Meta ran off. She intended to come bustling down again with her arms full. Mr. Snow took his seat opposite Maria.
“Why does your husband not come back?” he abruptly asked.
The question seemed to turn Maria’s heart to sickness. She opened her lips to answer, but stopped in hesitation. Mr. Snow resumed:
“His staying away is killing Thomas Godolphin. I prescribe tranquillity for him; total rest: instead of which, he is obliged to come here day after day, and be in a continuous scene of worry. Your husband must return, Mrs. George Godolphin.”
“Y—es,” she faintly answered, lacking the courage to say that considerations for his personal security might forbid it.
“Murder will not mend these unhappy matters, Mrs. George Godolphin; nor would it be a desirable ending to them. And it will be nothing less than murder if he does not return, for Mr. Godolphin will surely die.”
All Maria’s pulses seemed to beat the quicker. “Is Mr. Godolphin worse?” she asked.
“He is considerably worse. I have been called in to him this morning. My last orders to him were, not to attempt to come to the Bank. His answer was, that he must come: there was no help for it. I believe there is no help for it, George being away. You must get him home, Mrs. George.”
She looked sadly perplexed. Mr. Snow read it correctly.
“My dear, I think there would be no danger. Lord Averil is a personal friend of Mr. Godolphin’s. I think there’s none for another reason: if the viscount’s intention had been to stir unpleasantly in the affair, he would have stirred in it before this.”