"Do you need money, Cousin Eleanor?" asked Gwynne gently.
Mollie began to cry hysterically again.
"We don't want you to advance any, Gwynne," said old Eleanor, trembling and turning very pale. "You've done that before, and—and now you will need all your money for poor Sam. And—and besides, Gwynne, I—I—we're not fit to be trusted with money—I—I was going to tell you, only it's so hard—but we're—we're—we've been very wicked women!" She burst out sobbing. Gwynne might have smiled at this lurid statement from two such timid, plaintive and abjectly respectable old maiden ladies if the circumstances had left him any heart for smiling.
"Why, what's the matter, Cousin Eleanor?—don't cry that way!" he said, distressed. "It's not your fault, you know. Now I promise you I'll see about it—I'll get your money for you—these things are bound to take a little time, you know——"
"Huh! You said that before—you've said it a dozen times!" said Steven. He looked at Gwynne with open suspicion. "Will you come with me over to Pallinder's office now?"
"No, no, don't do that; wait till I've told him everything, Steven—wait a minute Gwynne!" cried Eleanor, laying her damp hands and handkerchief on the young man's arm. "Gwynne!" she said tragically, "it's quite true—we're wicked, wicked women! We took—Mollie and I took all our money—it was that thousand dollars that we got when Cousin Lucien died, you know, that we'd always put away to use if we were sick—or, or got married—or anything, and some besides that we'd saved up—it was last year—and we thought the rent would be coming in all the time, and we counted on that—you know we were quite sure, Gwynne, or we wouldn't have done it—and—and—we'd heard about so many people making money in stocks—Caleb Spicer—that's the vegetable-man we've taken from for ever so long, and I know Caleb's honest—he told us about his brother-in-law—only Caleb didn't tell us about this stock, Gwynne, it wasn't Caleb's fault at all, I wouldn't have you think that—his brother-in-law's stock was some other kind, I don't remember what now. And we—we bought some stock, Gwynne—it was 'Phosphate'—a mine, or was it a well, Sister Mollie? We—we've never had any money, Gwynne, I mean much, you know—and we—we've had to save so, and go without a girl and all—and make our own clothes—and we did so want to have a little more—and we thought it would get to be worth double or treble in the least little while, the way those things do—the way Caleb's brother-in-law's did—and besides Colonel Pallinder said it would——"
"What!" said Gwynne. He got up. His face blanched; the likeness to old Samuel Gwynne leaped out upon his features so strong, so lowering, that Eleanor and Mollie involuntarily drew back, appalled. They supposed the confession had angered him. "We didn't know anything about it, Gwynne," they both began. "We didn't know—we didn't mean to do anything wrong!"
"You didn't do anything wrong," said Gwynne, with an effort. "Go on. What has happened?"
"It was all my fault, Gwynne," said Eleanor, generously. "I put it into Mollie's head—it was my fault, all of it."