Maria Godolphin was in her own pretty sitting-room upstairs. She had been sitting there ever since breakfast: had not yet stirred from it, though noon had passed, for she was very busy. Not fond of sewing in a general way, she was plying her needle quickly now: some work of fine intricate braiding, to be converted into a frock for Miss Meta. Maria worked as if her heart were in it: it was for her child.

The door was closed, the window was open to the summer air. The scent of the flowers ascended from the garden below, the gentle hum of the insects was heard as they sported in the sun, the scene altogether was one of perfect tranquillity. There was an air of repose about the room, about Maria in her cool muslin dress, about the scene altogether. Who, looking at it, would have suspected the commotion that was being enacted—or that had been enacted so recently—in another part of the house?

It is a positive fact that Maria knew nothing yet of the grievous calamity which had fallen—the stoppage of the Bank. The servants knew it fast enough; were more correctly acquainted with its details (to hear them speak) than the Bank itself. They stood about in groups and talked in whispers, letting their work go. But not one of them had presumed to acquaint their unconscious mistress. They knew how ignorant of it all she was: they felt certain that not a suspicion of anything going wrong had ever crossed her. Indeed, it had not crossed their own inquisitive selves, and the blow had burst upon them that morning as a thunder-clap.

As a thunder-clap, it was soon to burst upon Maria. A few minutes’ respite yet, ere it should come. She certainly had heard the visitors’-bell ring three or four times, which was somewhat unusual, considering that no message for her had followed upon it. That bell in the daytime generally heralded guests for herself. Once, when Pierce came in, bringing a small parcel for her from the bookseller’s, Maria had inquired who it was that had just rung at the hall-door. Pierce answered that it was Lord Averil; his lordship had asked to see Mr. Godolphin. Maria could not remember afterwards, when looking back on the circumstances of the day, whether or not it had occurred to her to wonder why Lord Averil should come to the private door, when his visit was to the Bank and Thomas Godolphin. Pierce ventured not another word. He put down the parcel and hurried off, very much after the manner of one who is afraid of being asked questions.

And yet, the man, in his sober judgment, believed that there was little danger of any troublesome questions being put by his mistress. There was none. Of all people living, none were so completely unconscious that anything wrong was looming, as Mrs. George Godolphin. If there was one house in the kingdom more safe, more staid, more solid than other houses, she believed it to be theirs. Yes, it was a notable fact, that Maria, sitting there so serenely tranquil, knew nothing of what was stirring Prior’s Ash, from one end of it to the other, to the highest point of excitement. Perhaps it would not be too much to say that she was the last person in it whom the news reached.

The work—her work, that she held in her hand—was approaching completion, and she looked at it with fond eyes. She had been two or three weeks over it, sitting steadily to it several of the days. It was very pretty, certainly; a new sort of work just come up, done with a new sort of braid; and would, beyond question, look charming on Miss Meta. Now and then Maria would be visited with doubtful visions as to whether the thing would “wash.” That is, wash and look as well afterwards as it did now. She could only hope for the best, and that Miss Meta would be upon her good behaviour when wearing it, and not spoil it beyond redemption the first time it was on.

“I hope I shall have enough braid,” deliberated Maria, comparing the small portion of work, yet remaining to do, with the braid in hand. “I wish I had told Margery to bring me in another piece; she will pass the shop. I must send, if I find it running short. If I am not interrupted to-day, I shall finish it.”

One interruption occurred almost as Maria was speaking. The entrance of her husband. With him in the room she was continually looking off to talk, if she did not quite lay the work down; altogether she did not get on as fast as when alone. He had just come in from that excursion to the telegraph office. Had he been there? Or had his supposed visit been but a plea set forth, an excuse to get out of his brother’s presence, away from that troubled scene, the Bank?

There was no knowing. George never said how it was, then or afterwards. Never said whether his return now was the result of his having accidentally seen his brother at a distance, walking along at a quick pace. He came in by the hall-door (there was no other way open to-day), letting himself in with his latch-key. Mr. Hurde was still there, posting or doing something or other to a pile of books.

“Has Mr. Godolphin gone for the day?” asked George.

“Mr. Godolphin’s gone to London, sir.”

“To London?” echoed George, in surprise. “What is taking him there?”

“Some queer messages have come down by telegraph,” returned Mr. Hurde, pushing his spectacles up, and looking George full in the face. “Mr. Godolphin could not understand them, and he has gone to town.”

George did not make any observation for a minute. Was he afraid to make further inquiries? “What were the messages?” he presently asked.

“Mr. Godolphin did not show them to me, sir,” was the answer, spoken, or George fancied it, in a curt tone. “He said enough to tell me that there appeared to be some great cause for disquiet—and he has gone to see about it. He left a note in the parlour, sir, for you.”

Mr. Hurde buried his face over his books again, a genteel hint, perhaps, that he wished the colloquy to end—if his master would be pleased to take it. George entered the parlour and caught up the note.

“‘Be at home to callers; answer all inquiries,’” repeated he, reciting the last words of the note. “I wish Thomas may get it! Now that the explosion has come, Prior’s Ash is no place for me.”

Many and many a day had there intruded into George Godolphin’s mind a vision of this very time, when the “explosion” should have “come.” He had never dwelt upon it. He had driven it away from him to the utmost of his power. Perhaps it is not in the nature of those, whose course of conduct is such as to bring down these explosions as a natural sequence, to anticipate with uncomfortable minuteness the period of their arrival, or their particular manner of meeting them. Certainly George Godolphin had not done so: but there had been ever an undercurrent of conviction lying dormant in his heart, that he should not face it in person. When the brunt of the scandal was over, then he might return to home and Prior’s Ash: but he would not wait there to be present at its fall.

He crushed Thomas Godolphin’s note into his pocket, and stood upright on the hearthrug to think. He knew that, if treated according to his deserts, this would be the last friendly note written him by his brother for many a day to come. Thomas was then being whirled on his way to the full knowledge of his, George’s, delinquency; or, if not to the full knowledge, which perhaps could only be unfolded by degrees, as we turn the pages of a book, to quite enough of it. It was time for him to be off now. If inquisitive callers must be seen, Hurde could see them.

Conscience makes cowards of us all: a saying, not more trite than true. Very absurd cowards it makes of us now and then. As George Godolphin stood there, revolving the pros and cons of his getting away, the ways and means of his departure, a thought flashed into his mind as to whether he should be allowed to depart, if an inkling of his exodus got wind. It actually did so; unfounded as was any cause for it. The fear came from his lively conscience; but from nothing else. He might be seen at the railway station, and stopped: he might——“Tush!” interrupted George angrily, coming out of the foolish fear and returning to his sober senses. “People here know nothing yet, beyond the bare fact that the Bank has suspended payment. They can’t arrest a man for that.”

But, how about ways and means? Ay, that was a greater necessity for consideration. The money in George’s pockets amounted—I am telling you truth—to three and sixpence. With all his faults, he was open-hearted, open-handed. He had been weak, imprudent, extravagant; he had enacted a course of deceit to his brother and to the world, forced to it (he would have told you) by his great need and his great dread; he had made use of other men’s property: he had, in short, violated those good rules that public lamentation is made for every Sunday—he had left undone those things that he ought to have done, and he had done those things that he ought not to have done; but it was not for himself (in one sense) that he had done this. It was not for himself, selfishly. He had not been laying up in store for the evil day, or put by money to serve his wants when other moneys should fail. As long as he had money he spent it: whether in paying claims, or in making charming presents to Charlotte Pain and similarly esteemed friends—elegant little trifles that of course cost nothing, or next to it; or in new dolls for Meta; or in giving a five-pound note to some poor broken-down tradesman, who wanted to get upon his legs again. In one way or other the money had been spent; not a single shilling had George hoarded up; so, in that sense, though in that alone, he had been neither selfish nor dishonest.

And, now that the crash had come, he was without means. He had not so much as the fare in his pocket that would suffice to convey him away from the troubled scene, which the next week would evidently bring forth. The Bank funds were exhausted: so he had not them to turn to. But, get away he must: and, it seemed to him, the sooner the better.

He came forth through the door separating the Bank from the dwelling, and entered the dining-room. The tray was laid for luncheon, and for Meta’s dinner: but no one was in the room. He went upstairs to Maria’s sitting-room. She was there, quietly at work: and she looked up at him with a glad smile of welcome. Her attitude of repose, her employment, the expression of calm happiness pervading her countenance, told George that she was as yet in ignorance of what had occurred.

“What money have you in your purse, Maria?” asked he, speaking carelessly.

Maria laughed. “Why, none,” she answered quite merrily. “Or as good as none. I have been telling you ever so long, George, that I must have some money; and I must. A good deal, I mean; to pay my housekeeping bills.”

“Just see what you have,” returned George. “I want to borrow it.”

Maria put her hand into her pocket, and then found that her purse was in her desk. She gave the keys to George, and asked him to unlock it.

The purse was in a small compartment, lying on a ten-pound note. In the purse there proved to be a sovereign and seven shillings. George put the money and the purse back again, and took up the note.

“You sly girl!” cried he, pretending to be serious. “To tell me you had no money! What special cadeau is this put by for? A gold chain for Meta?”

“That is not mine, George. It is old Dame Bond’s. I told you about it, if you remember.”

“I’ll take this,” said George, transferring the note to his pocket.

“Oh no, George; don’t take that!” exclaimed Maria. “She may come for it at any hour. I promised to return it to her whenever she asked for it.”

“My dear, you shall have it again. She won’t come to-day.”

“Why can you not get a note from the Bank instead of taking that?”

George made no answer. He turned into his bedroom. Maria thought nothing of the omission: she supposed his mind to be preoccupied. In point of fact, she thought little of his taking the note. With coffers full (as she supposed) to turn to, borrowing a ten-pound note seemed an affair of no moment.

She sat on about ten minutes, hard at work. George remained in his bedroom, occupied (as it appeared to Maria) in opening and shutting various drawers. Somewhat curious as to what he could be doing, she at length rose from her seat and looked in. He was packing a large portmanteau.

“Are you going out, George?” she exclaimed in surprise.

“For a few days. Business is calling me to town. Look here, Maria. I shall take nothing with me, beyond my small black leather hand-case; but you can send this by one of the men to the station to-night. It must come after me.”

“What a very sudden determination, George!” she cried. “You did not say anything about it this morning.”

“I did not know then I should have to go. Don’t look sad, child. I shan’t be long away.”

“It seems to me that you are always going away now, George,” she observed, her tone as sad as her looks.

“Business must be attended to,” responded George, shaking out a coat that he was about to fold. “I don’t in the least covet going, I assure you, Maria.” What more she would have said, was interrupted by a noise. Some one had entered the sitting-room with much commotion. Maria returned to it, and saw Meta and Margery.

Meta had been the whole morning long in the hayfield. Not the particular hayfield already mentioned; that one was cleared of hay now; but to some other hayfield, whose cocks were in full bloom—if such an expression may be used in regard to hay. There were few things Miss Meta liked so much as a roll in the hay; and, so long as cocks were to be found in the neighbourhood, Margery would be coaxed over to take her to them. Margery did not particularly dislike it herself. Margery’s rolling days were over; but, seated at the foot of one of the cocks, her knitting in hand, and the child in view, Margery found the time pass agreeably enough. As she had found it, this day: and the best proof of it was, that she stayed beyond her time. Miss Meta’s dinner was waiting.

Miss Meta was probably aware of the fact by sundry inward warnings. She had gone flying into her mamma’s sitting-room, tugging at the strings of her hat, which had got into a knot. Margery had flown in, almost as quickly; certainly in greater excitement.

“Is it true, ma’am?” she gasped out, the moment she saw Maria.

“Is what true?” inquired Maria.

“That the Bank has broke. When I saw the shutters up and the door barred, for all the world as if everybody in the house was dead, you might have knocked me down with a feather. There’s quite a crowd round: and one of ’em told me the Bank had broke.”

George came out of his bedroom. “Take this child to the nursery, and get her ready for her dinner,” said he in the quick, decisive, haughty manner that he now and then used, though rarely to Margery.

Margery withdrew with the child, and George looked at his wife. She was standing in perplexity; half aghast, half in disbelief; and she turned her questioning eyes on George.

But for those words of Margery’s, whose sound had penetrated to his bedroom, would he have said anything to Maria before his departure? It must remain a question. Now he had no resource left but to tell her.

“The fact is, Maria, we have had a run upon the Bank this morning; have been compelled to suspend payment. For the present,” added George, vouchsafing to Maria the hopeful view of the case which his brother, in his ignorance, had taken.

She did not answer. She felt too much dismayed. Perhaps, in her mind’s confusion, she could not yet distinctly understand. George placed her in a chair.

“How scared you look, child! There’s no cause for that. Such things happen every day.”

“George—George!” she reiterated, struggling as it were for utterance: “do you mean that the Bank has failed? I don’t think I understand.”

“For the present. Some cause or other, that we can none of us get to the bottom of, caused a run upon us to-day.” “A run? You mean that people all came together, wanting to withdraw their money?”

“Yes. We paid as long as our funds held out. And then we closed.”

She burst into a distressing flood of tears. The shock, from unclouded prosperity—she had not known that that prosperity was fictitious—to ruin, to disgrace, was more than she could bear calmly. George felt vexed. It seemed as if the tears reproached him.

“For goodness’ sake, Maria, don’t go on like that,” he testily cried. “It will blow over; it will be all right.”

But he put his arm round her in spite of his hasty words. Maria leaned her face upon his bosom and sobbed out her tears upon it. He did not like the tears at all; he spoke quite crossly; and Maria did her best to hush them.

“What will be done?” she asked, choking down the rebellious sobs that rose in spite of her.

“Don’t trouble yourself about that. I have been obliged to tell you, because it is a thing that cannot be concealed; but it will not affect your peace and comfort, I hope. There’s no cause for tears.”

“Will the Bank go on again?”

“Thomas has gone up to London, expecting to bring funds down. In that case it will open on Monday morning.”

How could he tell it her? Knowing as he did know, and he alone, that through his deep-laid machinations, there were no longer funds available for the Bank or for Thomas Godolphin.

“Need you go to London,” she asked in a wailing tone, “if Thomas has gone? I shall be left alone.”

“I must go. There’s no help for it.”

“And which day shall you be back again? By Monday?”

“Not perhaps by Monday. Keep up your spirits, Maria. It will be all right.”

Meta came bursting in. She was going down to dinner. Was mamma coming to luncheon?

No, mamma did not want any. Margery would attend to her. George picked up the child and carried her into his room. In his drawers he had found some trifling toy; brought home for Meta weeks ago, and forgotten to be given to her. It had lain there since. It was one of those renowned articles, rarer now than they once were, called Bobbing Joan. George had given sixpence for it. A lady, with a black head and neck, a round body, and no visible legs. He put it on the top of the drawers, touched it, and set it bobbing at Meta.

She was all delight; she stretched out her hands for it eagerly. But George, neglecting the toy, sat down on a chair, clasped the child in his arms, and showered upon her more passionately heartfelt embraces than perhaps he had ever given to living mortal, child or woman. He did not keep her: the last long lingering kiss was pressed upon her rosy lips, and he put her down, handed her the toy, and bade her run and show it to mamma.

Away she went; to mamma first, and then in search of Margery.

Maria went into the bedroom to her husband. He was locking his portmanteau. “That is all, I believe,” he said, transferring the keys to his pocket, and taking up the small hand-case. “Remember that it is sent off by to-night’s train, Maria. I have addressed it.”

“You are not going now, George?” she said, her heart seeming to fail her strangely.

“Yes, I am.”

“But—there is no train. The express must have passed this half-hour.”

“I shall ride over to Crancomb and take the train there,” he answered. “I have some business in the place,” added he, by way of stopping any questions as to the why and wherefore. “Listen, Maria. You need not mention that I have gone until you see Thomas on Monday morning. Tell him.”

“Shall you not see him yourself in London?” she returned. “Are you not going to meet him?”

“I may miss him: it is just possible,” was the reply of George, spoken with all the candour in life, just as though his mission to London was the express one of meeting his brother. “If Thomas should return home without having seen me, I mean.”

“What am I to tell him?” she asked.

“Only that I am gone. There’s no necessity to say anything else. I shall—if I miss seeing him in town—write to him here.”

“And when shall you be back again?”

“Soon. Good-bye, my darling.”

He held his wife folded in his arms, as he had recently held Meta. The tears were raining down her cheeks.

“Don’t grieve, Maria. It will blow over, I say. God bless you. Take care of Meta.”

Maria’s heart felt as if it were breaking. But in the midst of her own distress, she remembered the claims of others. “That ten-pound note, George? If you are not back in a day or two, how shall I have it? The woman may come for it.”

“Oh, I shall be back. Or you can ask Thomas.”

In his careless indifference he thought he should be back before long. He was not going to run away: only to absent himself from the brunt of the explosion. That his delinquencies would be patent to Thomas and to others by Monday morning, he knew: it would be just as well to let some of their astonishment and anger evaporate without his presence; be far more agreeable to himself, personally. In his careless indifference, too, he had spoken the words, “You can ask Thomas.” A moment’s consideration would have told him that Thomas would have no ten-pound notes to spare for Maria. George Godolphin was one who never lost heart. He was indulging, now, the most extravagantly sanguine hopes of raising money in London, by some means or other. Perhaps Verrall could help him?

He strained his wife to his heart, kissed her again, and was gone. Maria sat down in the midst of her blinding tears.

Walking round to the stables, he waited there while his horse was got ready, mounted him, the small black case in front, and rode away alone. The groom thought his master was only going out for a ride, as he did on other days: but the man did wonder that Mr. George should go that day. Crancomb was a small place about five miles off: it had a railway station, and the ordinary trains stopped there. What motive induced him to go there to take the train, he best knew. Probably, he did not care to excite the observation and comment, which his going off from Prior’s Ash on that day would be sure to excite. Seriously to fear being stopped, he did not.

He rode along at a leisurely pace, reaching Crancomb just before the up-train was expected. Evidently the day’s great disaster had not yet travelled to Crancomb. George was received with all the tokens of respect, ever accorded to the Godolphins. He charged the landlord of the inn to send his horse back to Prior’s Ash on Monday morning, changed Mrs. Bond’s ten-pound note, and chatted familiarly to the employÉs at the station, after taking his ticket.

Up came the train. Two or three solitary passengers, bound for the place, descended, two or three entered. The whistle sounded; the engine shrieked and puffed: and George Godolphin, nodding familiarly around with his gay smile, was carried on his road to London.

Maria had sat on, her blinding tears falling. What an alteration it was! What a contrast to the happiness of the morning! That a few minutes should have power to bring forth so awful a change! The work she had done so eagerly before, lay on the table. Where had its enjoyment gone? She turned from it now with a feeling not far removed from sickness. Nothing could be thought of but the great trouble which had fallen; there was no further satisfaction to be derived from outward things. The work lay there, untouched; destined, though she knew it not, never to have another stitch set in it by its mistress; and she sat on and on, her hands clasped inertly before her, her brain throbbing with its uncertainty and its care.