A Question of Marriage Part 24

But Robert did not speak. It was the first time in the history of their acquaintance that Vanna had known him show even a moment's hesitation in granting a request from Jean's lips, and _she_ looked at him in surprise. Distress was written upon his face, and a wistful appeal for forgiveness, but stronger than all, an air of decision which gave no promise of weakening.

"I'm sorry, darling; but it's impracticable. It will be hard enough to squeeze out any holiday this year; an extra trip abroad is out of the question. Expenses have been heavy lately"--he shrugged his shoulders with a smile. "They always _are_ heavy, somehow, and we must be careful not to launch into fresh extravagance."

"We have _not_ been extravagant. The money has gone in uninteresting, disagreeable _necessities_. No one can call a doctor's bill extravagance, or a new cistern, or stair carpets. _Au contraire_, we've been so dull and prudent that it would be a tonic to spend a little money on fun, for a change. Can't we manage it, somehow, Rob? Do!

Sell a share, or something. It _would_ be a treat."

The lines on Robert's face deepened suddenly; his smile flickered out.

"No; I've done that too often. That must come to an end. My shares are painfully near an end. I'm sorry, dear, but it's impossible."

Jean shrugged her shoulders. The lines deepened on her face also, and her lip quivered with disappointment, but she made no fruitless protestation. For the rest of the meal she was silent, leaving the conversation to be carried on by Vanna and Robert; but before leaving the room she went out of her way to pa.s.s Robert's chair and lay a caressing hand on his shoulder.

He lifted his face to her with the old adoring expression in his brown eyes, and the tired lines disappeared from his brow. He had kept up the conversation out of consideration for Vanna's feelings, but his attention had really been engrossed by Jean, and his own regrets at being obliged to refuse her request. Now he evidently felt himself forgiven, and was transparently grateful for his wife's forbearance.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

DISASTER.

It was the first of October, 1878, a day of fateful memory. Jean Gloucester stood before the mirror in her bedroom, surveying a new gown which she was wearing for the first time. The soft grey crepe was swathed and draped in absolute disregard of the stiff fashion of the day, two quaint silver buckles of Norman design held the folds together over the breast, an old lace tucker was tied by a silver cord. Jean affected delicate shades of grey, and the neutral colour formed a perfect background for the vivid beauty of her face. She stood back from the mirror, turning slowly round and round, patting, smoothing, pressing with careful, deliberate touch, but the light in her eyes spoke more of expectation than complacence. Jean was not vain. Really beautiful people are seldom victims of this sin. It is your "rather pretty" woman who spends her life in the effort to add to her charms.

Jean was accustomed to her beauty, and accepted it--with other such blessings--as a matter of course, but Robert's fervid admiration was a factor in her life. This afternoon she was feeling unusually well, and as usual under these circ.u.mstances, was fired by the old girlish spirit of mischief. Jean was ever a child at heart, loving to play tricks, to plan surprises, and weave pretty, dramatic _denouements_ out of the prose of life. A hundred times had she so taken Robert by storm, and the hundredth time had found him as astounded, as unprepared, as blankly mystified as the first. After years of matrimony Jean was still an enigma, concerning which nothing could be foretold but the unexpected; but the mystery added strength to her charm. Life with Jean might at times be somewhat difficult and trying, but never by any possibility could it become dull.

This evening Jean amused herself by planning an effective appearance for herself in her new gown. Instead of awaiting Robert in the den, she would stay in her bedroom until he was safely inside the hall, and would then sweep down the staircase in all her bravery, while he stood gazing upward with the glow of delight she loved to see shining in his hazel eyes. Then he would affect to be overcome with surprise, would stagger against the wall, and lean there helplessly while she stood beneath the lamp, revolving slowly round and round to show herself from every point of view. Then they would retreat into the den, and he would kiss her, and call her his beautiful darling, his bonnie, bonnie Jean, and she would preen herself, and ask if he were not a proud man to be allowed the privilege of paying the bill for such a heavenly gown, and they would laugh and spar, like a couple of happy children, rather than a staid old married couple, Jean gave a little skip of antic.i.p.ation even as she crept to the head of the staircase to listen for Robert's return.

He was due now--this minute! She failed to catch his usual whistle, but presently the key turned in the latch, and she drew back her head, not wishing to be seen until the dramatic moment should arrive.

Robert shut the door and advanced a few steps into the hall. He did not whistle again, which seemed curious, as no wife had appeared to greet him, neither did he advance towards the carved oak armoire in which he was used to hang his coat and hat. Jean gathered her skirts round her, and stretched forward her lovely, laughing face to spy what was happening. What she saw smote the smile from her lips in a flash of agonised fear.

Robert had not taken off his hat. He stood still just within the threshold, in the att.i.tude of a man unable to move a step, the light of the lamp shilling full on his face--the face of an old man, haggard, contorted, vacant-eyed.

For one moment Jean stood still, paralysed with horror; at the next the blood raced through her veins, and her heart swelled within her in an anguish of love and longing. In the history of the last eight years Jean had invariably been the one to need pity and help; Robert, the one to strengthen and console. She had suffered, and he had ministered; she had despaired, and he had consoled; she had repined, and he had gallantly borne her burden as well as his own. Until this moment his strength had made no demand on her weakness. But now, now it had come.

He was in trouble--her Robert--in desperate, aching need, and Jean's whole being rushed out towards him in a pa.s.sion of love and longing.

Dropping her skirts, she skimmed down the stairway, scarcely seeming to touch the ground, so light and swift were her steps. Out of her white face her eyes gleamed with unnatural light. There was something almost tigerish in the flame of Jean's love at that moment. Some one had been cruel to her mate, her man. She must fly to the rescue--hold him safe in her arms.

"Robert! What is it?"

The vacant eyes looked into hers, those clear, brown eyes, which more than any other eyes she had ever seen were the windows of the soul within, and for the first time since their meeting there came no lightening to greet hers. Jean's thoughts flew backward to that afternoon years ago when she had seen the same dazed look in Vanna's eyes. Her heart contracted with a sickening dread.

"Robert, are you ill? Have you seen a doctor? Has he said--"

He shook his head blankly.

"No! No--not that!"

Jean drew a long, thankful breath. Relieved of this dread, she felt prepared to face all other ills; but first she must be alone with Robert, behind shut doors, safe from intruding eyes. She slid her arm through his, and leading him into the den, pushed him gently into his own big chair. His hat was still on his head, she lifted it off, smoothed the hair on his forehead with a swift, caressing touch, then sinking on her knees before him, lifted her face to his.

"Robert, we are here together--you and I, in our own dear home. The children are upstairs. There is nothing, nothing in all the world worth grieving for so much!"

He looked at her hopelessly, blankly.

"But it's gone, Jean--it's gone. The home's gone! It's all gone-- everything! Gone! Ruined!"

"What, darling? What has gone? Tell me! I want to know--I want to help!"

"The Bank, Jean! The Glasgow Bank. To-day! Ruin for us; ruin for thousands."

Jean rested her hands on the arms of the chair, and braced herself to thought. The Glasgow Bank! Father had disapproved of it from the first, and had wished Robert to sell his shares, but he had objected because of the high interest given. They were always hard up, and needed every penny they could get. Besides, Robert declared that it was perfectly safe--as safe as the Bank of England; it was absurd to doubt it. And now it had stopped, and he talked of ruin. Jean's knowledge of finance had not increased with her years of matrimony, and after the first shock of surprise she told herself with a sigh of relief that, after all, there could not be so much to lose. When she had spoken of selling shares a few weeks ago, Robert had refused on the score that there were so few left. Robert was so dazed, poor man, that he was exaggerating his loss. He must be calmed and soothed.

"Dearest boy, I'm sorry--dreadfully, dreadfully sorry for all those poor people; but you and I have not much to lose, have we? We have rubbed along quite comfortably without a big balance at the Bank, and if a few hundreds have gone--well, we'll do without them, too. I'll turn over a new leaf, and be economical. We'll have no holiday, no new things, the bills for the new furniture are all paid--we need nothing more. Don't grieve so, dear. I'll help you. I _will_ help!"

Robert stretched out his arms and folded her close to his heart. The dazed expression was beginning to give way to a yearning tenderness.

Jean had yet to be enlightened as to the full extent of the calamity.

He must brace himself to the task of explanation.

"Jean, it is not an ordinary bank--it's unlimited; that was why your father disapproved. But I thought I knew best--I stuck to my own way.

If I could bear the consequences alone I wouldn't grumble; it's for you, and the children. I have only five shares, but I'm responsible, to my last penny. They can clean me out of everything I possess, can sell our furniture above our heads--every stick in the house, leave us without a bed. And they'll do it. The calls will be enormous--must be enormous.

I've ruined you, Jean, by my self-willed folly."

Jean lifted her lips and kissed him softly on the cheek. She felt faint and limp, as though suddenly overpowered by fatigue; but the predominant feeling was still that Robert was in trouble, that he was appealing to her for strength, that whatever trials were to come, she must not fail him now.

"You've given me everything worth having. All the riches in the world couldn't give me happiness without you. If the money goes, we'll have to love each other more, and no bank, no bank, can touch that.

Robert!"--her voice broke on a note of exquisite tenderness--"remember what you called me that first day--remember the prophecy! If fortune has gone, you have still your treasure!"

And Robert, blessing her, shedding tears of mingled joy and sorrow, declared that he was rich indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE FEET OF CLAY.

Time did nothing to soften the severity of the blow which had fallen upon the shareholders of the Glasgow Bank; rather, with every day as it pa.s.sed did the situation become more hopeless and terrible.

Defalcations of three years' standing left a deficit so abysmal that nothing short of the uttermost farthing could hope to fill it, and even the enormous preliminary call spelt ruin to many small holders, of whom Robert Gloucester was one. When every copper which he possessed had been realised, he was still far behind the amount demanded, and a bill of sale was issued on his household effects.

To Mr Goring the disaster came at once as a shock and a confirmation of old fears. He found himself in the position of being able to say "I told you so"; but there was little pleasure in the advantage when the chief sufferer was his dearest child, and the transgressor so humble and penitent as his son-in-law. His chief grief was that, owing to decreasing income from his own investments, and the expenses of two big sons at Oxford, he could not increase the allowance of two hundred a year which he had regularly contributed towards the Gloucester _menage_.

Jean expected him to offer to buy her furniture at a valuation, but, to her intense disappointment, he made no such proposition.

"Get rid of the things as best you can--they'll sell well, or ought to, considering the price Robert paid. They wouldn't fit into a small house, and you'll want a different style of thing altogether--plain, simple furniture, that can be kept in order by less experienced maids.

All these curios and odds and ends are very well in their way, but they mean work--work! There'll be no time for dusting old china and polishing bra.s.ses. Get rid of them all, and I'll see what I can do towards helping you to a fresh start. We have been looking through the rooms at home, and there are a lot of odds and ends which we can share.

You'll have to lie low for a time, and be satisfied with usefuls; but I'll see that you are comfortable, my dear. I'll see to that."

"Thank you, sir, thank you indeed," cried Robert warmly. "It's most good and kind of you. You have always been most generous. You are quite right about this furniture, it would be unsuitable under the new conditions. It's all one to me--I don't notice these things, and Jean has been heroic about it all--she doesn't mind either. She's quite prepared for the change. Aren't you, dear?"

Jean a.s.sented with a small, strained smile, and Robert continued to discuss the subject with philosophic calm. Jean had declared with her own lips that worldly goods were of no importance in her eyes when compared to the treasure of their love, and in simple faith he had taken her at her word. It was beyond his powers of comprehension to realise that the last few minutes, with their calm condemnation of her Lares and Penates, had been one of acute agony to his wife's soul--the worst moment she had known, since the springing of the bad news. When she was silent and distrait for the rest of the day, he asked her tenderly if her head ached, and enlarged enthusiastically on the goodness of Mr and Mrs Goring in proposing to despoil their own home.

"You'll find life easier, I hope, darling, in a smaller house. They've been a worry to you sometimes, all these collections, keeping them cleaned and dusted, and that kind of thing. We'll go in for the simple life, and be done with useless ornamentation," he declared cheerily.

Now that the first shock of the misfortune had spent itself, his invincible optimism was slowly but surely beginning to make itself felt.