"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 a.s.sure 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 c.o.c.ks 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 c.o.c.ks 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 c.o.c.ks, her knitting in hand, and the child in view, Margery found the time pa.s.s 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 fict.i.tious--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 G.o.dolphin.

"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 pa.s.sionately 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.