“With all her might she cloth her business  To bringen him out of his heaviness.
 *             *             *             *             *
 Lo here what gentleness these women have,
 If we could know it for our rudéness.
 Alway right sorry for our distress!
 In every manner thus show they ruth,
 That in them is all goodness and all truth.”
 
CHAUCER.
 
 
 
AN exclamation of terror from Veronica’s maid startled Geoffrey and made him look round, for in his madness of rage and misery he had instinctively turned his face away from the eyes of his gentle friend. The poor lady lay all but fainting, gasping for breath in a way piteous to behold. 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 hysterical 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 wrung 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 bustle of conveying the invalid to her sofa was safely accomplished, 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!
 
But it added a sharper pang to his wretchedness. “Your affectionate 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 knave 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 rumours, are often the last to hear them. And they may very probably be utterly 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 regiment who is a friend of mine.
“Yours very truly,
“FRAMLEY P. VERE.”
Geoffrey handed both letters to Veronica. She read them carefully before she spoke. He watched her impatiently. As soon as she had finished, he said in a dull, hopeless voice—
 
“How shall I tell her? And Harry too? She will feel his share of it even more?”
 
Veronica considered a little. Then she replied—
 
“Are you not acting prematurely in deciding that all is so very bad as you imagine? After all, it was a mere 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 stunned 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 chafing 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 pony.”
 
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “That will do very well.”
 
And thankful for the temporary reprieve, he set off on his errand of enquiry.
 
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 interval, 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 savings gone, and the disgrace, which I verily believe he feels more. As I should if I were alone. Good God! why did I bind 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 perfectly 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.”
 
“But how has it been caused?” Veronica enquired again.
 
“You may well ask,” he answered bitterly; that is the hideous 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 inevitable 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 farce this morning of taking down the shutters.”
 
“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 moodily 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 prostrate 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 groan, “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 hom............