Miss Meta was probably aware of the fact by sundry inward warnings. She had gone flying into her mamma’s sitting-room, tugging at the strings of her hat, which had got into a knot. Margery had flown in, almost as quickly; certainly in greater excitement.
“Is it true, ma’am?” she gasped out, the moment she saw Maria.
“Is what true?” inquired Maria.
“That the Bank has broke. When I saw the shutters up and the door barred, for all the world as if everybody in the house was dead, you might have knocked me down with a feather. There’s quite a crowd round: and one of ’em told me the Bank had broke.”
George came out of his bedroom. “Take this child to the nursery, and get her ready for her dinner,” said he in the quick, decisive, haughty manner that he now and then used, though rarely to Margery.
Margery withdrew with the child, and George looked at his wife. She was standing in perplexity; half aghast, half in disbelief; and she turned her questioning eyes on George.
But for those words of Margery’s, whose sound had penetrated to his bedroom, would he have said anything to Maria before his departure? It must remain a question. Now he had no resource left but to tell her.
“The fact is, Maria, we have had a run upon the Bank this morning; have been compelled to suspend payment. For the present,” added George, vouchsafing to Maria the hopeful view of the case which his brother, in his ignorance, had taken.
She did not answer. She felt too much dismayed. Perhaps, in her mind’s confusion, she could not yet distinctly understand. George placed her in a chair.
“How scared you look, child! There’s no cause for that. Such things happen every day.”