CHAPTER VIII.

GONE!

In the meantime a very different conversation is being carried on in the study, whither Honor has gone to her father. Although Mr. Merivale has had some difficulty in making his wife understand the extent of the trouble which has come upon them, he finds it quite another matter with his daughter. In a very few minutes Honor's clear head has completely taken in the situation; and it is an unspeakable relief to Mr. Merivale to feel that there is one in the family at all events upon whose aid he can rely in that hard and difficult task which now lies before him, that of beginning life over again. The girl's loving sympathy also goes far towards softening the blow which has fallen with such cruel force, and though still haggard and wan-looking it is with a little smile that he at length looks up and says, "So we must all make the best of it, Honor; and after a time, I daresay, we shall manage very well. If only your mother understood a little better; but you see, dear, she has always from her birth upwards lived in affluence and luxury, and it will come very hard upon her, poor thing, to have to live such an utterly different kind of life."

Honor, who with her chin resting upon her hand is staring abstractedly into the fire, merely nods acquiescence to her father's remarks, until after a brief silence she looks up.

"And will there be absolutely nothing left for us, father? Will all mother's fortune have to go too?"

"Yes, all of hers, my dear, except a trifling sum which, thank God, is safely invested in something else. I don't know what she will say, poor thing, when she comes to learn this. No, Honor, we must make up our minds to face the worst; for even with the cursory glance I have taken into the bank affairs to-night with Hobson, I can see that when we have given up every farthing that we possess there will still be a deficiency which is perfectly frightful to contemplate. Ah! Honor, if we were the only sufferers I could begin again with a comparatively light heart; but when I think of the numbers who are ruined by the dishonesty of one scoundrel--of the hardly-earned savings of many an honest, hard-working man, all swamped, all swamped--I feel that to sit here, powerless to alleviate the sufferings of all the victims of this gigantic fraud, is enough to drive me out of my senses. Oh, if only I had known, if only I could have guessed! But for some time past Waymark has taken more and more upon himself, saying always that it was to save me trouble as my health became uncertain; and how could I tell? _how_ could I tell?" And with a smothered sob poor Mr. Merivale's head falls forward on his arms.

"Don't, father,--don't!" says Honor, putting her arms lovingly round him and drawing his head down upon her shoulder. "The thought that no blame can possibly rest on you should be a comfort to you; and you cannot do more than you are going to do, dear father, in giving up everything you possess."

"No, dear; alas! that is all I _can_ do. But do that I will to the uttermost farthing; and if it would only mend matters I would give the very coat from off my back only too gladly."

"Will they try to overtake Mr. Waymark, father?" presently asks Honor.

"They will try, dear, but with little hope of success, for he has too good a start to be easily found. Now, are you sure you have got those telegrams worded exactly as I dictated? Very well, then, let William take them off to the station at once. I am anxious your aunt should have hers, because I am sure she will come over and see your mother at once, and I think she will very likely be able to explain matters to her better than I can. And now, dear, leave me, and at ten o'clock bring me a cup of strong coffee with your own hands; and don't let me be disturbed by anyone until then, for I have papers to look through and writing to do which may keep me up half the night. Tell your mother this, Honor, and beg her not to be anxious about me, but to go to bed soon. Poor thing! this will be a terrible blow to her. But you must help her to bear it--you and Doris. Ah, poor little Doris!--send her to me for a minute, Honor. I should like to say a few words to her too. Molly and the others have gone to bed, I suppose?"

"Yes, some little time ago. I will bring your coffee punctually, father; and after Doris has left you I will see that no one disturbs you."

As Honor a few minutes later mounts the staircase, lost in thought, she comes suddenly upon a white-robed figure which is standing with rumpled hair and wide-open blue eyes gazing anxiously down into the hall below.

"Hush! don't say anything, Honor!" whispers the figure excitedly; "I can't stay in bed--it's no use, so I have just slipped on my dressing-gown, and here I am. O, _don't_ send me back, Honor!" the girl adds imploringly as she sees symptoms of nervousness as to cold, &c., pass over her sister's face. "Let me go into the school-room, do. I'll be as still as a mouse, _really_ I will, only _don't_ ask me to go back to bed!"

"Poor Molly!" says Honor, putting an arm round her sister. Then relenting she turns down the passage towards the school-room, and pushing open the door leads her in and ensconces her in a big arm-chair by the still-smouldering fire.

"Ah! that's better," sighs Molly as Honor seizes the poker and stirs the embers into a cheerful blaze; "and now _do_ tell me, Honor dear, what this trouble is, and all about it."

"It is soon told, Molly," says the girl, and seating herself in a low chair opposite her sister she tells her of the dishonesty of their father's partner. Then there is a brief pause, during which Honor, poker still in hand, knocks a "stranger" off the second bar, and Molly drops a slipper. "So now, dear," continues Honor, "you will know what father means when he speaks of ruin; for ruined we are, Molly, as to fortune, though, thank God, father still bears an unstained name and can hold his head as high as ever he did."

That Molly at length grasps the situation is evinced by the way she sits staring at her sister with eyes wide open and full of trouble. She does not speak for a few minutes, but at last she leans forward, and taking Honor's face between her two hands she says slowly and with a little painful sort of gasp, "When you speak of father giving up all he possesses you mean his own fortune, I suppose, all his _money_, I mean, and perhaps mother's too--eh, Honor?"

"No, dear," says the elder sister gently, and taking one of Molly's hands between her own. "We shall not only lose that, but everything! The houses will be sold, both this and Sunnymeade; all the furniture, pictures, and plate; the horses and carriages; and, in fact, as I said, Molly, _everything_. Poor father says he must begin life over again, and that we shall all have to help him."

"Poor mother!" says Molly presently, after another pause.

"Ah, poor mother!" repeats Honor, rising and kissing her young sister. "We shall have to take care of her now, dear, and do all we can to prevent her feeling the great change that is coming into all our lives. And now, dear, you _must_ go to bed again; you will feel happier now that you really know the worst, so you must try and not think about it now, but go to sleep."

Having seen Molly comfortably tucked up once more, Honor wanders downstairs, and is just turning into the drawing-room in an aimless sort of way when she meets Miss Denison coming out.

"I was just looking for you, Honor," she says, putting her arm through her pupil's and turning back with her into the room. "Your mother seems so poorly that Doris and Lane have been seeing her to bed; she had one of her hysterical attacks, but she is better now, and I think it will be best to leave her quiet." And Miss Denison sighs as she tries to stir the fire into some little semblance of life. "Your father has sent for Mr. Trent, has he not, dear?"

"Yes, and for Aunt Sophia too," replies Honor, sinking into a chair opposite her governess; "though I don't know exactly what good _she_ can do."

"I don't know about that," says Miss Denison quickly. "Your aunt is a very sensible, clear-sighted woman, and I daresay he thought she would be a comfort to your mother, and that she may be able to explain things better to her than he can."

And so governess and pupil sit talking, until the little French clock on the mantel-piece striking ten, Honor jumps up, remembering her promise to take her father's coffee to him at that hour. As she lays her hand upon the bell, the door opens, and Rankin appears with a little tray which Honor takes from him.

"I shall not be many minutes, Miss Denny," she says as she leaves the room. "Father is busy writing, so he is sure not to keep me."

Arrived at the study, Honor opens the door softly and goes into the room. Her father is still seated where she left him, his head a little bent forward over the papers spread open on the table. He appears so engrossed in looking at these that Honor's entrance does not even disturb him, and she carries the cup to the table and places it within reach, quietly waiting by her father's side until he shall speak to her.

The girl's eyes wander to the fireplace. The fire is out, and with the exception of the ticking of the large clock on the mantel-piece, which sounds louder than usual, there is an unnatural stillness in the room which oppresses her.

She glances down at the quiet figure by her side, which still seems unconscious of her presence. Then she notices for the first time that the pen in her father's hand, although resting on the paper, is not moving. She leans forward quickly and lays her warm hand upon the motionless one near her; she shudders and draws back, then moves rapidly to the other side of the chair, and with tender hands raises the drooping head. With one glance at the dearly loved face, now so ashen and white, Honor learns the fearful truth, and with a shriek of anguish which rings from cellar to attic she falls senseless to the ground.