“It is not likely, Reginald, that such a thing could be true.”
“Of course it is not,” said Reginald, with impetuous indignation. “If I had thought it was true, I should not have asked you about it, Maria. Why, that class of people have to stand in a dock and be tried, and get imprisoned, and transported, and all the rest of it! That’s just like Prior’s Ash! If it gets hold of the story to-day that I have come home without my sea-chest, to-morrow it will be saying that I have come home without my head. George Godolphin’s a jolly good fellow, and I hope he’ll turn round on the lot. Many a time he has helped me out of a hole that I didn’t dare tell any one else of; and I wish he may come triumphantly out of this!”
Reginald talked on, but Maria heard him not. An awful fear had been aroused within her. Entire as was her trust in her husband’s honour, improbable as the uncertain accusation was, the terrible fear that something or other might be wrong took possession of her, and turned her heart to sickness.
“I bought Meta a stuffed monkey out there,” continued Reginald, jerking his head to indicate some remote quarter of his travels. “I thought you’d not like me to bring home a live one for her—even if the skipper had allowed it to come in the ship. I came across a stuffed one cheap, and bought it.”
Maria roused herself to smile. “Have you brought it to Prior’s Ash?”
“Well—no,” confessed Reginald, coming down a tone or two. “The fact is, it went with the rest of my things. I’ll get her something better next voyage. And now I’m off, Maria, for Grace’s tea will be ready. Remember me to George Godolphin. I’ll come in and see him to-morrow.”
With a commotion, equal to that he had made in ascending, Reginald clattered down, and Maria saw him and his not too good sailor’s jacket go swaying up the street towards her sister’s. It was the only jacket of any sort Mr. Reginald possessed: and the only one he was likely to possess, until he could learn to keep himself and his clothes in better order.
Maria, with the new fear at her heart—which, strive as she might to thrust it indignantly from her, to ignore it, to reason herself out of it, would continue to be a fear, and a very horrible one—remained alone for the rest of the day. Just before bedtime, Margery came to her.
“I have been turning it over in my mind, ma’am, and have come to the conclusion that it might be as well if I do go to meet my sister. She’s always on the groan, it’s true: but maybe she is bad, and we might never have a chance of seeing each other again. So I think I’ll go.”
“Very well,” said Maria. “Harriet can attend to the child. What time in the morning must you be away, Margery?”