, enclosing a letter with a German post-mark.
Mrs. Baldwin’s was as follows:
“DEAR GEOFFREY,
“The enclosed came by this morning’s post. I see it is from Mr. Framley Vere, and as I know you are anxious to hear from him, I am going to take it in to Mallingford, that you may get it on your arrival at Miss Temple’s. I am so much better, that the doctor told me I should take a drive to-day. I hope you have got on prosperously in your travels, and that you will bring dear Veronica safe home. Give her my best love.
“Your affectionate wife,
MARION C. BALDWIN.”
Even at that moment Geoffrey held the letter tenderly, looked lovingly at the words. It was the first letter he had ever had from his wife!
“Ah! my poor child, what have I ever caused you but misery?” he murmured to himself.
He opened the enclosure. These were its contents:
“Baden, March 27th, 186—.
“DEAR BALDWIN,
“Your letter has only just reached me. I have been moving about lately so much. I write in great haste to assure you that all you have been told against the —— and —— is utter nonsense. There is no safer or better investment in the united kingdom at present. Whoever told you what you wrote of to me must be either a knave15 himself, with his own purposes to serve, or the dupe of such a one. And if an honest man, I don’t see why he should have bound you over not to give his name as your authority to your co-trustee. The thing does not look well. Within the last day or two I have heard, quite accidentally, from a friend in your county, certain vague reports affecting the Mallingford Bank. Very likely they have not reached you. Those on the spot, or most interested in such rumours16, are often the last to hear them. And they may very probably be utterly17 unfounded. Still, all inclines me to lose no time in with-drawing my young cousins’ money from its present quarters. I should strongly advise you also to look to your own property in the bank, as I believe it is of considerable amount. I should be glad to hear from you that you have done as I advise. With regard to your wife’s and her brother’s money, you have of course acted for the best: still the delay makes me a little uneasy. Give my kind regards to Marion. I hear very good accounts of her brother Hartford, from an officer in his regiment18 who is a friend of mine.
“Yours very truly,
“FRAMLEY P. VERE.”
Geoffrey handed both letters to Veronica. She read them carefully before she spoke9. He watched her impatiently. As soon as she had finished, he said in a dull, hopeless voice—
Veronica considered a little. Then she replied—
“Are you not acting20 prematurely21 in deciding that all is so very bad as you imagine? After all, it was a mere22 report you heard at the station. Something must be wrong, doubtless, but it may not be so bad as you think. Would it not be well, in the first place, to go to the bank, see Mr. Wrexham, and hear particulars?”
“Of course,” said Geoffrey, starting up and seizing his hat; “what a fool I was not to think of that before. But I really was stunned23 for the moment.”
“You must have a cup of tea or a glass of wine before you go,” suggested Veronica. “You will frighten everybody you meet, with that pale face of yours. Now be a good boy. Five minutes will make no difference—for the young man was chafing24 at the delay.
“And Marion?” he suddenly exclaimed, “she will be expecting me at home.”
“Stay here till the morning,” replied Miss Temple; “that will give us time to talk over matters after you have learnt the exact state of things. I will send a note to Marion while you are out, saying that I have kept you as you were tired with your two days’ journey, and asking her to send the carriage for you in the morning. I can get the gardener to take the note. He can borrow Dr. Baker’s pony25.”
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “That will do very well.”
In about an hour’ time he returned. Veronica was anxiously waiting for him. He entered the room slowly, and threw himself on the sofa, hiding his face in its cushions.
“What have you heard?” asked Miss Temple at last, though his manner had already prepare her for his answer. It came, after moment’s interval27, in a dull, dead tone.
“The very worst,” he replied.
“How?” she asked gently. It was better to rouse him, to force him to face it, and as speedily as possible to make up his mind to what must be done next.
He shivered slightly, then made an impatient gesture as if he would fain push aside her enquiries and her sympathy. But she persisted bravely.
“How has it all been?” she asked. “Whom did you see?”
“The old clerk, Lee,” he replied; “he is heart-broken. All his savings28 gone, and the disgrace, which I verily believe he feels more. As I should if I were alone. Good God! why did I bind29 that poor child’s fate to mine! To think of it all. Baldwin’s Bank—mv poor father’s bank—to have come to this! It is an utter, complete smash, a perfectly30 hopeless ruin. Some little trifle of Marion’s and Harry’s money I may possibly recover eventually. But mine is all gone—gone for ever. You see I was still legally a partner.”
“You may well ask,” he answered bitterly; that is the hideous32 part of it--to think that it has all been the work of that oily devil, and that he has taken himself off in time to escape the punishment he deserves. What I should have given him if the law hadn’t! Cursed scamp that he is!”
“Hush, Geoffrey,” pleaded Veronica. “I am not blaming you, my poor boy, but when you speak so violently you startle me, and make me so nervous I cannot think quietly, as I should wish, of what is to be done. Wrexham, I suppose, you are talking of?”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey; “I can’t name him. It is all his doing. His wealth ‘elsewhere invested’ was all moonshine. He has been left far too much to himself, Lee says, the other partner having perfect confidence in him. He has been speculating in the most reckless way, it now appears; and, foreseeing the inevitable33 crash, has laid his plans accordingly and taken himself off in time. It is suspected he has taken, in some form or other—(diamonds perhaps, like the fellow in that book Marion was reading—a fellow who wasn’t himself or was somebody else; I couldn’t make it out)—a comfortable provision for himself.”
“But when was all this discovered? Can’t he be traced?” asked Veronica, breathlessly.
“He had been away four days before anything wrong was suspected, replied Geoffrey. “He didn’t run it too fine, you see. He was to have returned three days ago with lots of money. When he didn’t come, and sent no letter, they began to get frightened. Mr. Linthwaite, the other partner, then thought it would be as well to look into things a little, and a nice mess they found. They did what they could then, of course; sent off for detectives and all the rest of it, by way of shutting the empty stable-door, but it’s useless. He’s had too clear a start, and even if they got him they would get nothing out of him. He’s prepared for that, Lee says. If he has made off with property in any form it will be too well hidden for us to get at it. My case is the worst, for Linthwaite’s wife has money settled on herself, elsewhere invested, and no one had property in the bank to anything like my amount. They kept the doors open for a day or two, and paid out the little they had, for one or two of the farmers in the neighbourhood happened to draw rather heavily on Tuesday. But yesterday evening they lost all hope of the scamp’s turning up, and didn’t even go through the farce34 this morning of taking down the shutters35.”
“But if old Lee has suspected that things were wrong, why in heaven’s name did he not warn you?” asked Veronica.
“He didn’t suspect anything,” replied Mr. Baldwin. “He disliked Wrexham personally, but he could have given no reason for doing so. Besides, unless he had had something definite to tell, you couldn’t expect the poor fellow to have risked losing his daily bread by talking against his employers. Ten to one, had he come to me, I would have thought him mad. No, that blackguard has deceived every one.”
For some minutes they sat still, Geoffrey moodily36 staring into the fire. Then he repeated his old question.
“How am I to tell Marion, Veronica?”
“Shall I do so for you?” she said.
“I wish to Heaven you would!” he ejaculated. “It would be the greatest proof of friendship you have ever shewn me, which is saying a good deal.”
“I will do it if you so much wish it,” she replied, “still I do not feel sure it is right for anyone to break it to her but yourself—her husband. I think too you misjudge her in thinking this sort of bad news is likely to shock and prostrate37 her as you seem to imagine it will. Your wife is no fool, Geoffrey: she is a brave-spirited woman, and will find strength to suffer and work for those she loves.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied, with a groan38, “had all been different in other respects, she would not have been found wanting. But you don’t know all, Veronica. You never can. It was the only thing I could give her—a home and all that money could buy! And now, my darling will, for the first time in her life, be brought through me face to face with poverty. It is too horrible.”
Miss Temple said nothing, but she had her own thoughts nevertheless.
They decided39 that the following day when Geoffrey returned home he should tell his wife that Miss Veronica was anxious to see her, and should arrange for her driving over as soon as possible to her friend’s cottage.
But in this, they to some extent reckoned without their host. The carriage which came the next morning to fetch Miss Temple’s guest home to the Manor40 Farm, brought in it, early though it was, Mrs. Baldwin herself, eager to welcome the travellers in person.
Geoffrey was already out. Off again to the scene of his troubles, the Mallingford Bank, there to meet Mr. Linthwaite, and go over with him all the details of the miserable41 story. But he was to be back in half-an-hour. Veronica’s heart failed her when she heard her young visitor’s step on the stair. It was no light or pleasant task which, in her unselfishness, she had undertaken.
Suddenly it occurred to her, “might not Marion have already heard the bad news, and this be the reason of her early visit? How stupid not to have thought of this before!” She almost hoped it might be so, but a glance at Marion’s face decided her that no bird of evil omen1 in the shape a Miss Tremlett, or any of her gossiping cronies, had yet carried the tidings to the young mistress of the Manor Farm. For Marion, though somewhat pale from her recent illness, looked bright and cheerful: happier by far than when last her friend had seen her; which did not make things easier for poor Veronica! The girl kissed her affectionately, and said something in her own sweet way (as far as possible removed from the coldness of which by mere acquaintances she was usually accused), of her pleasure at her safe return to them. Then some little details of the journey were mentioned, and Veronica remarked casually42 that Geoffrey had gone to the bank for half-an-hour on business, but would be back shortly, as he was expecting the carriage to meet him.
“Though he did not know you would be in it, dear Marion,” said Veronica, “it was very good of you to come so soon. I was just writing a note to ask you to come this afternoon. I wanted particularly to see you.”
Then there fell a little silence, and out of the heart of the elder woman there crept to that of her friend a soft, mysterious message of sympathy. Words were not wanted. A slight shiver ran through Marion, and she turned to Veronica.
“What is wrong? What is it you are wishing to tell me and cannot find strength to utter? Dear Veronica, do not fear for me.”
And Miss Temple laid her hand gently on Marion’s, and the girl’s brave, clear eyes fixed43 on her drew forth44 the bare, unsoftened truth.
“My child, your husband is ruined. The Mallingford Bank in which was all he possessed45 has failed, and he is utterly penniless.”
She had not meant to tell it so shortly and suddenly. She had thought of “breaking it” by degrees, as even the wisest and tenderest of us persist in doing to others, however we may suffer when the operation is performed on ourselves. But with Marion’s eyes thus fixed on her she had no option but to tell the whole sharply; to her own ears indeed cruelly, in its matter-of-fact accuracy and stern reality.
Marion’s eyes never flinched46. She said quietly, “And my money—and—and Harry’s?” With the last word her face worked a little, and for a moment Veronica fancied a dimness overspread the grey eyes, still resolutely47 fixed on hers. But she too, answered calmly and deliberately48.
“You and your brother rank as creditors49. Eventually, therefore, some small portion of your property may be recovered, once the affairs of the bank are finally wound up. This however will probably not be known for some months, and in any case it will not be much. Geoffrey’s settlements on you at the time of your marriage, by-the-by, I never thought of. I wonder if they will be considered your property. I am not enough acquainted with such matters to say. But in any case, my dearest Marion, I fear very, very little will be recovered. It is so dreadful. I don’t understand how I am able to talk about it so coolly.”
Marion did not speak for a few moments. Then she said:
“Have many others suffered in the same way—to the same extent?”
Veronica looked rather conscience-stricken.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I did not ask; I was so absorbed in your part of it. But no one I am sure can have suffered to the same extent, for Mr. Linthwaite had not nearly so much money in the bank, and his wife is rich besides. Doubtless many of the farmers in the neighbourhood will have lost what to them will be as much as Geoffrey’s is to him. It is all owing to his having unfortunately kept his whole property there these last few months. A thing he never contemplated50 save as a temporary convenience of course.”
“And Mr. Wrexham?” asked Marion.
“Mr. Wrexham!” repeated Veronica. “Did you not know it was all his doing, that he has absconded51? But, of course, not—how could you?”
And then she related to Marion the details she had gathered from Geoffrey of the reputed millionaire’s little suspected rascality52.
Mrs. Baldwin heard her in silence; but when all had been told she exclaimed passionately53:
“Then, Veronica, the whole is my doing. Geoffrey’s instinct was truer than mine. He distrusted that man from the first, and I talked him out of it. I thought him clever, and I see now how he was flattering me up! What a fool I was! Oh, Veronica, those two or three weeks might have saved poor Geoffrey this ruin. It will break his heart, I know, and it is all my fault.”
“Hush, Marion,” said her friend, “it will make it no easier to Geoffrey for you to blame yourself so exaggeratedly, and it is very unlikely that the two or three weeks’ delay has made matters worse. Geoffrey’s withdrawing any large sums when he first intended doing so would only have accelerated the discovery without probably saving anything.”
But Marion had got it into her head that she alone was to blame for the overwhelming catastrophe54, and refused to listen to Veronica’s attempted consolation55.
It was the worst bit of the whole to her, the reflection that it was her doing. What a curse she had been to this man, she thought to herself! Saddening his whole life, as she had done: remorseful56 when, as she much feared in her present mood, it was too late; and now, to crown all, the cause of his finding himself a pauper57; he who till now had known nothing of battling with the world, struggling amidst the toilworn human beings for the means of existence. In a very blackness of misery Marion Baldwin sat in silence while she thus accused herself.
Veronica was grievously distressed58. At last she hit on a new argument.
“Marion,” she said, “Geoffrey will be returning directly. The bitterest part of this to him, I need not tell you, is the thought of what it will be to you. It is for you only he dreads59 so fearfully the trials before you both. I have been trying to comfort and strengthen him by telling him he was exaggerating what it would be to you. You are brave and strong, my dearest—braver and stronger than you perhaps think yourself. I know it is not this misfortune in itself which is so crushing you. It is this morbid60 notion that you have had a hand in bringing it on. But even supposing it were so, Heaven knows you advised Geoffrey as you thought for the best. It is unworthy of you to make yourself miserable by this judging by results. And if Geoffrey finds you thus, how will he, poor fellow, be able to stand it all? Don’t think me harsh, my poor child, for speaking so at such a time. You will thank me afterwards for urging you to show yourself a true wife by forgetting everything but your husband’s suffering, and strengthening him to bear it.”
Marion looked up with a new light in her face, a glance of mingled61 strength and tenderness in her eyes. A door was heard to open, a step slowly and heavily sounded along the passage. She had only time to whisper, “You shall not be disappointed in me, Veronica,” when the door opened and Geoffrey entered.
He had not expected to see his wife; and when he caught sight of her, his face flushed suddenly, and without attempting to greet her he sank down on the nearest chair, burying his head in his hands.
Veronica glanced imploringly62 at Marion, but her appeal was not needed. Without a word the young wife rose from her chair and crossed the room quickly to where her husband was sitting. He did not see her, his face was hidden, but he heard the rustle63 of her dress as she approached him. He knew it could not be the cripple Veronica; the step came quick and firm. A notion flashed into his mind that his wife was leaving the room because he had entered it; hastening from the presence of the man who had at last by his insane folly64, put the finishing stroke to all the misery he had brought on her fair young life.
He would not look up. Instinctively he kept his face hidden, preferring to await blindly what he felt to be a crisis in his life. Less than a moment passed while Marion crossed the room, but time enough for a whole army of hopes and fears, doubts and misgivings65 to chase each other across poor Geoffrey’s brain.
He felt weak and giddy, for he had gone through much and eaten little in the last few hours; and a quiver ran all through him when a hand was gently laid on his shoulder and a voice, sweeter to him than the loveliest music, called him by name.
“Geoffrey,” it said, “my poor Geoffrey, my dear husband, look up and show that you trust me. It is to the full as much my fault as yours that this misfortune has come upon us. But why should either of us blame the other? It is not the worst sorrow that could have happened to us. We are young and strong, and we will meet it together bravely. Only, only—do not turn from me. Do not punish me for all my selfish coldness—all my wicked scorn, long ago, of your goodness and affection—do not punish me by repulsing66 me now. Now, Geoffrey, in your time of sorrow when I brave all and remind you that I am your wife.”
Her voice broke and faltered67: the last few words were all but inaudible. But they reached with perfect clearness and distinctness the ears of the man to whom they were addressed; they fell on his sore heart like drops of refreshing68, invigorating rain on dried-up withered69 leaves. He lifted his head, he stretched out his arms, and drew her to him in a long, close embrace, and there were more tears on Marion’s face than those which had come from her own eyes.
Neither spoke, and there was for a moment perfect silence in the room. Then it was broken suddenly by a queer, irregular, stumping70 sound, which passed across the floor and out at the door almost before it was observed by the two so absorbed by their own emotion. It was Veronica’s crutch71! Never before or since was she known to get out of a room so quickly, and she did it at no little risk to herself. But she felt that the moment was a sacred one—one of those in which a third presence, even though that of the most devoted72 friend, may jar on the sensitiveness of the excited nerves; may unwittingly interfere73 with the perfect healing of the disunited members, the sealing of the tacit bond of reconciliation74.
An hour or two later, when the invalid bade adieu to her friends, and from her window watched them drive away to the home soon to be theirs no longer, some half-formed words escaped her.
“How little, after all, we know of ourselves or each other, or what is best for any of us! After all, who can say but what my two poor friends may have reason to remember with thankfulness the failure of the Mallingford Bank. Poverty and outward suffering and struggling may bring them more happiness than they have yet found since they joined their lives together. God grant it may prove so!”
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1
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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pony
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reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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prostrate
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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absconded
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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repulsing
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| v.击退( repulse的现在分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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