To this I consented; but I fear she was disappointed in the result. Her husband only smiled sarcastically, drew in his chin, and showed himself a little more cheerful than usual.
One morning, about two months after, as I was sitting in the 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.