“Hush, my love! Keep despair from you, whatever you do.”
“I could bear it better but for the thought of you and papa. That is killing me. Indeed, indeed I have not deserved the blame thrown upon me. I knew nothing of what was happening.”
“My dear, we have not blamed you.”
“Oh yes, every one blames me!” wailed Maria. “And I know how sad it is for you all—to suffer by us. It breaks my heart to think of it. Mamma, do you know I dreamt last night that a shower of gold was falling down to me, faster than I could gather it in my hands. I thought I was going to pay every one, and I ran away laughing, oh so glad! and held out some to papa. ‘Take them,’ I said to him, ‘they are slipping through my fingers.’ I fell down when I was near him, and awoke. I awoke—and—then”—she could scarcely speak for sobbing—“I remembered. Mamma, but for Meta I should have been glad in that moment to die.”
The emotion of both was very great, nearly overpowering Maria. Mrs. Hastings could not say much to comfort, she was too prostrated herself. Anxious as she had been to see Maria, for she could not bear the thought of her being left alone and unnoticed in her distress—she almost repented having sent for her. Neither was strong enough to bear this excess of agitation.
Not a word was spoken of George Godolphin. Mrs. Hastings did not mention him; Maria could not. The rest of the interview was chiefly spent in silence, Maria holding her mother’s hand and giving way to a rising sob now and then. Into the affairs of the Bank Mrs. Hastings felt that she could not enter. There must be a wall of silence between them on that point, as on the subject of George.
At the foot of the stairs, as she went down, she met her father. “Oh, is it you, Maria?” he said. “How are you?”
His tone was kindly. But Maria’s heart was full, and she could not answer. He turned into the room by which they were standing, and she went in after him.
“When is your husband coming back? I suppose you don’t know?”
“No,” she answered, obliged to confess it.