The Baronet felt ill at ease. With a perfect consciousness of honorable motives, there is an awkwardness in situations which seem to require explanation, if not excuse, and he waited, in a sort of fidgety impatience, that she should say something that might enable him to state what had occurred between Clara and himself.
“I hope you are better than when I left you this morning?” said she, as she untied her bonnet and seated herself in front of him.
“Scarcely so; these pains recur at every instant, and my nerves are shattered with irritability.”
“I 'm sorry for it, for you have need of all your firmness; bad news has come from America.”
“Bad news? What sort of bad news? Is there a war—”
“A war!” said she, contemptuously. “I wish it was a war! It's far worse than war. It's general bankruptcy. All the great houses breaking, and securities utterly valueless.”
“Well, bad enough, no doubt, but it does not immediately concern us,” said he, quickly.
“Not concern us! Why, what have we been doing these last months but buying into this share-market? Have we not invested largely in Kansas stock, in Iroquois and in Texan bonds?”
Whether he had not originally understood the transfers in which he had borne his part, or whether the pain of his seizure had effaced all memory of the events, he now sat bewildered and astounded, like one suddenly aroused from a deep sleep, to listen to disastrous news.
“But I don't understand,” cried he. “I cannot see how all this has been done. I heard you and Trover discussing it together, and I saw innumerable colored plans of railroads that were to be, and cities that must be, and I remember something about lands to be purchased for two dollars and re-sold for two hundred.”