But in this, they to some extent reckoned without their host. The carriage which came the next morning to fetch Miss Temple’s guest home to the Manor Farm, brought in it, early though it was, Mrs. Baldwin herself, eager to welcome the travellers in person.
Geoffrey was already out. Off again to the scene of his troubles, the Mallingford Bank, there to meet Mr. Linthwaite, and go over with him all the details of the miserable story. But he was to be back in half-an-hour. Veronica’s heart failed her when she heard her young visitor’s step on the stair. It was no light or pleasant task which, in her unselfishness, she had undertaken.
Suddenly it occurred to her, “might not Marion have already heard the bad news, and this be the reason of her early visit? How stupid not to have thought of this before!” She almost hoped it might be so, but a glance at Marion’s face decided her that no bird of evil omen in the shape a Miss Tremlett, or any of her gossiping cronies, had yet carried the tidings to the young mistress of the Manor Farm. For Marion, though somewhat pale from her recent illness, looked bright and cheerful: happier by far than when last her friend had seen her; which did not make things easier for poor Veronica! The girl kissed her affectionately, and said something in her own sweet way (as far as possible removed from the coldness of which by mere acquaintances she was usually accused), of her pleasure at her safe return to them. Then some little details of the journey were mentioned, and Veronica remarked casually that Geoffrey had gone to the bank for half-an-hour on business, but would be back shortly, as he was expecting the carriage to meet him.
“Though he did not know you would be in it, dear Marion,” said Veronica, “it was very good of you to come so soon. I was just writing a note to ask you to come this afternoon. I wanted particularly to see you.”
Then there fell a little silence, and out of the heart of the elder woman there crept to that of her friend a soft, mysterious message of sympathy. Words were not wanted. A slight shiver ran through Marion, and she turned to Veronica.
“What is wrong? What is it you are wishing to tell me and cannot find strength to utter? Dear Veronica, do not fear for me.”
And Miss Temple laid her hand gently on Marion’s, and the girl’s brave, clear eyes fixed on her drew forth the bare, unsoftened truth.
“My child, your husband is ruined. The Mallingford Bank in which was all he possessed has failed, and he is utterly penniless.”
She had not meant to tell it so shortly and suddenly. She had thought of “breaking it” by degrees, as even the wisest and tenderest of us persist in doing to others, however we may suffer when the operation is performed on ourselves. But with Marion’s eyes thus fixed on her she had no option but to tell the whole sharply; to her own ears indeed cruelly, in its matter-of-fact accuracy and stern reality.
Marion’s eyes never flinched. She said quietly, “And my money—and—and Harry’s?” With the last word her face worked a little, and for a moment Veronica fancied a dimness overspread the grey eyes, still resolutely fixed on hers. But she too, answered calmly and deliberately.