“George—George!” she reiterated, struggling as it were for utterance: “do you mean that the Bank has failed? I don’t think I understand.”
“For the present. Some cause or other, that we can none of us get to the bottom of, caused a run upon us to-day.”
“A run? You mean that people all came together, wanting to withdraw their money?”
“Yes. We paid as long as our funds held out. And then we closed.”
She burst into a distressing flood of tears. The shock, from unclouded prosperity—she had not known that that prosperity was fictitious—to ruin, to disgrace, was more than she could bear calmly. George felt vexed. It seemed as if the tears reproached him.
“For goodness’ sake, Maria, don’t go on like that,” he testily cried. “It will blow over; it will be all right.”
But he put his arm round her in spite of his hasty words. Maria leaned her face upon his bosom and sobbed out her tears upon it. He did not like the tears at all; he spoke quite crossly; and Maria did her best to hush them.
“What will be done?” she asked, choking down the rebellious sobs that rose in spite of her.
“Don’t trouble yourself about that. I have been obliged to tell you, because it is a thing that cannot be concealed; but it will not affect your peace and comfort, I hope. There’s no cause for tears.”
“Will the Bank go on again?”