“Though he made me poor,” she continued, “it was probably through accident. And I have no fear of poverty”—how simply and ignorantly she pronounced that terrible word!—“I do not mind it in the least, if you do not.”
“Was there any need for that if, Agatha?”
“No,” she replied, and was silent. Shame and remorse gathered over her like a cloud. She thought of those wicked words she had spoken—words which to this day he had neither answered nor revenged. He had even suffered the smooth surface of daily kindnesses to grow over that gaping wound of division. Was it there still? Did he remember it? Could she dare to allude to it, if only to implore him to forgive her? She would in a little time—perhaps when they were by themselves in their own house, when she would throw herself at his knees and weep out a confession that was beyond all words—words could but insult him the more. There are some wounds that can only be healed by love and silence.
“I think it is time,” said the husband—“full time that you heard all, or nearly all, connected with this painful matter. It is mere business, which I will try to make intelligible if possible. You ought not to be quite so ignorant of worldly matters as you are, since, if anything happened to me—But I have provided against almost everything.”
“What are you talking of?” said Agatha, holding him tight, with a faint intuition of his meaning.
“Of nothing painful. Do not be afraid. Only that I think it right to explain to you what has occurred to us since our marriage—in worldly things I mean.”
“Yes. I am listening.”
“Before we married,” he continued, distinctly, and rather proudly, “I knew nothing whatever of your fortune—not even its amount. I made no inquiries, interfered in no way, except reading the settlement I signed. The settlement stated that your property was safe in the Funds. This was a”—his brow darkened—“it was—not true. The whole had been taken out, contrary to your father's expressed will, and embarked in a mining speculation in Cornwall.”
“Those miners whom Miss Valery aided? Was it my money that was wasted at Wheal Caroline? Was it me from whom the poor miner came to seek redress?”
“No; the transaction was more blameable even than that. It was all carried on in my brother's name. He was made what they call 'managing director' of the company: Grimes being solicitor. There were a few shareholders—his clients—widows and unmarried women who had put by their savings, and such like poor people who wanted large interest, and some richer ones, important enough to make public their ruin—for everybody lost all.”