The summer was drawing towards its close; and so was the bankruptcy1 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 bankruptcies2, was nearly over, and creditors4 knew the best and the worst. The dividend5 would be, to use a common expression, shamefully6 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 annuity8 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 clamorous9 creditors, since for them all had gone: houses, lands, money, furniture, personal belongings10. 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[378] 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 cavil11 at anything, were glad that the expense of a sale by auction12 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 undoubtedly13 advantageous14 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 fully7 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 repenting16 of the cruel blame they had so freely hurled17 upon him. The first smart of the blow had faded away, and with it the prejudice which had unjustly, though not unnaturally18, distorted their judgment19, and buried for the time all kindly20 impulse. Perhaps there was not a single creditor3, 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 averted21 the calamity22 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 regain23 his place in their estimation: and if they could have hoisted24 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 condemned25 to stand at the bar of a public tribunal by the nobleman he so defrauded26, 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 jubilee27. Harsh epithets28, exceedingly unpleasant when taken personally, were freely lavished29 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[379] seen, the calamity had not much affected30 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 temperament31. When any ill-used creditor attacked him outright—as some did, through a casual meeting in the street, or other lucky chance—George was triumphant32 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 grumbler33, and protested it should all come right some time, that the enemy was won over to conciliation34 for the passing moment. It was impossible to help admiring George Godolphin; it was impossible to avoid liking35 him: it was impossible, when brought face to face with him, not to be taken with his frank plausibility36: the crustiest sufferer of them all was in a degree subdued37 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 triumphantly38. 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 conjectured39 that the full extent of these false entries never was discovered by the commissioners40: Thomas Godolphin and Mr. Hurde alone could have told it: and Thomas preferred to allow the odium of loosely-kept books, of reckless expenditure41 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, sanguine42, 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 perplexed43 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 inquisitive44 officials somewhat gayer in attire45 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 propriety46. 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 coxcomb47, 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 costly48 appendages[380] which dangled49 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 ornamental50 to himself, must be confiscated51 to the bankruptcy; and he resigned them with a good grace. The news of this little incident travelled abroad, as an interesting anecdote52 connected with the proceedings53, and the next time George saw Charlotte Pain, she told him he was a fool to walk into the camp of the Philistines54 with pretty things about him. But George was not wilfully55 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 possessed56. 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 concealing57 his personal trinkets.
Three or four times now had George been at Prior’s Ash. People wondered why he did not remain; what it was that took him again and again to London. The very instant he found that he could be dispensed58 with at Prior’s Ash, away he flew; not to return to it again until imperatively59 demanded. The plain fact was that Mr. George did not like to face Prior’s Ash. For all the easy self-possession, the gay good-humour he displayed to its inhabitants, the place had become utterly60 distasteful to him, almost unbearable61; he shunned63 it and hated it as a pious64 Roman Catholic hates and would shun62 purgatory65. For that reason, and for no other, George did his best to escape from it.
He had seen Lord Averil. And his fair face had betrayed its shame as he said a few words of apology for what he had done—of thanks for the clemency66 shown him—of promises for the future. “If I live, I’ll make it good to you,” he murmured. “I did not intend to steal them, Averil; I did not, on my solemn word of honour. I thought I should have replaced them before anything could be known. Your asking for them immediately—that you should do so seemed a very fatality—upset everything. But for that, I might have weathered it all, and the house would not have gone. It was no light pressure that forced me to touch them—Heaven alone knows the need and the temptation.”
And the meeting between the brothers? No eye saw it; no ear heard it. Good Thomas Godolphin was dying from the blow, dying before his time; but not a word of reproach was given to George. How George defended himself—or whether he attempted to defend himself, or whether he let it wholly alone—the outside world never knew.
Lady Godolphin’s Folly67 was no longer in the occupancy of the Verralls or of Mrs. Pain: Lady Godolphin had returned to it. Not a day aged68; not a day altered. Time flitted lightly over Lady Godolphin. Her bloom-tinted complexion69 was delicately fresh as ever; her dress was as becoming, her flaxen locks were as youthful. She came with her servants and her carriages, and she took up her abode70 at the Folly, in all the splendour of the old days. Her income was large, and the misfortunes which had recently fallen on the family did not affect it. Lady Godolphin washed her hands of these misfortunes. She washed her hands of George. She told the world that she did so. She[381] spoke15 of them openly to the public in general, to her acquaintances in particular, in a slighting, contemptuous sort of manner, as we are all apt to speak of the ill-doings of other people. They don’t concern us, and it’s rather a condescension71 on our part to blame them at all.—This was no concern of Lady Godolphin’s. She told every one it was not so. George’s disgrace did not reflect itself upon the family, and of him she—washed her hands. No: Lady Godolphin could not see that this break-up caused by George should be any reason whatever why she or the Miss Godolphins should hide their heads and go mourning in sack-cloth and ashes. Many of her old acquaintances in the county agreed with Lady Godolphin in her view of things, and helped by their visits to make the Folly gay again.
To wash her hands of Mr. George, was, equitably72 speaking, no more than that gentleman deserved: but Lady Godolphin also washed her hands of Maria. On her return to Prior’s Ash she had felt inclined to espouse73 Maria’s part; to sympathize with and pity her; and she drove down in state one day, and left her carriage with its powdered coachman and footman to pace to and fro in Crosse Street before the Bank, while she went in. She openly avowed74 to Maria that she considered herself in a remote degree the cause which had led to her union with George Godolphin: she supposed that it was her having had Maria so much at the Folly, and afterwards on the visit at Broomhead, which had led to the attachment75. As a matter of course she regretted this, and wished there had been no marriage, now that George had turned out so gracelessly. If she could do anything to repair it she would: and, as a first step, she offered the Folly as a present asylum76 to Maria. She would be safe there from worry, and—from George.
Maria scarcely at first understood her. And when she did so, her only answer was to thank Lady Godolphin, and to stand out, in her quiet, gentle manner, but untiringly and firmly, for her husband. Not a shade of blame would she acknowledge to be due to him; not a reverence77 would she render him the less: her place was with him, she said, though the whole world turned against him. It vexed78 Lady Godolphin.
“Do you know,” she asked, “that you must choose between your husband and the world?”
“In what way?” replied Maria.
“In what way! When a man acts as George Godolphin has acted, he places a barrier between himself and society. But there’s no necessity for the barrier to extend to you, Maria. If you will come to my house for a while, you will find this to be the case—it will not extend to you.”
“You are very kind, Lady Godolphin. My husband is more to me than the world.”
“Do you approve of what he has done?”
“No,” replied Maria. “But it is not my place to show that I blame him.”
“I think it is,” said Lady Godolphin in the hard tone she used when her opinion was questioned.
Maria was silent. She never could contend with any one.
[382]“Then you prefer to hold out against the world,” resumed Lady Godolphin; “to put yourself beyond its pale! It is a bold step, Maria.”
“What can I do?” was Maria’s pleading answer. “If the world throws me over because I will not turn against my husband, I cannot help it. I married him for better or for worse, Lady Godolphin.”
“The fact is, Maria,” retorted my lady sharply, “that you have loved George Godolphin in a ridiculous degree.”
“Perhaps I have,” was Maria’s subdued answer, the colour dyeing her face with various reminiscences. “But surely there was no sin in it, Lady Godolphin: he is my husband.”
“And you cling to him still?”
“Oh yes.”
Lady Godolphin rose. She shrugged79 her shoulders as she drew her white lace shawl over them, she glanced at her coquettish blue bonnet80 in the glass as she passed it, at her blush-rose cheeks. “You have chosen your husband, Maria, in preference to me; in preference to the world; and from this moment I wash my hands of you, as I have already done of him.”
It was all the farewell she took: and she went out to her carriage, thinking what a blind, obstinate81, hardened woman was Maria Godolphin. She saw not what it had cost that “hardened” woman to bear up before her: that her heart was nigh unto breaking; that the sorrow laid upon her was greater than she well knew how to battle with.
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1
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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bankruptcies
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| n.破产( bankruptcy的名词复数 )；倒闭；彻底失败；（名誉等的）完全丧失 | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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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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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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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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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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18
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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21
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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grumbler
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| 爱抱怨的人，发牢骚的人 | |
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conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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47
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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49
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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51
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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53
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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54
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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68
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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69
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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70
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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71
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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equitably
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| 公平地 | |
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espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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74
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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77
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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79
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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80
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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81
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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