"It doesn't make any difference about that, Nellie," said Mollie. "I was just as much to blame—you couldn't have done it without me. We—we've found out a terrible thing about 'Phosphate,' Gwynne—it's—it's not going to double at all. We thought we'd get some money right away, and we didn't—and then we waited—and we didn't get any—and we were afraid to ask Colonel Pallinder, for fear it would look as if—as if—we didn't believe in him—don't, Gwynne, don't look that way! And then at last we went down to the Third National where our money used to be; we got Mary to go with us, because we were afraid to go by ourselves, and besides it's not ladylike; she knows your friend, Mr. Taylor, that great big tall young man that's in there back in the brass-wired-off place, you know, Gwynne. And Mary wasn't a bit afraid; she just asked for him, and he came out and took the paper—it's a certificate, isn't it?—and looked at it, and then went back into the president's room, and we heard some men laughing, Gwynne. And then Mr. McAlpine himself came out after a while, and he came up and said he knew we'd believe him, because of his being president, and he was sorry to have to tell us, but that stock wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, and he wanted to know whose advice we had acted on in buying it. So he and Mary and Mr. Taylor and you are the only people that know anything about it, Gwynne, and—and—if it don't go any farther than that, it won't—it won't be a disgrace to you or the family," said poor old Mollie with tears.
Gwynne looked at them helplessly. That these two shy, fearsome, frugal, penny-wise old gentlewomen could have ventured their all upon one reckless stake like the worst and wildest gambler that ever tossed his last dollar on the cloth, was well-nigh inconceivable—but the thing had happened! It was not merely unexpected, it was impossible—and it had happened! If he had been asked to name the members of his family who might most safely be trusted to hoard and watch over their lean inheritance, he would have pitched upon Eleanor and Mollie; he would have supposed them impregnable behind their barrier of timorous ignorance, entrenched forever in the habit of grinding economy—and lo, that very childish inexperience, that thriftless parsimony, had been their undoing!
"Well, but whose advice did you take?" he asked. "You surely asked somebody besides Caleb What's-his-name? Why didn't you come to me—or Cousin Jennie?"
"But Jennie wouldn't have let us do it, you know," said Eleanor, with entire simplicity. "There wouldn't have been any use asking her. And we were so sure—we thought Colonel Pallinder's advice was enough—we knew you wouldn't go to the house so much if you didn't think he was to be trusted—you wouldn't go where anybody was dishonourable. But I don't believe he is honourable, Gwynne; of course, he's had misfortunes with 'Phosphate' like ourselves, but if he were really honourable, he'd pay our rent."
The young man was silenced; anger and shame surged together within him. The most expert of fencers could not have pricked him closer home than Eleanor with her simple earnestness of belief. Their faith blackened him in his own eyes; their affection stung; their tremulous apologies scourged.
"Never mind, Cousin Mollie—don't cry—I'll take care of you," he said, huskily, at last. "Now let me get a carriage and send you home—and don't worry about your money, nor the rent—I'll get it back for you some way or another——"
Mollie and Eleanor cried harder than ever; mingled with their ghastly visions of ultimate destitution, and much more concretely awful, had been the fear of what Gwynne would say, of what he would think when he heard the shameful news. Their tears comforted them; and I dare say that many a real sinner has touched thus the utter depth, and found there a like unexpected peace.
"Oh, Gwynne, you're so good to us—and with poor Sam on your mind all the time, too—but you never think about yourself at all!"
Gwynne almost smiled. Sam? What care had he given to Sam or Sam's interests of late? And of whom had he been thinking, if not solely of himself?