The Vicar's Daughter, George MacDonald [important books to read .txt] 📗

drawing-room, with my baby on the floor beside me, I was surprised to see Judy’s brougham pull up at the little gate—for it was early. When she got out, I perceived at once that something was amiss, and ran to open the door. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks ashy. The moment we reached the drawing-room, she sunk on the couch and burst into tears.

“Judy!” I cried, “what is the matter? Is Amy worse?”

“No, no, cozzy dear; but we are ruined. We haven’t a penny in the world. The children will be beggars.”

And there were the gay little horses champing their bits at the door, and the coachman sitting in all his glory, erect and impassive!

I did my best to quiet her, urging no questions. With difficulty I got her to swallow a glass of wine, after which, with many interruptions and fresh outbursts of misery, she managed to let me understand that her husband had been speculating, and had failed. I could hardly believe myself awake. Mr. Morley was the last man I should have thought capable either of speculating, or of failing in it if he did.

Knowing nothing about business, I shall not attempt to explain the particulars. Coincident failures amongst his correspondents had contributed to his fall. Judy said he had not been like himself for months; but it was only the night before that he had told her they must give up their house in Bolivar Square, and take a small one in the suburbs. For any thing he could see, he said, he must look out for a situation.

“Still you may be happier than ever, Judy. I can tell you that happiness does not depend on riches,” I said, though I could not help crying with her.

“It’s a different thing though, after you’ve been used to them,” she answered. “But the question is of bread for my children, not of putting down my carriage.”

She rose hurriedly.

“Where are you going? Is there any thing I can do for you?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she answered. “I left my husband at Mr. Baddeley’s. He is as rich as Croesus, and could write him a check that would float him.”

“He’s too rich to be generous, I’m afraid,” I said.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked.

“If he be so generous, how does it come that he is so rich?”

“Why, his father made the money.”

“Then he most likely takes after his father. Percivale says he does not believe a huge fortune was ever made of nothing, without such pinching of one’s self and such scraping of others, or else such speculation, as is essentially dishonorable.”

“He stands high,” murmured Judy hopelessly.

“Whether what is dishonorable be also disreputable depends on how many there are of his own sort in the society in which he moves.”

“Now, coz, you know nothing to his discredit, and he’s our last hope.”

“I will say no more,” I answered. “I hope I may be quite wrong. Only I should expect nothing of him.”

When she reached Mr. Baddeley’s her husband was gone. Having driven to his counting-house, and been shown into his private room, she found him there with his head between his hands. The great man had declined doing any thing for him, and had even rebuked him for his imprudence, without wasting a thought on the fact that every penny he himself possessed was the result of the boldest speculation on the part of his father. A very few days only would elapse before the falling due of certain bills must at once disclose the state of his affairs.

As soon as she had left me, Percivale not being at home, I put on my bonnet, and went to find Marion. I must tell her every thing that caused me either joy or sorrow; and besides, she had all the right that love could give to know of Judy’s distress. I knew all her engagements, and therefore where to find her; and sent in my card, with the pencilled intimation that I would wait the close of her lesson. In a few minutes she came out and got into the cab. At once I told her my sad news.

“Could you take me to Cambridge Square to my next engagement?” she said.

I was considerably surprised at the cool way in which she received the communication, but of course I gave the necessary directions.

“Is there any thing to be done?” she asked, after a pause.

“I know of nothing,” I answered.

Again she sat silent for a few minutes.

“One can’t move without knowing all the circumstances and particulars,” she said at length. “And how to get at them? He wouldn’t make a confidante of me,” she said, smiling sadly.

“Ah! you little think what vast sums are concerned in such a failure as his!” I remarked, astounded that one with her knowledge of the world should talk as she did.

“It will be best,” she said, after still another pause, “to go to Mr. Blackstone. He has a wonderful acquaintance with business for a clergyman, and knows many of the city people.”

“What could any clergyman do in such a case?” I returned. “For Mr. Blackstone, Mr. Morley would not accept even consolation at his hands.”

“The time for that is not come yet,” said Marion. “We must try to help him some other way first. We will, if we can, make friends with him by means of the very Mammon that has all but ruined him.”

She spoke of the great merchant just as she might of Richard, or any of the bricklayers or mechanics, whose spiritual condition she pondered that she might aid it.

“But what could Mr. Blackstone do?” I insisted.

“All I should want of him would be to find out for me what Mr. Morley’s liabilities are, and how much would serve to tide him over the bar of his present difficulties. I suspect he has few friends who would risk any thing for him. I understand he is no favorite in the city; and, if friendship do not come in, he must be stranded. You believe him an honorable man,—do you not?” she asked abruptly.

“It never entered my head to doubt it,” I replied.

The moment we reached Cambridge Square she jumped out, ran up the steps, and knocked at the door. I waited, wondering if she was going to leave me thus without a farewell. When the door was opened, she merely gave a message to the man, and the same instant was again in the cab by my side.

“Now I am free!” she said, and told the man to drive to Mile End.

“I fear I can’t go with you so far, Marion,” I said. “I must go home—I have so much to see to, and you can do quite as well without me. I don’t know what you intend, but please don’t let any thing come out. I can trust you, but”—

“If you can trust me, I can trust Mr. Blackstone. He is the most cautious man in the world. Shall I get out, and take another cab?”

“No. You can drop me at Tottenham Court Road, and I will go home by omnibus. But you must let me pay the cab.”

“No, no; I am richer than you: I have no children. What fun it is to spend money for Mr. Morley, and lay him under an obligation he will never know!” she said, laughing.

The result of her endeavors was, that Mr. Blackstone, by a circuitous succession of introductions, reached Mr. Morley’s confidential clerk, whom he was able so far to satisfy concerning his object in desiring the information, that he made him a full disclosure of the condition of affairs, and stated what sum would be sufficient to carry them over their difficulties; though, he added, the greatest care, and every possible reduction of expenditure for some years, would be indispensable to their complete restoration.

Mr. Blackstone carried his discoveries to Miss Clare and she to Lady Bernard.

“My dear Marion,” said Lady Bernard, “this is a serious matter you suggest. The man may be honest, and yet it may be of no use trying to help him. I don’t want to bolster him up for a few months in order to see my money go after his. That’s not what I’ve got to do with it. No doubt I could lose as much as you mention, without being crippled by it, for I hope it’s no disgrace in me to be rich, as it’s none in you to be poor; but I hate waste, and I will not be guilty of it. If Mr. Morley will convince me and any friend or man of business to whom I may refer the matter, that there is good probability of his recovering himself by means of it, then, and not till then, I shall feel justified in risking the amount. For, as you say, it would prevent much misery to many besides that good-hearted creature, Mrs. Morley, and her children. It is worth doing if it can be done—not worth trying if it can’t.”

“Shall I write for you, and ask him to come and see you?”

“No, my dear. If I do a kindness, I must do it humbly. It is a great liberty to take with a man to offer him a kindness. I must go to him. I could not use the same freedom with a man in misfortune as with one in prosperity. I would have such a one feel that his money or his poverty made no difference to me; and Mr. Morley wants that lesson, if any man does. Besides, after all, I may not be able to do it for him, and he would have good reason to be hurt if I had made him dance attendance on me.”

The same evening Lady Bernard’s shabby one-horse-brougham stopped at Mr. Morley’s door. She asked to see Mrs. Morley, and through her had an interview with her husband. Without circumlocution, she told him that if he would lay his affairs before her and a certain accountant she named, to use their judgment regarding them in the hope of finding it possible to serve him, they would wait upon him for that purpose at any time and place he pleased. Mr. Morley expressed his obligation,—not very warmly, she said,—repudiating, however, the slightest objection to her ladyship’s knowing now what all the world must know the next day but one.

Early the following morning Lady Bernard and the accountant met Mr. Morley at his place in the city, and by three o’clock in the afternoon fifteen thousand pounds were handed in to his account at his banker’s.

The carriage was put down, the butler, one of the footmen, and the lady’s maid, were dismissed, and household arrangements fitted to a different scale.

One consequence of this chastisement, as of the preceding, was, that the whole family drew yet more closely and lovingly together; and I must say for Judy, that, after a few weeks of what she called poverty, her spirits seemed in no degree the worse for the trial.

At Marion’s earnest entreaty no one told either Mr. or Mrs. Morley of the share she had had in saving his credit and social position. For some time she suffered from doubt as to whether she had had any right to interpose in the matter, and might not have injured Mr. Morley by depriving him of the discipline of poverty; but she reasoned with herself, that, had it been necessary for him, her efforts would have been frustrated; and reminded herself, that, although his commercial credit had escaped, it must still be a considerable trial to him to live in reduced style.

But that it was not all the trial needful