THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT
by
MRS. HENRY WOOD
Author of
"East Lynne," "The Channings," "Johnny Ludlow," etc.
One Hundred and Eightieth Thousand
Macmillan and Co., Limited
St. Martin's Street, London
1907
All rights reserved
London:
Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited,
Duke Street, Stamford Street, S.E., and Great Windmill Street, W.
CONTENTS.
PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MEET OF THE HOUNDS 1
II. LADY GODOLPHIN'S FOLLY 9
III. THE DARK PLAIN IN THE MOONLIGHT 17
IV. ALL SOULS' RECTORY 24
V. THOMAS GODOLPHIN'S LOVE 33
VI. CHARLOTTE PAIN 41
VII. BROOMHEAD 45
VIII. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS 52
IX. MR. SANDY'S "TRADE" 60
X. THE SHADOW 66
XI. A TELEGRAPHIC DESPATCH 73
XII. DEAD 80
XIII. UNAVAILING REGRETS 85
XIV. GONE ON BEFORE 91
XV. A MIDNIGHT WALK 99
XVI. THE LAST JOURNEY 105
XVII. A ROW ON THE WATER 113
XVIII. STRAW IN THE STREETS 119
XIX. ONE STICK DISCARDED 125
XX. A REVELATION TO ALL SOULS' RECTOR 138
XXI. CHARLOTTE'S BARGAIN 146
XXII. DANGEROUS AMUSEMENT 156
PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SIXTY POUNDS TO OLD JEKYL 166
II. WHY DID IT ANGER HIM? 173
III. CECIL'S ROMANCE 179
IV. CHARLOTTE PAIN'S "TURN-OUT" 185
V. A REVELATION 191
VI. MR. VERRALL'S CHAMBERS 202
VII. BEYOND RECALL 208
VIII. THE TRADITION OF THE DARK PLAIN 216
IX. THE DEAD ALIVE AGAIN 225
X. NINE THOUSAND AND FORTY-FIVE POUNDS 236
XI. THOSE BONDS AGAIN! 239
XII. "I SEE IT: BUT I CANNOT EXPLAIN IT" 244
XIII. A RED-LETTER DAY FOR MRS. BOND 258
XIV. ISAAC HASTINGS TURNS TO THINKING 267
XV. A NIGHTMARE FOR THE RECTOR OF ALL SOULS' 272
XVI. MR. LAYTON "LOOKED UP" 278
XVII. GONE! 290
XVIII. MURMURS; AND CURIOUS DOUBTS 294
XIX. BOBBING JOAN 302
XX. MRS. BOND'S VISIT 310
XXI. A DREAD FEAR 315
XXII. BEARING THE BRUNT 329
XXIII. "AS FINE AS A QUEEN!" 343
XXIV. A VISIT TO LORD AVERIL 356
XXV. IN THE STREETS OF PRIOR'S ASH 367
XXVI. MY LADY WASHES HER HANDS 377
XXVII. A BROKEN IDOL 382
PART THE THIRD.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A MORNING CALL 394
II. NEARER AND NEARER 405
III. FOR THE LAST TIME 409
IV. GATHERED TO HIS FATHERS 423
V. COMMOTION AT ASHLYDYAT 434
VI. A CROWD OF MEMORIES 446
VII. AT REST 458
VIII. A SAD PARTING 466
IX. A SAFE VOYAGE TO HIM! 470
* * * * *
"Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless,
Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his
errand,
All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished,
All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion,
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces."
LONGFELLOW.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
THE MEET OF THE HOUNDS.
It was a bright day in autumn: the scene one of those fair ones rarely
witnessed except in England. The sun, warm and glowing, almost as that
of a summer's day, shone on the stubble of the cornfields, whence the
golden grain had recently been gathered; gilded the tops of the
trees--so soon to pass into the "sere and yellow leaf;" illumined the
blue hills in the distance, and brought out the nearer features of the
landscape in all their light and shade. A fine landscape, comprising
hill and dale, water and green pastures, woods and open plains. Amidst
them rose the signs of busy life; mansions, cottages, hamlets, railways,
and churches, whose steeples ascended high, pointing the way to a better
Land.
The town of Prior's Ash, lying in a valley, was alive that gay morning
with excitement. It was the day appointed for the first meet of the
hounds; the P. A. hounds, of some importance in the county; and people
from far and near were flocking to see them throw off. Old and young,
gentle and simple, lords of the soil and tradesmen, all were wending
their way to the meet. The master, Colonel Max, was wont on this, the
first morning of the season, to assemble at his house for breakfast as
many as his large dining-room could by any species of crowding contain;
and it was a fine sight, drawing forth its numerous spectators to watch
them come out in procession, to the meet. As many carriages-and-four,
with their fair occupants, would come to that first meet, as you could
have seen in the old days on a country race-course. This show was an
old-fashioned local custom; Colonel Max was pleased to keep it up, and
he lacked not supporters. The opening this year was unusually early.
The gay crowd was arriving, some from the breakfast, some from their
homes. The rendezvous was a wide, open common, with no space wanting.
The restrained hounds snarled away at a short distance, and their
attendants, attired for the hunt, clacked their whips among them.
Riding a noble horse, and advancing from the opposite direction to that
of Colonel Max and his guests, came a tall, stately man, getting in
years now. His features were regular as though they had been chiselled
from marble: his fine blue eyes could sparkle yet; and his snow-white
hair, wavy as of yore, was worn rather long behind, giving him somewhat
the appearance of a patriarch. But the healthy bloom, once
characteristic of his face, had left it now: the paleness of ill-health
sat there, and he bent his body, as if too weak to bear up on his horse.
His approach was discerned; and many started forward, as with one
impulse, to greet him. None stood higher in the estimation of his
fellow-men than did Sir George Godolphin; no other name was more
respected in the county.
"This is good indeed, Sir George! To see you out again!"
"I thought I might venture," said Sir George, essaying to meet a dozen
hands at once. "It has been a long confinement; a tedious illness. Six
months, and never out of the house; and, for the last fortnight, out
only in a garden-chair. My lady wanted to box me up in the carriage this
morning; if I must come, she said. But I would not have it: had I been
unable to sit my horse, I would have remained at home."
"You feel weak still?" remarked one, after most of the greeters had had
their say, and were moving away.
"Ay. Strength, for me, has finally departed, I fear."
"You must not think that, Sir George. Now that you have so far recovered
as to go out, you will improve daily."
"And get well all one way, Godolphin," joined in the hearty voice of
Colonel Max. "Never lose heart, man."
Sir George turned his eyes upon Colonel Max with a cheerful glance. "Who
told you I was losing heart?"
"Yourself. When a man begins to talk of his strength having finally
departed, what's that, but a proof of his losing heart? Low spirits
never cured any one yet: but they have killed thousands."
"I shall be sixty-six years old to-morrow, colonel: and if, at that age,
I can 'lose heart' at the prospect of the great change, my life has
served me to little purpose. The young may faint at the near approach of
death; the old should not."
"Sixty-six, old!" ejaculated Colonel Max. "I have never kept count of my
own age, but I know I am that if I am a day; and I am young yet. I may
live these thirty years to come: and shall try for it, too."
"I hope you will, colonel," was the warm answer of Sir George Godolphin.
"Prior's Ash could ill spare you."
"I don't know about that," laughed the colonel. "But I do know that I
could ill spare life. I wish you could take the run with us this
morning!"
"I wish I could. But that you might accuse me of--what was it?--losing
heart, I would say that my last run with the hounds has been taken. It
has cost me an effort to come so far as this, walking my horse at a
snail's pace. Do you see Lady Godolphin? She ought to be here."
Colonel Max, who was a short man, raised himself in his stirrups, and
gazed from point to point of the gradually increasing crowd. "In her
carriage, I suppose?"
"In her carriage, of course," answered Sir George. "She is no amazon."
But he did not avow his reason for inquiring after his wife's
carriage--that he felt a giddiness stealing over him, and thought he
might be glad of its support. Neither did he explain that he was unable
to look round for it himself just then, under fear of falling from his
horse.
"I don't think she has come yet," said Colonel Max. "I do not see the
livery. As to the ladies, they all look so like one another now, with
their furbelows and feathers, that I'll be shot if I should know my own
wife--if I had one--at a dozen paces' distance. Here is some one else,
however."
Riding up quietly, and reining in at the side of Sir George, was a
gentleman of middle height, with dark hair, dark grey eyes, and a quiet,
pale countenance. In age he may have wanted some three or four years of
forty, and a casual observer might have pronounced him "insignificant,"
and never have cast on him a second glance. But there was a certain
attraction in his face which won its way to hearts; and his voice
sounded wonderfully sweet and kind as he grasped the hand of Sir George.
"My dear father! I am so glad to see you here!"
"And surprised too, I conclude, Thomas," returned Sir George, smiling on
his son. "Come closer to me, will you, and let me rest my arm upon your
shoulder for a minute. I feel somewhat giddy."
"Should you have ventured out on horseback?" inquired Thomas Godolphin,
as he hastened to place himself in proximity with his father.
"The air will do me good; and the exertion also. It is nothing to feel a
little weak after a confinement such as mine has been. You don't follow
the hounds to-day, I see, Thomas," continued Sir George, noting his
son's plain costume.
A smile crossed Thomas Godolphin's lips. "No, sir. I rarely do follow
them. I leave amusement to George."
"Is he here, that graceless George?" demanded the knight, searching into
the crowd with fond and admiring eyes. But the admiring eyes did not see
the object they thought to rest on.
"He is sure to be here, sir. I have not seen him."
"And your sisters? Are they here?"
"No. They did not care to come."
"Speak for Janet and Cecil, if you please, Thomas," interrupted a young
lady's voice at this juncture. The knight looked down; his son looked
down also: there stood the second daughter of the family, Bessy
Godolphin. She was a dark, quick, active little woman of thirty, with an
ever-ready tongue, and deep grey eyes.
"Bessy!" uttered Sir George, in astonishment. "Have you come here on
foot?"
"Yes, papa. Thomas asked us whether we wished to attend the meet; and
Janet--who must always be master and mistress, you know--answered that
we did not. Cecil dutifully agreed with her. I did care to attend it; so
I came alone."
"But, Bessy, why did you not say so?" remonstrated Mr. Godolphin. "You
should have ordered the carriage; you should not have come on foot. What
will people think?"
"Think!" she echoed, holding up her pleasant face to her brother, in its
saucy independence. "They can think anything they please; I am Bessy
Godolphin. I wonder how many scores have come on foot?"
"None, Bessy, of your degree, who have carriages to sit in or horses to
ride," said Sir George.
"Papa, I like to use my legs better than to have them cramped under a
habit or in a carriage; and you know I never could bend to form and
fashion," she said, laughing. "Dear papa, I am delighted to see you! I
was so thankful when I heard you were here! Janet will be ready to eat
her own head now, for not coming."
"Who told you I was here, Bessy?"
"Old Jekyl. He was leaning on his palings as I came by, and called out
the information to me almost before I could hear him. 'The master's gone
to it, Miss Bessy! he is out once again! But he had not on his scarlet,'
the old fellow added; and his face lost its gladness. Papa, the whole
world is delighted that you should have recovered, and be once more
amongst them."
"Not quite recovered yet, Bessy. Getting better, though; getting better.
Thank you, Thomas; the faintness has passed."
"Is not Lady Godolphin here, papa?"
"She must be here by this time. I wish I could see her carriage: you
must get into it."
"I did not come for that, papa," returned Bessy, with a touch of her
warm temper.
"My dear, I _wish_ you to join her. I do not like to see you here on
foot."
"I shall set the fashion, papa," laughed Bessy, again. "At the great
meet next year, you will see half the pretenders of the county toiling
here on foot. I say I am Bessy Godolphin."
The knight ranged his eyes over the motley group, but he could not
discern his wife. Sturdy, bluff old fox-hunters were there in plenty,
and well-got-up young gentlemen, all on horseback, their white cords and
scarlet coats gleaming in the sun. Ladies were chiefly in carriages; a
few were mounted, who would ride quietly home again when the hounds had
thrown off; a very few--they might be counted by units--would follow the
field. Prior's Ash and its neighbourhood was supplied in a very limited
degree with what they were pleased to call masculine women: for the term
"fast" had not then come in. Many a pretty woman, many a pretty girl was
present, and the sportsmen lingered, and were well pleased to linger, in
the sunshine of their charms, ere the business, for which they had come
out, began, and they should throw themselves, heart and energy, into it.
On the outskirts of the crowd, sitting her horse well, was a handsome
girl of right regal features and flashing black eyes. Above the ordinary
height of woman, she was finely formed, her waist slender, her shoulders
beautifully modelled. She wore a peculiar dress, and, from that cause
alone, many eyes were on her. A well-fitting habit of bright
grass-green, the corsage ornamented with buttons of silver-gilt; similar
buttons were also at the wrists, but they were partially hidden by her
white gauntlets. A cap, of the same bright green, rested on the upper
part of her forehead, a green-and-gold feather on its left side
glittering as the sun's rays played upon it. It was a style of dress
which had not yet been seen at Prior's Ash, and was regarded with some
doubt. But, as you are aware, it is not a dress in itself which is
condemned or approved: it depends upon who wears it: and as the young
lady wearing this was just now the fashion at Prior's Ash, feather and
habit were taken into favour forthwith. She could have worn none more
adapted to her peculiar style of beauty.
Bending to his very saddle-bow, as he talked to her--for, though she was
tall, he was taller still--was a gentleman of courtly mien. In his fine
upright figure, his fair complexion and wavy hair, his chiselled
features and dark blue eyes, might be traced a strong resemblance to Sir
George Godolphin. But the lips had a more ready smile upon them than Sir
George's had ever worn, for his had always been somewhat of the
sternest; the blue eyes twinkled with a gayer light when gazing into
other eyes, than could ever have been charged upon Sir George. But the
bright complexion had been Sir George's once; giving to his face, as it
now did to his son's, a delicate beauty, almost as that of woman.
"Graceless George," old Sir George was fond of calling him; but it was
an appellation given in love, in pride, in admiration. He bent to his
saddle-bow, and his gay blue eyes flashed with unmistakable admiration
into those black ones as he talked to the lady: and the black eyes most
certainly flashed admiration back again. Dangerous eyes were those of
Charlotte Pain's! And not altogether lovable.
"Do you always keep your promises as you kept that one yesterday?" she
was asking him.
"I did not make a promise yesterday--that I remember. Had I made one to
you, I should have kept it."
"Fickle and faithless," she cried. "Men's promises are as words traced
upon the sand. When you met me yesterday in the carriage with Mrs.
Verrall, and she asked you to take compassion on two forlorn dames, and
come to Ashlydyat in the evening and dissipate our ennui, what was your
answer?"
"That I would do so, if it were possible."
"Was nothing more explicit implied?"
George Godolphin laughed. Perhaps his conscience told him that he _had_
implied more, in a certain pressure he remembered giving to that fair
hand, which was resting now, gauntleted, upon her reins. Gay George had
meant to dissipate Ashlydyat's ennui, if nothing more tempting offered.
But something more tempting did offer: and he had spent the evening in
the company of one who was more to him than was Charlotte Pain.
"An unavoidable engagement arose, Miss Pain. Otherwise you may rely upon
it I should have been at Ashlydyat."
"Unavoidable!" she replied, her eyes gleaming with something very like
anger into those which smiled on her. "I know what your engagement was.
You were at Lady Godolphin's Folly."
"Right. Commanded to it by my father."
"Oh!"
"Solicited, if not absolutely commanded," he continued. "And a wish from
Sir George now bears its weight: we may not have him very long with us."
A smile of mockery, pretty and fascinating to look upon, played upon her
rich red lips. "It is edifying to hear these filial sentiments expressed
by Mr. George Godolphin! Take you care, sir, to act up to them."
"Do you think I need the injunction? How shall I make my peace with
you?"
"By coming to Ashlydyat some other evening while the present moon lasts.
I mean, while it illumines the early part of the evening."
She dropped her voice to a low key, and her tone had changed to
seriousness. George Godolphin looked at her in surprise.
"What is the superstition," she continued to whisper, "that attaches to
Ashlydyat?"
"Why do you ask me this?" he hastily said.
"Because, yesterday evening, when I was sitting on that seat under the
ash-trees, watching the road from Lady Godolphin's Folly--well, watching
for you, if you like it better: but I can assure you there is nothing in
the avowal that need excite your vanity, as I see it is doing. When a
gentleman makes a promise, I expect him to keep it; and, looking upon
your coming as a matter of course, I did watch for you; as I might watch
for one of Mrs. Verrall's servants, had I sent him on an errand and
expected his return."
"Thank you," said George Godolphin, with a laugh. "But suffer my vanity
to rest in abeyance for a while, will you, and go on with what you were
saying?"
"Are you a convert to the superstition?" she inquired, disregarding the
request.
"N--o," replied George Godolphin. But his voice sounded strangely
indecisive. "Pray continue, Charlotte."
It was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian name: and
though she saw that it was done in the unconscious excitement of the
moment, her cheeks flushed to a deeper crimson.
"Did you ever see the Shadow?" she breathed.
He bowed his head.
"What form does it take?"
George Godolphin did not answer. He appeared lost in thought, as he
scored his horse's neck with his hunting-whip.
"The form of a bier, on which rests something covered with a pall, that
may be supposed to be a coffin; with a mourner at the head and one at
the foot?" she whispered.
He bowed his head again: very gravely.
"Then I saw it last night. I did indeed. I was sitting under the
ash-trees, and I saw a strange shadow in the moonlight that I had never
seen before----"
"Where?" he interrupted.
"In that wild-looking part of the grounds as you look across from the
ash-trees. Just in front of the archway, where the ground is bare. It
was there. Mr. Verrall says he wonders Sir George does not have those
gorse-bushes cleared away, and the ground converted into civilized land,
like the rest of it."
"It has been done, but the bushes grow again."
"Well, I was sitting there, and I saw this unusual shadow. It arrested
my eye at once. Where did it come from, I wondered: what cast it? I
never thought of the Ashlydyat superstition; never for a moment. I only
thought what a strange appearance the shadow wore. I thought of a
lying-in-state; I thought of a state funeral, where the coffin rests on
a bier, and a mourner sits at the head and a mourner at the foot. Shall
I tell you," she suddenly broke off, "what the scene altogether looked
like?"
"Do so."
"Like a graveyard. They may well call it the Dark Plain! The shadow
might be taken for a huge tomb with two images weeping over it, and the
bushes around assumed the form of lesser ones. Some, square; some, long;
some, high; some, low; but all looking not unlike graves in the
moonlight."
"Moonlight shadows are apt to bear fanciful forms to a vivid
imagination, Miss Pain," he lightly observed.
"Have not others indulged the same fancy before me? I remember to have
heard so."
"As they have said. They never took the form to my sight," he returned,
with a half-smile of ridicule. "When I know bushes to be bushes, I
cannot by any stretch of imagination magnify them into graves. You must
have had this Ashlydyat nonsense in your head."
"I have assured you that I had not," she rejoined in a firm tone. "It
was only after I had been regarding it for some time--and the longer I
looked, the plainer the shadow seemed to grow--that I thought of the
Ashlydyat tale. All in an instant the truth flashed upon me--that it
must be the apparition----"
"The _what_, Miss Pain?"
"Does the word offend you? It _is_ a foolish one. The Shadow, then. I
remembered that the Shadow, so dreaded by the Godolphins, did take the
form of a bier, with mourners weeping at its----"
"Was said to take it," he interposed, in a tone of quiet reproof; "that
would be the better phrase. And, in speaking of the Shadow being dreaded
by the Godolphins, you allude, I presume, to the Godolphins of the past
ages. I know of none in the present who dread it: except my
superstitious sister, Janet."
"How touchy you are upon the point!" she cried, with a light laugh. "Do
you know, George Godolphin, that that very touchiness betrays the fact
that you, for one, are not exempt from the dread. And," she added,
changing her tone again to one of serious sympathy, "did not the dread
help to kill Mrs. Godolphin?"
"No," he gravely answered. "If you give ear to all the stories that the
old wives of the neighbourhood love to indulge in, you will collect a
valuable stock of fable-lore."
"Let it pass. If I repeated the fable, it was because I had heard it.
But now you will understand why I felt vexed last night when you did not
come. It was not for your sweet company I was pining, as your vanity has
been assuming, but that I wanted you to see the Shadow.--How that girl
is fixing her eyes upon us!"
George Godolphin turned at the last sentence, which was uttered
abruptly. An open barouche had drawn up, and its occupants, two ladies,
were both looking towards them. The one was a young girl with a pale
gentle face and dark eyes, as remarkable for their refined sweetness, as
Miss Pain's were for their brilliancy. The other was a little lady of
middle age, dressed youthfully, and whose naturally fair complexion was
so excessively soft and clear, as to give a suspicion that nature had
less hand in it than art. It was Lady Godolphin. She held her eye-glass
to her eye, and turned it on the crowd.
"Maria, whatever is that on horseback?" she asked. "It looks green."
"It is Charlotte Pain in a bright-green riding-habit," was the young
lady's answer.
"A bright-green riding-habit! And her head seems to glitter! Has she
anything in her cap?"
"It appears to be a gold feather."
"She must look beautiful! Very handsome, does she not?"
"For those who admire her style--very," replied Maria Hastings.
Which was certainly not the style of Maria Hastings. Quiet, retiring,
gentle, she could only wonder at those who dressed in bright-coloured
habits with gold buttons and feathers, and followed the hounds over
gates and ditches. Miss Hastings wore a pretty white silk bonnet, and
grey cashmere mantle. Nothing could be plainer; but then, she was a
clergyman's daughter.
"It is on these occasions that I regret my deficient sight," said Lady
Godolphin. "Who is that, in scarlet, talking to her? It resembles the
figure of George Godolphin."
"It is he," said Maria. "He is coming towards us."
He was piloting his horse through the throng, returning greetings from
every one. A universal favourite was George Godolphin. Charlotte Pain's
fine eyes were following him with somewhat dimmed brilliancy: he was not
so entirely hers as she could wish to see him.
"How are you this morning, Lady Godolphin?" But it was on the hand of
Maria Hastings that his own lingered; and her cheeks took the hue of
Charlotte Pain's, as he bent low to whisper words that were all too
dear.
"George, do you know that your father is here?" said Lady Godolphin.
George, in his surprise, drew himself upright on his horse. "My father
here! Is he, indeed?"
"Yes; and on horseback. Very unwise of him; but he would not be
persuaded out of it. It was a sudden resolution that he appeared to
take. I suppose the beauty of the morning tempted him. Miss Maria
Hastings, what nonsense has George been saying to you? Your face is as
red as his coat."
"That is what I was saying to her," laughed George Godolphin. "Asking
her where her cheeks had borrowed their roses from."
A parting of the crowd brought Sir George Godolphin within view, and the
family drew together in a group. Up went Lady Godolphin's glass again.
"Is that Bessy? My dear, with whom did you come?"
"I came by myself, Lady Godolphin. I walked."
"Oh dear!" uttered Lady Godolphin. "You do do the wildest things, Bessy!
And Sir George allows you to do them!"
"Sir George does not," spoke the knight. "Sir George has already desired
her to take her place in the carriage. Open the door, James."
Bessy laughed as she stepped into it. She cheerfully obeyed her father;
but anything like ceremony, or, as the world may call it, etiquette, she
waged war with.
"I expected to meet your sisters here, Bessy," said Lady Godolphin. "I
want you all to dine with me to-day. We must celebrate the first
reappearance of your father. You will bear the invitation to them."
"Certainly," said Bessy. "We shall be happy to come. I know Janet has no
engagement."
"An early dinner, mind: five o'clock. Sir George cannot wait."
"To dine at supper-time," chimed in unfashionable Bessy. "George, do you
hear? Lady Godolphin's at five."
A movement; a rush; a whirl. The hounds were preparing to throw off, and
the field was gathering. George Godolphin hastily left the side of Miss
Hastings, though he found time for a stolen whisper.
"Fare you well, my dearest."
And when she next saw him, after the noise and confusion had cleared
away, he was galloping in the wake of the baying pack, side by side with
Charlotte Pain.
CHAPTER II.
LADY GODOLPHIN'S FOLLY.
Prior's Ash was not a large town, though of some importance in county
estimation. In the days of the monks, when all good people were Roman
Catholics, or professed to be, it had been but a handful of houses,
which various necessities had caused to spring up round the priory: a
flourishing and crowded establishment of religious men then; a place
marked but by a few ruins now. In process of time the handful of houses
had increased to several handfuls, the handfuls to a village, and the
village to a borough town; still retaining the name bestowed on it by
the monks--"Prior's Ash."
In the heart of the town was situated the banking-house of Godolphin,
Crosse, and Godolphin. It was an old-established and most respected
firm, sound and wealthy. The third partner and second Godolphin,
mentioned in it, was Thomas Godolphin, Sir George Godolphin's eldest
son. Until he joined it, it had been Godolphin and Crosse. It was a
matter of arrangement, understood by Mr. Crosse, that when anything
happened to Sir George, Thomas would step into his father's place, as
head of the firm, and George, whose name at present did not appear,
though he had been long in the bank, would represent the last name; so
that it would still remain Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin. Mr. Crosse,
who, like Sir George, was getting in years, was remarkable for nothing
but a close attention to business. He was a widower, without children,
and Prior's Ash wondered who would be the better for the filling of his
garners.
The Godolphins could trace back to the ages of the monks. But of no very
high ancestry boasted they; no titles, places, or honours; they ranked
among the landed gentry as owners of Ashlydyat, and that was all. It was
quite enough for them: to be lords of Ashlydyat was an honour they would
not have bartered for a dukedom. They held by Ashlydyat. It was their
pride, their stronghold, their boast. Had feudal times been in fashion
now, they would have dug a moat around it, and fenced it in with
fortifications, and called it their castle. Why did they so love it? It
was but a poor place at best; nothing to look at; and, in the matter of
space inside, was somewhat straitened. Oak-panelled rooms, dark as
mahogany and garnished with cross beams, low ceilings, and mullioned
windows, are not the most consonant to modern taste. People thought that
the Godolphins loved it from its associations and traditions; from the
very fact that certain superstitions attached to it. Foolish
superstitions, you will be inclined to call them, as contrasted with the
enlightenment of these matter-of-fact days--I had almost said these days
of materialism.
Ashlydyat was not entailed. There was a clause in the old deeds of
tenure which prevented it. A wicked Godolphin (by which complimentary
appellation his descendants distinguished him) had cut off the entail,
and gambled the estate away; and though the Godolphins recovered it
again in the course of one or two lives, the entail was not renewed. It
was now bequeathed from father to son, and was always the residence of
the reigning Godolphin. Thomas Godolphin knew that it would become his
on the death of his father, as surely as if he were the heir by entail.
The late Mr. Godolphin, Sir George's father, had lived and died in it.
Sir George succeeded, and then _he_ lived in it--with his wife and
children. But he was not Sir George then: therefore, for a few minutes,
while speaking of this part of his life; we will call him what he
was--Mr. Godolphin. A pensive, thoughtful woman was Mrs. Godolphin,
never too strong in health. She was Scotch by birth. Of her children,
Thomas and Janet most resembled her; Bessy was like no one but herself:
George and Cecilia inherited the beauty of their father. There was
considerable difference in the ages of the children, for they had
numbered thirteen. Thomas was the eldest, Cecilia the youngest; Janet,
Bessy, and George were between them; and the rest, who had also been
between them, had died, most of them in infancy. But, a moment yet, to
give a word to the description of Ashlydyat, before speaking of the
death of Mrs. Godolphin.
Passing out of Prior's Ash towards the west, a turning to the left of
the high-road took you to Ashlydyat. Built of greystone, and lying
somewhat in a hollow, it wore altogether a gloomy appearance. And it was
intensely ugly. A low building of two storeys, irregularly built, with
gables and nooks and ins-and-outs of corners, and a square turret in the
middle, which was good for nothing but the birds to build on. It wore a
time-honoured look, though, with all its ugliness, and the moss grew,
green and picturesque, on its walls. Perhaps on the principle, or, let
us say, by the subtle instinct of nature, that a mother loves a deformed
child with a deeper affection than she feels for her other children, who
are fair and sound of limb, did the Godolphins feel pride in their
inheritance because it was ugly. But the grounds around it were
beautiful, and the landscape, so much of it as could be seen from that
unelevated spot, was most grand to look upon. A full view might be
obtained from the turret, though it was somewhat of a mount to get to
it. Dark groves, and bright undulating lawns, shady spots where the
water rippled, pleasant to bask in on a summer's day, sunny parterres of
gay flowers scenting the air; charming, indeed, were the environs of
Ashlydyat. All, except one spot: and that had charms also for some
minds--sombre ones.
In one part of the grounds there grew a great quantity of ash-trees--and
it was supposed, though not known, that these trees may originally have
suggested the name, Ashlydyat: as they most certainly had that of
Prior's Ash, given to the village by the monks. A few people wrote it in
accordance with its pronunciation, Ash-_lid_-yat, but the old way of
spelling it was retained by the family. As the village had swollen into
a town, the ash-trees, growing there, were cleared away as necessity
required; but the town was surrounded with them still.
Opposite to the ash-trees on the estate of Ashlydyat there extended a
waste plain, totally out of keeping with the high cultivation around. It
looked like a piece of rude common. Bushes of furze, broom, and other
stunted shrubs grew upon it, none of them rising above the height of a
two-year-old child. The description given by Charlotte Pain to George
Godolphin was not an inapt one--that the place, with these stunted
bushes on it, looked in the moonlight not unlike a graveyard. At the
extremity, opposite to the ash-trees, there arose a high archway, a
bridge built of greystone. It appeared to have formed part of an ancient
fortification, but there was no trace of water having run beneath it.
Beyond the archway was a low round building, looking like an isolated
windmill without sails. It was built of greystone also, and was called
the belfry: though there was as little sign of bells ever having been in
it, as there was of water beneath the bridge. The archway had been kept
from decay; the belfry had not, but was open in places to the heavens.
Strange to say, the appellation of this waste piece of land, with its
wild bushes, was the "Dark Plain." Why? The plain was not dark: it was
not shaded: it stood out, broad and open, in the full glare of sunlight.
That certain dark tales had been handed down with the appellation, is
true: and these may have given rise to the name. Immediately before the
archway, for some considerable space, the ground was entirely bare. Not
a blade of grass, not a shrub grew on it. Or, as the story went, _would_
grow. It was on this spot that the appearance, the Shadow, as mentioned
by Charlotte Pain, would be sometimes seen. Whence the Shadow came,
whether it was ghostly or earthly, whether those learned in science and
philosophy could account for it by Nature's laws, whether it was cast by
any gaseous vapour arising in the moonbeams, I am unable to say. If you
ask me to explain it, I cannot. If you ask, why then do I write about
it, I can only answer, because I have seen it. I have seen it with my
own unprejudiced eyes; I have sat and watched it, in its strange
stillness; I have looked about and around it, low down, high up, for
some substance, ever so infinitesimal, that might cast its shade and
enable me to account for it: and I have looked in vain. Had the moon
been behind the archway, instead of behind _me_, that might have
furnished a loophole of explanation: a very poor and inefficient
loophole; a curious one also: for how can an archway in the substance be
a bier and two mourners in its shadow? but, still, better than none.
No; there was nothing whatever, so far as human eyes--and I can tell you
that keen ones and sceptical ones have looked at it--to cast the shade,
or to account for it. There, as you sat and watched, stretched out the
plain in the moonlight, with its low, tomb-like bushes, its clear space
of bare land, the archway rising behind it. But, on the spot of bare
land, before the archway, would rise the Shadow; not looking as if it
were a shadow cast on the ground, but a palpable fact: as if a bier,
with its two bending mourners, actually stood there in the substance. I
say that I cannot explain it, or attempt to explain it; but I do say
that there it was to be seen. Not often: sometimes not for years
together. It was called the Shadow of Ashlydyat: and superstition told
that its appearance foreshadowed the approach of calamity, whether of
death or other evil, to the Godolphins. The greater the evil that was
coming upon them, the plainer and more distinct would be the appearance
of the Shadow--the longer the space of time that it would be observed.
Rumour went, that once, on the approach of some terrible misfortune, it
had been seen for months and months before, whenever the moon was
sufficiently bright. The Godolphins did not care to have the subject
mentioned to them: in their scepticism, they (some of them, at least)
treated it with ridicule, or else with silence. But, like disbelievers
of a different sort, the scepticism was more in profession than in
heart. The Godolphins, in their inmost soul, would cower at the
appearance of that shadowed bier; as those others have been known to
cower, in their anguish, at the approach of the shadow of death.
This was not all the superstition attaching to Ashlydyat: but you will
probably deem this quite enough for the present. And we have to return
to Mrs. Godolphin.
Five years before the present time, when pretty Cecilia was in her
fifteenth year, and most needed the guidance of a mother, Mrs. Godolphin
died. Her illness had been of a lingering nature; little hope in it,
from the first. It was towards the latter period of her illness that
what had been regarded by four-fifths of Prior's Ash as an absurd
child's tale, a superstition unworthy the notice of the present-day men
and women, grew to be talked of in whispers, as something "strange." For
three months antecedent to the death of Mrs. Godolphin, the Shadow of
Ashlydyat was to be seen every light night, and all Prior's Ash flocked
up to look at it. That they went, is of no consequence: they had their
walk and their gaze for their pains: but that Mrs. Godolphin should have
been told of it, was. She was in the grounds alone one balmy moonlight
night, later than she ought to have been, and she discerned people
walking in them, making for the ash-trees.
"What can those people be doing here?" she exclaimed to one of her
servants, who was returning to Ashlydyat from executing an errand in the
town.
"It is to see the Shadow, ma'am," whispered the girl, in answer, with
more direct truth than prudence.
Mrs. Godolphin paused. "The _Shadow_!" she uttered. "Is the Shadow to be
seen?"
"It has been there ever since last moon, ma'am. It never was so plain,
they say."
Mrs. Godolphin waited her opportunity, and, when the intruders had
dispersed, proceeded to the ash-trees. It is as well to observe that
these ash-trees, and also the Dark Plain, though very near to the house,
were not in the more private portion of the grounds.
Mrs. Godolphin proceeded to the ash-trees. An hour afterwards, her
absence from the house was discovered, and they went out to search. It
was her husband who found her. She pointed to the shadow, and spoke.
"You will believe that my death is coming on quickly now, George." But
Mr. Godolphin turned it off with an attempt at joke, and told her she
was old enough to know better.
Mrs. Godolphin died. Two years after, Mr. Godolphin came into contact
with a wealthy young widow; young, as compared with himself: Mrs.
Campbell. He met her in Scotland, at the residence of his first wife's
friends. She was English born, but her husband had been Scotch. Mr.
Godolphin married her, and brought her to Ashlydyat. The step did not
give pleasure to his children. When sons and daughters are of the age
that the Godolphins were, a new wife, brought home to rule, rarely does
give pleasure to the first family. Things did not go on very
comfortably: there were faults on each side; on that of Mrs. Godolphin,
and on that of her step-daughters. After a while, a change was made.
Thomas Godolphin and his sisters went to reside in the house attached to
the bank, a handsome modern residence hitherto occupied by Mr. Crosse.
"You had better come here," that gentleman had said to them: he was no
stranger to the unpleasantness at Ashlydyat. "I will take up my abode in
the country," he continued. "I would prefer to do so. I am getting to
feel older than I did twenty years ago, and country air may renovate
me."
The arrangement was carried out. Thomas Godolphin and his three sisters
entered upon their residence in Prior's Ash, Janet acting as mistress of
the house, and as chaperon to her sisters. She was then past thirty: a
sad, thoughtful woman, who lived much in the inward life.
Just about the time of this change, certain doings of local and public
importance were enacted in the neighbourhood, in which Mr. Godolphin
took a prominent share. There ensued a proposal to knight him. He
started from it with aversion. His family started also: they and he
alike despised these mushroom honours. Not so Mrs. Godolphin. From the
moment that the first word of the suggestion was breathed to her, she
determined that it should be carried out; for the appellation, my lady,
was as incense in her ears. In vain Mr. Godolphin strove to argue with
her: her influence was in the ascendant, and he lay under the spell. At
length he yielded; and, though hot war raged in his heart, he bent his
haughty knee at the court of St. James's, and rose up Sir George.
"After a storm comes a calm." A proverb pleasant to remember in some of
the sharp storms of life. Mrs. Godolphin had carried her point in being
too many for her step-daughters; she had triumphed over opposition and
become my lady; and now she settled down in calmness at Ashlydyat. But
she grew dissatisfied. She was a woman who had no resources within
herself, who lived only in excitement, and Ashlydyat's quietness
overwhelmed her with ennui. She did not join in the love of the
Godolphins for Ashlydyat. Mr. Godolphin, ere he had brought her home to
it, a bride, had spoken so warmly of the place, in his attachment to it,
that she had believed she was about to step into some modern paradise:
instead of which, she found, as she expressed it, a "cranky old house,
full of nothing but passages." The dislike she formed for it in that
early moment never was overcome.
She would beguile her husband to her own pretty place in Berwickshire;
and, just at first, he was willing to be beguiled. But after he became
Sir George (not that the title had anything to do with it) public local
business grew upon him, and he found it inconvenient to quit Ashlydyat.
He explained this to Lady Godolphin: and said their sojourn in Scotland
must be confined to an autumn visit. So she perforce dragged out her
days at Ashlydyat, idle and listless.
We warn our children that idleness is the root of all evil; that it will
infallibly lead into mischief those who indulge in it. It so led Lady
Godolphin. One day, as she was looking from her drawing-room windows,
wishing all sorts of things. That she lived in her pleasant home in
Berwickshire; that she could live amidst the gaieties of London; that
Ashlydyat was not such a horrid old place; that it was more modern and
less ugly; that its reception-rooms were lofty, and garnished with
gilding and glitter, instead of being low, gloomy, and grim; and that it
was situated on an eminence, instead of on a flat, so that a better view
of the lovely scenery around might be obtained. On that gentle rise,
opposite, for instance--what would be more enchanting than to enjoy a
constant view from thence? If Ashlydyat could be transported there, as
they carry out wooden houses to set up abroad; or, if only that one
room, she then stood in, could, with its windows----
Lady Godolphin's thoughts arrested themselves here. An idea had flashed
upon her. Why should she not build a pretty summer-house on that hill; a
pavilion? The Countess of Cavemore, in this very county, had done such a
thing: had built a pavilion on a hill within view of the windows of
Cavemore House, and had called it "Lady Cavemore's Folly." Only the week
before, she, Lady Godolphin, in driving past it, had thought what a
pretty place it looked; what a charming prospect must be obtained from
it. Why should she not do the same?
The idea grew into shape and form. It would not leave her again. She had
plenty of money of her own, and she would work out her "Folly" to the
very top of its bent.
To the top of its bent, indeed! None can tell what a thing will grow
into when it is first begun. Lady Godolphin made known her project to
Sir George, who, though he saw no particular need for the work, did not
object to it. If Lady Godolphin chose to spend money in that way, she
might do so. So it was put in hand. Architects, builders, decorators
were called together; and the Folly was planned out and begun. Lady
Godolphin had done with ennui now; she found employment for her days, in
watching the progress of the pavilion.
It is said that the consummation of our schemes generally brings with it
a share of disappointment. It did so in this instance to Lady Godolphin.
The Folly turned out to be a really pretty place; the views from its
windows magnificent; and Lady Godolphin was as enchanted as a child with
a new toy. The disappointment arose from the fact that she could not
make the Folly her home. After spending a morning in it, or an evening,
she must leave it to return to that grey Ashlydyat--the only eyesore to
be seen, when gazing from the Folly's windows. If a day turned out wet,
she could not walk to the Folly; if she was expecting visitors she must
stay at home to receive them; if Sir George felt ill--and his health was
then beginning to suffer--she could not leave him for her darling Folly.
It was darling because it was new: in six months' time, Lady Godolphin
would have grown tired of it; have rarely entered it: but in her present
mood, it was all-in-all to her.
Slowly she formed the resolution to enlarge the Folly--slowly for her,
for she deliberated upon it for two whole days. She would add "a
reception-room or two," "a bedroom or two," "a kitchen," so that she
might be enabled, when she chose to do so, to take up her abode in it
for a week. And these additions were begun.
But they did not end; did not end as she had intended. As the Folly
grew, so grew the ideas of Lady Godolphin: there must be a suite of
reception-rooms, there must be several bedrooms, there must be domestic
offices in proportion. Sir George told her that she would spend a
fortune upon it; my lady answered that, at any rate, she should have
something to show for the outlay.
At length it was completed: and Lady Godolphin's Folly--for it retained
its appellation--stood out to the view of Prior's Ash, which it
overlooked; to the view of Ashlydyat; to the view of the country
generally, as a fair, moderate-sized, attractive residence, built in the
villa style, its white walls dazzling the eye when the sun shone upon
them.
"We will reside there, and let Ashlydyat," said Lady Godolphin to her
husband.
"Reside at the Folly! Leave Ashlydyat!" he repeated, in consternation.
"It could not be."
"It will be," she added, with a half self-willed, half-caressing laugh.
"Why could it not be?"
Sir George fell into a reverie. He admired the modern conveniences of
the Folly, greatly admired the lovely scenery, that, look from which
room of it he would, charmed his eye. But for one thing, he had been
content to do as she wished, and go to live there. That one thing--what
was it? Hear the low-breathed, reluctant words he is beginning to say to
Lady Godolphin.
"There is an old tradition in our family--a superstition I suppose you
will call it--that if the Godolphins leave Ashlydyat, their ruin is at
hand."
Lady Godolphin stared at him in amazement. Nothing had surprised her on
her arrival at Ashlydyat, like the stories of marvel which she had been
obliged to hear. Sir George had cast ridicule on them, if alluded to in
his presence; therefore, when the above words dropped from him, she
could only wonder. You might search a town through and not find one less
prone to superstition than was Lady Godolphin: in all that belonged to
it, she was a very heathen. Sir George hastened to explain away his
words.
"The tradition is nothing, and I regard it as nothing. That such a one
has been handed down is certain, and it may have given rise to the
reluctance, which the early Godolphins entertained, to quit Ashlydyat.
But that is not our reason: in remaining in it, we only obey a father's
behest. You are aware that Ashlydyat is not entailed. It is bequeathed
by will from father to son; and to the bequest in each will, so far as I
have cognizance of the past wills, there has always been appended a
clause--a request--I should best say an injunction--never to quit
Ashlydyat. 'When once you shall have come into possession of Ashlydyat,
guard it as your stronghold: resign it neither to your heir nor to a
stranger: remain in it until death shall take you.' It was inserted in
my father's will, by which Ashlydyat became mine: it is inserted in
mine, which devises the estate to Thomas."
"If ever I heard so absurd a story!" uttered Lady Godolphin in her
pretty childish manner. "Do I understand you to say that, if you left
Ashlydyat to take up your abode elsewhere, it would be no longer yours?"
"Not that, not that," returned Sir George. "Ashlydyat is mine until my
death, and no power can take it from me. But a reluctance to leave
Ashlydyat has always clung to the Godolphins: in fact, we have looked
upon it as a step impossible to be taken."
"What a state of thraldom to live in!"
"Pardon me. We love Ashlydyat. To remain in it is pleasant; to leave it
would be pain. I speak of the Godolphins in general; of those who have
preceded me."
"I understand now," said Lady Godolphin resentfully. "You hold a
superstition that if you were to leave Ashlydyat for the Folly, some
dreadful doom would overtake you. Sir George, I thought we lived in the
nineteenth century."
A passing flush rose to the face of Sir George Godolphin. To be
suspected of leaning to these superstitions chafed his mind unbearably;
he had almost rather be accused of dishonour: not to his own heart would
he admit that they might have weight with him. "Ashlydyat is our
homestead," he said, "and when a man has a homestead, he likes to live
and die in it."
"You cannot think Ashlydyat so desirable a residence as the Folly. We
_must_ remove to the Folly, Sir George; I have set my heart upon it. Let
Thomas and his sisters come back to Ashlydyat."
"They would not come."
"Not come! They were inwardly rebellious enough at having to leave it."
"I am sure that Thomas would not take up his residence here, as the
master of Ashlydyat, during my lifetime. Another thing: we should not be
justified in keeping up two expensive establishments outside the town,
leaving the house at the bank to lie idle. People might lose confidence
in us, if they saw us launching forth into extravagance."
"Oh, indeed! What did they think of the expense launched upon the
Folly?" mockingly smiled my lady.
"They know it is your money which has built that: not mine."
"If Thomas and the rest came to Ashlydyat you might let the house
attached to the bank."
"It would take a great deal more money to keep up Ashlydyat than it does
the house at the bank. The public might lose confidence in us, I say.
Besides, no one but a partner could be allowed to live at the bank."
"You seem to find an answer to all my propositions," said Lady
Godolphin, in her softest and sweetest, and least true tone; "but I warn
you, Sir George, that I shall win you over to my way of thinking before
the paper shall be dry on the Folly's walls. If Thomas cannot, or will
not, live at Ashlydyat, you must let it."
In every tittle did Lady Godolphin carry out her words. Almost before
the Folly's embellishments were matured to receive them, Sir George was
won over to live at it: and Ashlydyat was advertised to be let. Thomas
Godolphin would not have become its master in his father's lifetime had
Sir George filled its rooms with gold as a bribe. His mother had
contrived to imbue him with some of the Ashlydyat superstition--to which
_she_ had lived a slave--and Thomas, though he did not bow down to it,
would not brave it. If ruin was to come--as some religiously
believed--when a reigning Godolphin voluntarily abandoned Ashlydyat,
Thomas, at least, would not help it on by taking part in the step. So
Ashlydyat, to the intense astonishment of Prior's Ash, was put up in the
market for hire.
It was taken by a Mr. Verrall; a gentleman from London. Prior's Ash knew
nothing of him, except that he was fond of field sports, and appeared to
be a man of money: but, the fact of his establishing himself at
Ashlydyat, stamped him, in their estimation, as one worthy to be
courted. His wife was a pretty, fascinating woman; her sister, Miss
Pain, was beautiful; their entertainments were good, their style was
dashing, and they became the fashion in the neighbourhood.
But, from the very first day that the step was mooted of Sir George
Godolphin's taking up his residence at the Folly, until that of his
removal thither, the Shadow had hovered over the Dark Plain at
Ashlydyat.
CHAPTER III.
THE DARK PLAIN IN THE MOONLIGHT.
The beams of the setting sun streamed into the dining-room at Lady
Godolphin's Folly. A room of fine proportions; not dull and heavy, as it
is much the custom for dining-rooms to be, but light and graceful as
could be wished.
Sir George Godolphin, with his fine old beauty, sat at one end of the
table; Lady Godolphin, good-looking also in her peculiar style, was
opposite to him. She wore a white dress, its make remarkably young, and
her hair fell in ringlets, young also. On her right hand sat Thomas
Godolphin, courteous and calm, as he ever was; on her left hand was
Bessy, whom you have already seen. On the right of Sir George sat Maria
Hastings, singularly attractive in her quiet loveliness, in her white
spotted muslin dress with its white ribbons. On his left sat his eldest
daughter, Janet. Quiet in manner, plain in features, as was Thomas, her
eyes were yet wonderful to behold. Not altogether for their beauty, but
for the power they appeared to contain of seeing all things. Large,
reflective, strangely-deep eyes, grey, with a circlet of darker grey
round them. When they were cast upon you, it was not at you they looked,
but at what was within you--at your mind, your thoughts; at least, such
was the impression they conveyed. She and Bessy were dressed alike, in
grey watered silk. Cecil sat between Janet and Thomas, a charming girl,
with blue ribbons in her hair. George sat between his sister Bessy and
Maria Hastings. Thomas was attired much as he had been in the morning:
George had exchanged his hunting clothes for dinner dress.
Lady Godolphin was speaking of her visit to Scotland. Sir George's
illness had caused it to be put off, or they would have gone in August:
it was proposed to proceed thither now. "I have written finally to say
that we shall be there on Tuesday," she observed.
"Will papa be able to make the journey in one day?" asked Bessy.
"He says he is quite strong enough to do so now," replied Lady
Godolphin. "But I could not think of his running any risk, so we shall
stay a night upon the road. Janet, will you believe that I had a battle
with Mr. Hastings to-day?"
Janet turned her strange eyes on Lady Godolphin. "Had you, madam?"
"I consider Mr. Hastings the most unreasonable, changeable man I ever
met with," complained Lady Godolphin. "But clergymen are apt to be so.
So obstinate, if they take up a thing! When Maria was invited to
accompany us in August, Mr. Hastings made not a single demur neither he
nor Mrs. Hastings: they bought her--oh, all sorts of new things for the
visit. New dresses and bonnets; and--a new cloak, was it not, Maria?"
Maria smiled. "Yes, Lady Godolphin."
"People who have never been in Scotland acquire the notion that in
temperature it may be matched with the North Pole, so a warm cloak was
provided for Maria for an August visit! I called at the Rectory to-day
with Maria, after the hounds had thrown off, to tell them that we should
depart next week, and Mr. Hastings wanted to withdraw his consent to her
going. "Too late in the season," he urged, or some such plea. I told him
she should not be frozen; we should be back before the cold weather set
in."
Maria lifted her sweet face, an earnest look upon it. "It was not the
cold papa thought of, Lady Godolphin: he knows I am too hardy to fear
that. But, as winter approaches, there is so much more to do, both at
home and abroad. Mamma has to be out a great deal: and this will be a
heavy winter with the poor, after all the sickness."
"The sickness has passed," exclaimed Lady Godolphin, in a tone so sharp,
so eager, as to give rise to a suspicion that she might fear, or had
feared, the sickness for herself.
"Nearly so," assented Miss Godolphin. "There have been no fresh cases
since----"
"Janet, if you talk of 'fresh cases' at my table, I shall retire from
it," interrupted Lady Godolphin in agitation. "Is fever a pleasant or
fitting topic of conversation, pray?"
Janet Godolphin bowed her head. "I did not forget your fears, madam. I
supposed, however, that, now that the sickness is subsiding, your
objection to hearing it spoken of might have subsided also."
"And how did the controversy with Mr. Hastings end?" interposed Bessy,
to turn the topic. "Is Maria to go?"
"Of course she is to go," said Lady Godolphin, with a quiet little laugh
of power, as she recovered her good-humour. "When I wish a thing, I
generally carry my point. I would not stir from his room until he gave
his consent, and he had his sermon on the table, and was no doubt
wishing me at the antipodes. He thought Maria had already paid me a
visit long enough for Sir George to have grown tired of her, he said. I
told him that it was not his business: and that whether Sir George or
any one else was tired of her, I should take her to Scotland. So he
yielded."
Maria Hastings glanced timidly at Sir George. He saw the look. "Not
tired of you yet, are we, Miss Hastings?" he said, with, Maria fancied,
more gallantry than warmth. But fancy, with Maria, sometimes went a
great way.
"It would have been a disappointment to Maria," pursued Lady Godolphin.
"Would it not, my dear?"
"Yes," she answered, her face flushing.
"And so very dull for Charlotte Pain. I expressly told her when I
invited her that Maria Hastings would be of the party."
"Charlotte Pain!" echoed Bessy Godolphin, in her quick way; "is she
going with you? What in the world is that for?"
"I invited her, I say," said Lady Godolphin, with a hard look on her
bloom-tinted face: a look that it always wore when her wishes were
questioned, her actions reflected on. None brooked interference less
than Lady Godolphin.
Sir George bent his head slightly towards his wife. "My dear, I
considered that Charlotte Pain invited herself. She fished pretty
strongly for the invitation, and you fell into the snare."
"Snare! It is an honour and a pleasure that she should come with us.
What do you mean, Sir George?"
"An honour, if you like to call it so; I am sure it will be a pleasure,"
replied Sir George. "A most attractive young woman is Charlotte Pain:
though she did angle for the invitation. George, take care how you play
your cards."
"What cards, sir?"
"Look at that graceless George! at his conscious vanity!" exclaimed Sir
George to the table generally. "He knows who it is that makes the
attraction here to Charlotte Pain. Wear her if you can win her, my boy."
"Would Charlotte Pain be one worthy to be won by George Godolphin?"
quietly spoke Janet.
"Rumour says she has thirty thousand charms," nodded Sir George.
"I never would marry for money, if I were George," cried Cecil
indignantly. "And, papa, I do not see so much beauty in Charlotte Pain.
I do not like her style."
"Cecil, did you ever know one pretty girl like the 'style' of another?"
asked George.
"Nonsense! But you can't call Charlotte Pain much of a girl, George. She
is as old as you, I know. She's six and twenty, if she's a day."
"Possibly," carelessly replied George Godolphin.
"Did she ride well to-day, George?" inquired his father.
"She always rides well, sir," replied George.
"I wish I had invited her to dinner!" said Lady Godolphin.
"I wish you had," assented Sir George.
Nothing more was said upon the subject; the conversation fell into other
channels. But, when the ladies had withdrawn, and Sir George was alone
with his sons, he renewed it.
"Mind, George, I was not in jest when speaking of Charlotte Pain. It is
getting time that you married."
"Need a man think of marriage on this side thirty, sir?"
"Some men need not think of it on this side forty or on this side fifty,
unless they choose to do so: your brother Thomas is one," returned Sir
George. "But they are those who know how to sow their wild oats without
it."
"I shall sow mine in good time," said George, with a gay, half-conscious
smile. "Thomas never had any to sow."
"I wish you would settle the time and keep it, then," was the marked
rejoinder. "It might be better for you."
"Settle the time for my marriage, do you mean, sir?"
"You know what I mean. But I suppose you do intend to marry some time,
George?"
"I dare say I shall. It is a thing that comes to most of us as a matter
of course; as measles or vaccination," spoke irreverent George. "You
mentioned Charlotte Pain, sir: I presume you have no urgent wish that my
choice should fall upon her?"
"If I had, would you comply with it?"
George raised his blue eyes to his father. "I have never thought of
Charlotte Pain as a wife."
"She is a fine girl, a wonderfully fine girl; and if, as is rumoured,
she has a fortune, you might go further and fare worse," remarked Sir
George. "If you don't like Charlotte Pain, find out some one else that
you would like. Only, take care that there's money with her."
"Money is desirable in itself. But it does not invariably bring
happiness, sir."
"I never heard that it brought unhappiness, Master George. I cannot have
you both marry portionless women. Thomas has chosen one who has nothing:
it will not do for you to follow his example. The world is before you;
choose wisely."
"If we choose portionless women, we are not portionless ourselves."
"We have a credit to keep up before the public, George. It stands high;
it deserves to stand high; I hope it always will do so. But I consider
it necessary that one of you should marry a fortune; I should have been
glad that both had done so. Take the hint, George; and never expect my
consent to your making an undesirable match, for it would not be given."
"But, if my inclination fixed itself upon one who has no money, what
then, sir?" asked bold George carelessly.
Sir George pushed from before him a dish of filberts, so hastily as to
scatter them on the table. It proved to his sons, who knew him well,
that the question had annoyed him.
"Your inclinations are as yet free, George: I say the world is before
you, and you may choose wisely. If you do not: if, after this warning,
you suffer your choice to rest where it is undesirable that it should
rest, you will do it in deliberate defiance of me. In that case I shall
disinherit you: partially, if not wholly."
Something appeared to be on the tip of George's tongue, but he checked
it, and there ensued a pause.
"Thomas is to be allowed to follow his choice," he presently said.
"I had not warned Thomas with regard to a choice; therefore he has been
guilty of no disobedience. It is his having chosen as he has, that
reminds me to caution you. Be careful, my boy."
"Well, sir, I have no intention of marrying yet, and I suppose you will
not disinherit me for keeping single," concluded George good-humouredly.
He rose to leave the room as he spoke, throwing a merry glance towards
Thomas as he did so, who had taken no part whatever in the conversation.
The twilight of the evening had passed, but the moon shone bright and
clear, rendering the night nearly as light as day. Janet Godolphin stood
on the lawn with Miss Hastings, when George stepped out and joined them.
"Moon-gazing, Janet!"
"Yes," she answered. "I am going on to the ash-trees."
George paused before he again spoke. "Why are you going thither?"
"Because," whispered Janet, glancing uneasily around, "they say the
Shadow is there again."
George himself had heard that it was: had heard it, as you know, from
Charlotte Pain. But he chose to make mockery of his sister's words.
"Some say the moon's made of green cheese," quoth he. "Who told you that
nonsense?"
"It has been told to me," mysteriously returned Janet. "Margery saw it
last night, for one."
"Margery sees double, sometimes. Do not go, Janet."
Janet's only answer was to put the hood of her cloak over her head, and
walk away. Bessy Godolphin ran up at this juncture.
"Is Janet going to the ash-trees? She'll turn into a ghost herself some
time, believing all the rubbish Margery chooses to dream. I shall go and
tell her so."
Bessy followed in the wake of her sister. George turned to Miss
Hastings.
"Have you a cloak also, Maria? Draw it round you, then, and let us go
after them."
He caught her to him with a fond gesture, and they hastened on, down
from the eminence where rose the Folly, to the lower ground nearer
Ashlydyat. The Dark Plain lay to the right, and as they struck into a
narrow, overhung walk, its gloom contrasted unpleasantly with the late
brightness. Maria Hastings drew nearer to her companion with an
involuntary shiver.
"Why did you come this dark way, George?"
"It is the most direct way. In the dark or in the light you are safe
with me. Did you notice Sir George's joke about Charlotte Pain?"
The question caused her heart to beat wildly. "Was it a joke?" she
breathed.
"Of course it was a joke. But he has been giving me a lecture
upon--upon----"
"Upon what?" she inquired, helping out his hesitation.
"Upon the expediency of sowing my wild oats and settling down into a
respectable man," laughed George. "I promised him it should be done some
time. I cannot afford it just yet, Maria," he added, his tone changing
to earnestness. "But I did not tell him that."
Meanwhile, Janet Godolphin had gained the ash-trees. She quietly glided
before them beneath their shade to reach the bench. It was placed back,
quite amidst them, in what might almost be called a recess formed by the
trees. Janet paused ere turning in, her sight thrown over the Dark
Plain.
"Heavens and earth! how you startled me. Is it you, Miss Godolphin?"
The exclamation came from Charlotte Pain, who was seated there. Miss
Godolphin was startled also; and her tone, as she spoke, betrayed
considerable vexation.
"_You_ here, Miss Pain! A solitary spot, is it not, for a young lady to
be sitting in alone at night?"
"I was watching for that strange appearance which you, in this
neighbourhood, call the Shadow," she explained. "I saw it last evening."
"Did you?" freezingly replied Janet Godolphin, who had an unconquerable
aversion to the supernatural sign being seen or spoken of by strangers.
"Well, pray, and where's the Shadow?" interrupted Bessy Godolphin,
coming up. "_I_ see nothing, and my eyes are as good as yours, Janet:
better, I hope, than Margery's."
"I do not see it to-night," said Charlotte Pain. "Here are more
footsteps! Who else is coming?"
"Did you ever know the Shadow come when it was watched for?" cried Janet
to Bessy, in a half-sad, half-resentful tone, as her brother and Maria
Hastings approached. "Watch for it, and it does not come. It never yet
struck upon the sight of any one, but it did so unexpectedly."
"As it did upon me last night," said Charlotte Pain. "It was a
strange-looking shadow: but, as to its being supernatural, the very
supposition is ridiculous. I beg your pardon, if I offend your
prejudices, Miss Godolphin."
"Child! why did you come?" cried Janet Godolphin to Maria.
"I had no idea you did not wish me to come."
"Wish! It is not that. But you are little more than a child, and might
be spared these sights."
There appeared to be no particular sight to spare any one. They stood in
a group, gazing eagerly. The Dark Plain was stretched out before them,
the bare patch of clear ground, the archway behind; all bright in the
moonlight. No shadow or shade was to be seen. Charlotte Pain moved to
the side of George Godolphin.
"You told me I was fanciful this morning, when I said the Dark Plain put
me in mind of a graveyard," she said to him in a half-whisper. "See it
now! Those low bushes scattered about look precisely like grave-mounds."
"But we know them to be bushes," returned George.
"That is not the argument. I say they _look_ like it. If you brought a
stranger here first by moonlight, and asked him what the Plain was, he
would say a graveyard."
"Thus it has ever been!" murmured Janet Godolphin to herself. "At the
first coming of the Shadow, it will be here capriciously; visible one
night, invisible the next: betokening that the evil has not yet arrived,
that it is only hovering! You are sure you saw it, Miss Pain?"
"I am quite sure that I saw a shadow, bearing a strange and distinct
form, there, in front of the archway. But I am equally sure it is to be
accounted for by natural causes. But that my eyes tell me there is no
building, or sign of building above the Dark Plain, I should say it was
cast from thence. Some fairies, possibly, may be holding up a sheet
there," she carelessly added, "playing at magic lantern in the
moonlight."
"Standing in the air," sarcastically returned Miss Godolphin.
"Archimedes offered to move the world with his lever, if the world would
only find him a place, apart from itself, to stand on."
"Are you convinced, Janet?" asked George.
"Of what?"
He pointed over the Plain. "That there is nothing uncanny to be seen
to-night. I'll send Margery here when I return."
"I am convinced of one thing--that it is getting uncommonly damp," said
practical Bessy. "I never stood under these ash-trees in an evening yet,
let the atmosphere be ever so cold and clear, but a dampness might be
felt. I wonder if it is the nature of ash-trees to exhale it? Maria, the
Rector would not thank us for bringing you here."
"Is Miss Hastings so susceptible to cold?" asked Charlotte Pain.
"Not more so than other people are," was Maria's answer.
"It is her child-like, delicate appearance, I suppose, that makes us
fancy it," said Bessy Godolphin. "Come, let us depart. If Lady Godolphin
could see us here, she would go crazy: she says, you know, that damp
brings fever."
They made a simultaneous movement. Their road lay to the right;
Charlotte Pain's to the left. "I envy you four," she said, after wishing
them good night. "You are a formidable body, numerous enough to do
battle with any assailants you may meet in your way, fairies, or
shadows, or fever, or what not. I must encounter them alone."
"Scarcely," replied George Godolphin, as he drew her arm within his, and
turned with her in the direction of Ashlydyat.
Arrived at Lady Godolphin's Folly, the Miss Godolphins passed indoors;
Maria Hastings lingered a moment behind them. She leaned against a white
pillar of the terrace, looking forth on the lovely night. Not altogether
was that peaceful scene in accordance with her heart, for, in that,
warred passionate jealousy. Who was Charlotte Pain, she asked herself,
that she should come between them with her beauty; with her----
Some one was hastening towards her; crossing the green lawn, springing
up the steps of the terrace: and the jealous feeling died away into
love.
"Were you waiting for me?" whispered George Godolphin. "We met Verrall,
so I resigned mademoiselle to his charge. Maria, how your heart is
beating!"
"I was startled when you ran up so quickly; I did not think it could be
you," was the evasive answer. "Let me go, please."
"My darling, don't be angry with me: I could not well help myself. You
know with whom I would rather have been."
He spoke in the softest whisper; he gazed tenderly into her face, so
fair and gentle in the moonlight; he clasped her to him with an
impassioned gesture. And Maria, as she yielded to his tenderness in her
pure love, and felt his stolen kisses on her lips, forgot the jealous
trouble that was being wrought by Charlotte Pain.
CHAPTER IV.
ALL SOULS' RECTORY.
At the eastern end of Prior's Ash was situated the Church and Rectory of
All Souls--a valuable living, the Reverend Isaac Hastings its incumbent.
The house, enclosed from the high-road by a lofty hedge, was built, like
the church, of greystone. It was a commodious residence, but its rooms,
excepting one, were small. This one had been added to the house of late
years: a long, though somewhat narrow room, its three windows looking on
to the flowered lawn. A very pleasant room to sit in on a summer's day;
when the grass was green, and the flowers, with their brightness and
perfume, gladdened the senses, and the birds were singing, and the bees
and butterflies sporting.
Less pleasant to-day. For the skies wore a grey hue; the wind sighed
round the house with an ominous sound, telling of the coming winter; and
the mossy lawn and the paths were dreary with the yellow leaves,
decaying as they lay. Mrs. Hastings, a ladylike woman of middle height
and fair complexion, stood at one of these windows, watching the bending
of the trees as the wind shook them; watching the falling leaves. She
was remarkably susceptible to surrounding influences; seasons and
weather held much power over her: but that she was a clergyman's wife,
and, as such, obliged to take a very practical part in the duties of
life, she might have subsided into a valetudinarian.
A stronger gust sent the leaves rustling up the path, and Mrs. Hastings
slightly shivered.
"How I dislike this time of year," she exclaimed. "I wish there were no
autumn. I dislike to see the dead leaves."
"I like the autumn: although it heralds in the winter."
The reply came from Mr. Hastings, who was pacing the carpet, thinking
over his next day's sermon: for it was Saturday morning. Nature had not
intended Mr. Hastings for a parson, and his sermons were the bane of his
life. An excellent man; a most efficient pastor of a parish; a
gentleman; a scholar, abounding in good practical sense; but _not_ a
preacher. Sometimes he wrote his sermons, sometimes he tried the
extempore plan; but, let him do as he would, there was always a
conviction of failure, as to his sermons winning their way to his
hearers' hearts. He was under middle height, with keen aquiline
features, his dark hair already sprinkled with grey.
"I am glad the wind has changed," remarked the Rector. "We shall say
good-bye to the fever. While that warm weather lasted, I always had my
fears of its breaking out again. It was only coquetting with us. I
wonder----"
Mr. Hastings stopped, as if lapsing into thought. Mrs. Hastings inquired
what his "wonder" might be.
"I was thinking of Sir George Godolphin," he continued. "One thought
leads to another and another, until we should find them a strange train,
if we traced them back to their origin. Beginning with dead leaves, and
ending with--metaphysics."
"What are you talking of, Isaac?" his wife asked in surprise.
A half-smile crossed the thin delicate lips of Mr. Hastings. "You spoke
of the dead leaves: that led to the thought of the fever; the fever to
the bad drainage; the bad drainage to the declaration of Sir George
Godolphin that, if he lived until next year, it should be remedied, even
though he had to meet the expense himself. Then the train went on to
speculate upon whether Sir George would live; and next upon whether this
change of weather may not cause my lady to relinquish her journey; and
lastly, to Maria. Cold Scotland, if we are to have a season of bleak
winds, cannot be beneficial to Sir George."
"Lady Godolphin has set her mind upon going. She is not likely to
relinquish it."
"Mark you, Caroline," said Mr. Hastings, halting in his promenade, and
standing opposite his wife; "it is her dread of the fever that is
sending her to Scotland. But for that, she would not go, now that it is
so late in the year. And for Maria's sake I wish she would not. I do not
now wish Maria to go to Scotland."
"Why?" asked Mrs. Hastings.
Mr. Hastings knitted his brow. "It is an objection more easily felt than
explained."
"When the invitation was given in the summer, you were pleased that she
should accept it."
"Yes; I acknowledge it: and, had they gone then, I should have felt no
repugnance to the visit. But I do feel a repugnance to it now, so far as
Maria is concerned; an unaccountable repugnance. If you ask me to
explain it, or to tell you what my reason is, I can only answer that I
am unable to do so. It is this want of reason, good or bad, which has
prevented my entirely withdrawing the consent I gave. I essayed to do
so, when Lady Godolphin was here on Thursday; but she pressed me
closely, and, having no sound or plausible argument to bring forward
against it, my opposition broke down."
Mrs. Hastings wondered. Never was there a man less given to whims and
fancies than the Reverend Isaac Hastings. His actions and thoughts were
based on the sound principle of plain matter-of-fact sense: he was
practical in all things; there was not a grain of ideality in his
composition.
At that moment a visitor's knock was heard. Mrs. Hastings glanced across
the hall, and saw her second daughter enter. She wore her grey cashmere
cloak, soft and fine in texture, delicate in hue; a pretty morning
dress, and a straw bonnet trimmed with white. A healthy colour shone on
her delicate face, and her eyes were sparkling with inward happiness.
Very attractive, very ladylike, was Maria Hastings.
"I was obliged to come this morning, mamma," she said, when greetings
had passed. "Some of my things are still here which I wish to take, and
I must collect them and send them to the Folly. We start early on Monday
morning; everything must be packed to-day."
"One would suppose you were off for a year, Maria," exclaimed Mr.
Hastings, "to hear you talk of 'collecting your things.' How many
trunk-loads have you already at the Folly?"
"Only two, papa," she replied, laughing, and wondering why Mr. Hastings
should speak so sternly. "They are chiefly trifles that I have come for;
books, and other things: not clothes."
"Your papa thought it likely that Lady Godolphin would not now go, as
the fine weather seems to be leaving us," said Mrs. Hastings.
"Oh yes, she will," replied Maria. "Her mind is fully made up. Did you
not know that the orders had already been sent into Berwickshire? And
some of the servants went on this morning?"
"Great ladies change their minds sometimes," remarked Mr. Hastings in a
cynical tone.
Maria shook her head. She had untied her bonnet-strings, and was
unfastening her mantle. "Sir George, who has risen to breakfast since
Thursday, asked Lady Godolphin this morning whether it would not be late
for Scotland, and she resented the remark. What do you think she said,
mamma? That if there was nothing else to take her to Scotland, this
absurd rumour, of the Shadow's having come again, would drive her
thither."
"What's that, Maria?" demanded the clergyman in a sharp, displeased
accent.
"A rumour has arisen, papa, that the Shadow is appearing at Ashlydyat.
It was seen on Wednesday night. On Thursday night, some of us went to
the ash-trees----"
"_You_ went?" interrupted the Rector.
"Yes, papa," she answered, her voice growing timid, for he spoke in a
tone of great displeasure. "I, and Miss Godolphin, and Bessy. We were
not alone: George Godolphin was with us."
"And what did you see?" eagerly interposed Mrs. Hastings, who possessed
more of the organ of marvel in her composition than her husband.
"Mamma, we saw nothing. Only the Dark Plain lying quietly under the
moonlight. There appeared to be nothing to see; nothing unusual."
"But that I hear you say this with my own ears, I should not have
believed you capable of giving utterance to folly so intense," sternly
exclaimed Mr. Hastings to his daughter. "Are you the child of Christian
parents? have you received an enlightened education?"
Maria's eyelids fell under the reproof, and the soft colour in her
cheeks deepened.
"That a daughter of mine should confess to running after a 'shadow'!" he
continued, really with more asperity than the case seemed to need. But
the Rector of All Souls' was one who would have deemed it little less
heresy to doubt his Bible, than to countenance a tale of superstition.
He repudiated such with the greatest contempt: he never, even though
proof positive had been brought before his eyes, could accord to it an
iota of credence. "An absurd tale of a 'shadow,' worthy only to be told
to those who, in their blind credulity, formerly burnt poor creatures as
witches; worthy only to amuse the ears of ignorant urchins, whom we put
into our fields to frighten away the crows! And _my daughter_ has lent
herself to it! Can this be the result of your training, madam?"--turning
angrily to his wife. "Or of mine?"
"I did not run after it from my own curiosity; I went because the rest
went," answered poor Maria in her confusion, all too conscious that the
stolen moonlight walk with Mr. George Godolphin had been a far more
powerful motive to the expedition than the "Shadow." "Miss Pain saw it
on Wednesday night; Margery saw it----"
"Will you cease?" broke forth the Rector. "'Saw it!' If they said they
saw it they must have been labouring under a delusion; or else were
telling a deliberate untruth. And you do not know better than to repeat
such ignorance! What would Sir George think of you?"
"I should not mention it in his presence, papa. Or in Lady Godolphin's."
"Neither shall you in mine. It is not possible"--Mr. Hastings stood
before her and fixed his eyes sternly upon hers--"that you can believe
in it?"
"I think not, papa," she answered in her strict truth. To truth, at any
rate, she had been trained, whether by father or by mother; and she
would not violate it even to avoid displeasure. "I think that my feeling
upon the point is curiosity; not belief."
"Then that curiosity implies belief," sternly replied the Rector. "If a
man came to me and said, 'There's an elephant out there, in the garden,'
and I went forth to see, would not that prove my belief in the
assertion?"
Maria was no logician; or she had answered, "No, you might go to prove
the error of the assertion." "Indeed, papa, if I know anything of
myself, I am not a believer in it," she repeated, her cheeks growing
hotter and hotter. "If I were once to see the Shadow, why then----"
"Be silent!" he cried, not allowing her to continue. "I shall think next
I am talking to that silly dreamer, Janet Godolphin. Is it she who has
imbued you with this tone of mind?"
Maria shook her head. There was an undercurrent of consciousness, lying
deep in her heart, that if a "tone" upon the point had been insensibly
acquired by her, it was caught from one far more precious to her heart,
far more essential to her very existence, than was Janet Godolphin. That
last Thursday night, in running with George Godolphin after this tale of
the Shadow, his arm cast lovingly round her, she had acquired the
impression, from a few words he let fall, that he must put faith in it.
She was content that his creed should be hers in all things: had she
wished to differ from him, it would have been beyond her power to do so.
Mr. Hastings appeared to wait for an answer.
"Janet Godolphin does not intrude her superstitious fancies upon the
world, papa. Were she to seek to convert me to them, I should not listen
to her."
"Dismiss the subject altogether from your thoughts, Maria," commanded
the Rector. "If men and women would perform efficiently their allotted
part in life, there is enough of hard substance to occupy their minds
and their hours, without losing either the one or the other in
'shadows.' Take you note of that."
"Yes, papa," she dutifully answered, scarcely knowing whether she had
deserved the lecture or not, but glad that it was at an end. "Mamma,
where is Grace?"
"In the study. You can go to her. There's David!" exclaimed Mrs.
Hastings, as Maria left the room.
A short, thick-set man had appeared in the garden, giving rise to the
concluding remark of Mrs. Hastings. If you have not forgotten the first
chapter, you may remember that Bessy Godolphin spoke of a man who had
expressed his pleasure at seeing her father out again. She called him
"Old Jekyl." Old Jekyl lived in a cottage on the outskirts of Prior's
Ash. He had been in his days a working gardener, but rheumatism and age
had put him beyond work now. There was a good bit of garden-ground to
his cottage, and it was well cultivated. Vegetables and fruit grew in
it; and a small board was fastened in front of the laburnum-tree at the
gate, with the intimation "Cut flowers sold here." There were also
bee-hives. Old Jekyl (Prior's Ash never dignified him by any other
title) had no wife: she was dead: but his two sons lived with him, and
they followed the occupation that had been his. I could not tell you how
many gardens in Prior's Ash and its environs those two men kept in
order. Many a family, not going to the expense of keeping a regular
gardener, some, perhaps, not able to go to it, entrusted the care of
their garden to the Jekyls, paying them a stipulated sum yearly. The
plan answered. The gardens were kept in order, and the Jekyls earned a
good living; both masters and men were contented.
They had been named Jonathan and David: and were as opposite as men and
brothers could well be, both in nature and appearance. Each was worthy
in his way. Jonathan stood six feet three if he stood an inch, and was
sufficiently slender for a lamp-post: rumour went that he had
occasionally been taken for one. An easy-going, obliging, talkative,
mild-tempered man, was Jonathan, his opinion agreeing with every one's.
Mrs. Hastings was wont to declare that if she were to say to him, "You
know, Jonathan, the sun never shone," his answer would be, "Well, ma'am,
I don't know as ever it did, over bright like." David had the build of a
Dutchman, and was taciturn upon most subjects. In manner he was somewhat
surly, and would hold his own opinion, especially if it touched upon his
occupation, against the world.
Amongst others who employed them in this way, was the Rector of All
Souls'. They were in the habit of coming and going to that or any other
garden, as they pleased, at whatever day or time suited their
convenience; sometimes one brother, sometimes the other, sometimes one
of the two boys they employed, as they might arrange between themselves.
Any garden entrusted to their care they were sure to keep in order;
therefore their time and manner of doing it was not interfered with.
Mrs. Hastings suddenly saw David in the garden. "I will get him to sweep
those ugly dead leaves from the paths," she exclaimed, throwing up the
window. "David!"
David heard the call, turned and looked. Finding he was wanted, he
advanced in a leisurely, independent sort of manner, giving his
attention to the beds as he passed them, and stopping to pluck off any
dead flower that offended his eye. He gave a nod as he reached Mrs.
Hastings, his features not relaxing in the least. The nod was a mark of
respect, and _meant_ as such; the only demonstration of respect commonly
shown by David. His face was not ugly, though too flat and broad; his
complexion was fair, and his eyes were blue.
"David, see how the leaves have fallen; how they lie upon the ground!"
David gave a half-glance round, by way of answer, but he did not speak.
He knew the leaves were there without looking.
"You must clear them away," continued Mrs. Hastings.
"No," responded David to this. "'Twon't be of no use."
"But, David, you know how very much I dislike to see these withered
leaves," rejoined Mrs. Hastings in a voice more of pleading than of
command. Command answered little with David.
"Can't help seeing 'em," persisted David. "Leaves will wither; and will
fall: it's their natur' to do it. If every one of them lying there now
was raked up and swept away, there'd be as many down again to-morrow
morning. I can't neglect my beds to fad with the leaves--and bring no
good to pass, after all."
"David, I do not think any one ever was so self-willed as you!" said
Mrs. Hastings, laughing in spite of her vexation.
"I know my business," was David's answer. "If I gave in at my different
places to all the missises' whims, how should I get my work done? The
masters would be blowing me up, thinking it was idleness. Look at
Jonathan! he lets himself be swayed any way; and a nice time he gets of
it, among 'em. His day's work's never done."
"You would not suffer the leaves to lie there until the end of the
season!" exclaimed Mrs. Hastings. "They would be up to our ankles as we
walked."
"May be they would," composedly returned David. "I have cleared 'em off
about six times this fall, and I shall clear 'em again, but not as long
as this wind lasts."
"Is it going to last, David?" inquired the Rector, appearing at his
wife's side, and laughing inwardly at her diplomatic failure.
David nodded his usual salutation as he answered. He would sometimes
relax so far as to say "Sir" to Mr. Hastings, an honour paid exclusively
to his pastoral capacity. "No, it won't last, sir. We shall have the
warm weather back again."
"You think so!" exclaimed the Rector in an accent of disappointment.
Experience had taught him that David, in regard to the weather, was an
oracle.
"I am sure so," answered David. "The b'rometer's going fast on to heat,
too."
"Is it?" said Mr. Hastings. "You have often told me you put no faith in
the barometer."
"No more I don't: unless other signs answer to it," said David. "The
very best b'rometer going, is old father's rheumatiz. There was a sharp
frost last night, sir."
"I know it," replied Mr. Hastings. "A few nights of that and the fever
will be driven away."
"We shan't get a few nights of it," said David. "And the fever has
broken out again."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Hastings. "The fever broken out again?"
"Yes," said David.
The news fell upon the clergyman's heart as a knell. He had fully
believed the danger to have passed away, though not yet the sickness.
"Are you sure it has broken out again, David?" he asked, after a pause.
"I ain't no surer than I was told, sir," returned phlegmatic David. "I
met Cox just now, and he said, as he passed, that fever had shown itself
in a fresh place."
"Do you know where?" inquired Mr. Hastings.
"He said, I b'lieve, but I didn't catch it. If I stopped to listen to
the talk of fevers, and such-like, where would my work be?"
Taking his hat, one of the very clerical shape, with a broad brim, the
Rector left his house. He was scarcely without the gates when he saw Mr.
Snow, who was the most popular doctor in Prior's Ash, coming along
quickly in his gig. Mr. Hastings threw out his hand, and the groom
pulled up.
"Is it true?--this fresh rumour of the fever?"
"Too true, I fear," replied Mr. Snow. "I am on my way thither now; just
summoned."
"Who is attacked?"
"Sarah Anne Grame."
The name appeared to startle the Rector. "Sarah Anne Grame!" he
repeated. "She will never battle through it!" The doctor raised his
eyebrows, as if he thought it doubtful himself, and signed to his groom
to hasten on.
"Tell Lady Sarah I will call upon her in the course of the day," called
out Mr. Hastings, as the gig sped on its way. "I must ask Maria if she
has heard news of this," he continued, in soliloquy, as he turned within
the Rectory gate.
Maria Hastings had found her way to the study. To dignify a room by the
appellation of "study" in a clergyman's house, would at once imply that
it must be the private sanctum of its master, consecrated to his sermons
and his other clerical studies. Not so, however, in the Rectory of All
Souls. The study there was chiefly consecrated to litter, and the master
had less to do with it, personally, than with almost any other room in
the house. There, the children, boys and girls, played, or learned
lessons, or practised; there, Mrs. Hastings would sit to sew when she
had any work in hand too plebeian for the eyes of polite visitors.
Grace, the eldest of the family, was twenty years of age, one year older
than Maria. She bore a great resemblance to her father; and, like him,
was more practical than imaginative. She was very useful, in the house,
and took much care off Mrs. Hastings's hands. It happened that all the
children, five of them besides Maria, were this morning at home. It was
holiday that day with the boys. Isaac was next to Maria, but nearly
three years younger; one had died between them; Reginald was next; Harry
last; and then came a little girl, Rose. They ought to have been
preparing their lessons; were supposed to be doing so by Mr. and Mrs.
Hastings: in point of fact, they were gathering round Grace, who was
seated on a low stool solving some amusing puzzles from a new book. They
started up when Maria entered, and went dancing round her.
Maria danced too; she kissed them all; she sang aloud in her joyousness
of heart. What was it that made that heart so glad, her life as a very
Eden? The ever-constant presence there of George Godolphin.
"Have you come home to stay, Maria?"
"I have come home to _go_," she answered, with a laugh. "We start for
Scotland on Monday, and I want to hunt up oceans of things."
"It is fine to be you, Maria," exclaimed Grace, with a sensation very
like envy. "You have all the pleasure, and I have to stop at home and do
all the work. It is not fair."
"Gracie dear, it will be your turn next. I did not _ask_ Lady Godolphin
to invite me, instead of you. I never thought of her inviting me, being
the younger of the two."
"But she did invite you," grumbled Grace.
"I say, Maria, you are not to go to Scotland," struck in Isaac.
"Who says so?" cried Maria, her heart standing still, as she halted in
one corner of the room with at least half a dozen arms round her.
"Mamma said yesterday she thought you were not: that papa would not have
it."
"Is that all?" and Maria's pulses coursed on again. "I am to go: I have
just been with papa and mamma. They know that I have come to get my
things for the journey."
"Maria, who goes?"
"Sir George and my lady, and I and Charlotte Pain."
"Maria, I want to know why Charlotte Pain goes?" cried Grace.
Maria laughed. "You are like Bessy Godolphin, Grace. She asked the same
question, and my lady answered, 'Because she chose to invite her.' I can
only repeat to you the same reason."
"Does George Godolphin go?"
"No," replied Maria.
"Oh, doesn't he, though!" exclaimed Reginald. "Tell that to the marines,
mademoiselle."
"He does not go with us," said Maria. "Regy, you know you will get into
hot water if you use those sea phrases."
"Sea phrases! that is just like a girl," retorted Reginald. "What will
you lay me that George Godolphin is not in Scotland within a week after
you are all there?"
"I will not lay anything," said Maria, who in her inmost heart hoped and
believed that George _would_ be there.
"Catch him stopping away if Charlotte Pain goes?" went on Reginald.
"Yesterday I was at the pastry-cook's, having a tuck-out with that
shilling old Crosse gave me, and Mr. George and Miss Charlotte came in.
I heard a little."
"What did you hear?" breathed Maria. She could not help the question:
any more than she could help the wild beating of her heart at the boy's
words.
"I did not catch it all," said Reginald. "It was about Scotland, though,
and what they should do when they were there. Mrs. Verrall's carriage
came up then, and he put her into it. An out-and-out flirt is George
Godolphin!"
Grace Hastings threw her keen dark eyes upon Maria. "Do not let him
flirt with _you_," she said in a marked tone. "You like him; I do not. I
never thought George Godolphin worth his salt."
"That's just Grace!" exclaimed Isaac. "Taking her likes and dislikes!
and for no cause, or reason, but her own crotchets and prejudices. He is
the nicest fellow going, is George Godolphin. Charlotte Pain's is a new
face and a beautiful one: let him admire it."
"He admires rather too many," nodded Grace.
"As long as he does not admire yours, you have no right to grumble,"
rejoined Isaac provokingly: and Grace flung a bundle of work at him, for
the laugh turned against her.
"Rose, you naughty child, you have my crayons there!" exclaimed Maria,
happening to cast her eyes upon the table, where Rose was seated too
quietly to be at anything but mischief.
"Only one or two of your sketching pencils, Maria," said Miss Rose. "I
shan't hurt them. I am making a villa with two turrets and some cows."
"I say, Maria, is Charlotte Pain going to take that thoroughbred hunter
of hers?" interposed Reginald.
"Of course," scoffed Isaac: "saddled and bridled. She'll have him with
her in the railway carriage; put him in the corner seat opposite Sir
George. Regy's brains may do for sea--if he ever gets there; but they
are not sharp enough for land."
"They are as sharp as yours, at any rate," flashed Reginald. "Why should
she not take him?"
"Be quiet, you boys!" said Grace.
She was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hastings. He did not open
the door at the most opportune moment. Maria, Isaac, and Harry were
executing a dance that probably had no name in the dancing calendar;
Reginald was standing on his head; Rose had just upset the contents of
the table, by inadvertently drawing off its old cloth cover, and Grace
was scolding her in a loud tone.
"What do you call this?" demanded Mr. Hastings, when he had leisurely
surveyed the scene. "Studying?"
They subsided into quietness and their places; Reginald with his face
red and his hair wild, Maria with a pretty blush, Isaac with a smothered
laugh. Mr. Hastings addressed his second daughter.
"Have you heard anything about this fresh outbreak of fever?"
"No, papa," was Maria's reply. "Has it broken out again?"
"I hear that it has attacked Sarah Anne Grame."
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Grace, clasping her hands in sorrowful
consternation. "Will she ever live through it?"
Just the same doubt, you see, that had occurred to the Rector.
CHAPTER V.
THOMAS GODOLPHIN'S LOVE.
For nearly a mile beyond All Souls' Rectory, as you went out of Prior's
Ash, there were scattered houses and cottages. In one of them lived Lady
Sarah Grame. We receive our ideas from association; and, in speaking of
the residence of Lady Sarah Grame, or Lady Sarah Anyone, imagination
might conjure up some fine old mansion with all its appurtenances,
grounds, servants, carriages and grandeur: or, at the very least, a
"villa with two turrets and some cows," as Rose Hastings expressed it.
Far more like a humble cottage than a mansion was the abode of Lady
Sarah Grame. It was a small, pretty, detached white house, containing
eight or nine rooms in all; and, they, not very large ones. A plot of
ground before it was crowded with flowers: far too crowded for good
taste, as David Jekyl would point out to Lady Sarah. But Lady Sarah
loved flowers, and would not part with one of them.
The daughter of one soldier, and the wife of another, Lady Sarah had
scrambled through life amidst bustle, perplexity, and poverty. Sometimes
quartered in barracks, sometimes following the army abroad; out of one
place into another; never settled anywhere for long together. It was an
existence not to be envied; although it is the lot of many. She was Mrs.
Grame then, and her husband, the captain, was not a very good husband to
her. He was rather too fond of amusing himself, and threw all care upon
her shoulders. She passed her days nursing her sickly children, and
endeavouring to make one sovereign go as far as two. One morning, to her
unspeakable embarrassment, she found herself converted from plain,
private Mrs. Grame into the Lady Sarah. Her father boasted a peer in a
very remote relative, and came unexpectedly into the title.
Had he come into money with it, it would have been more welcome; but, of
that, there was only a small supply. It was a very poor Scotch peerage,
with limited estates; and, they, encumbered. Lady Sarah wished she could
drop the honour which had fallen to her share, unless she could live a
little more in accordance with it. She had much sorrow. She had lost one
child after another, until she had only two left, Sarah Anne and Ethel.
Then she lost her husband; and, next, her father. Chance drove her to
Prior's Ash, which was near her husband's native place; and she settled
there, upon her limited income. All she possessed was her pension as a
captain's widow, and the interest of the sum her father had been enabled
to leave her; the whole not exceeding five hundred a year. She took the
white cottage, then just built, and dignified it with the name of "Grame
House:" and the mansions in the neighbourhood of Prior's Ash were
content not to laugh, but to pay respect to her as an earl's daughter.
Lady Sarah was a partial woman. She had only these two daughters, and
her love for them was as different as light is from darkness. Sarah Anne
she loved with an inordinate affection, almost amounting to passion; for
Ethel, she did not care. What could be the reason of this? What is the
reason why parents (many of them may be found) will love some of their
children, and dislike others? They cannot tell you, any more than Lady
Sarah could have told. Ask them, and they will be unable to give you an
answer. It does not lie in the children: it often happens that those
obtaining the least love will be the most worthy of it. Such was the
case here. Sarah Anne Grame was a pale, sickly, fretful girl; full of
whims, full of complaints, giving trouble to every one about her. Ethel,
with her sweet countenance and her merry heart, made the sunshine of the
home. She bore with her sister's exacting moods, bore with her mother's
want of love. _She_ loved them both, and waited on them, and carolled
forth her snatches of song as she moved about the house, and was as
happy as the day was long. The servants--they kept only two--would tell
you that Miss Grame was cross and selfish; but that Miss Ethel was worth
her weight in gold. The gold was soon to be appropriated; transplanted
to a home where it would be appreciated and cherished: for Ethel was the
affianced wife of Thomas Godolphin.
On the morning already mentioned, when you heard it said that fever had
broken out again, Sarah Anne Grame awoke, ill. In her fretful, impatient
way, she called to Ethel, who slept in an adjoining room. Ethel was
asleep: but she was accustomed to be roused at unseasonable hours by
Sarah Anne, and she threw on her dressing-gown and hastened to her.
"I want some tea," began Sarah Anne. "I am as ill and thirsty as I can
be."
Sarah Anne was really of a sickly constitution, and to hear her complain
of being ill and thirsty was nothing unusual. Ethel, in her loving
nature, her sweet patience, received the information with as much
concern as though she had never heard it before. She bent over Sarah
Anne, inquiring tenderly where she felt pain.
"I tell you that I am ill and thirsty, and that's enough," peevishly
answered Sarah Anne. "Go and get me some tea."
"As soon as I possibly can," said Ethel soothingly. "There is no fire at
present. The maids are not up. I do not think it can be later than six,
by the look of the morning."
"Very well!" sobbed Sarah Anne--sobs of temper, not of pain. "You can't
call the maids, I suppose! and you can't put yourself the least out of
the way to alleviate my suffering! You want to go to bed again and sleep
till eight o'clock. When I am dead, you'll wish you had been more like a
sister to me. You possess rude health yourself, and you can feel no
compassion for any one who does not."
An assertion unjust and untrue: as was many another, made by Sarah Anne
Grame. Ethel did not possess "rude health," though she was not, like her
sister, always ailing; and she felt far more compassion than Sarah Anne
deserved.
"I will see what I can do," she gently said. "You shall soon have some
tea."
Passing into her own room, Ethel hastily dressed herself. When Sarah
Anne was in one of her exacting moods, there could be no more sleep or
rest for Ethel. "I wonder," she thought to herself, "whether I could not
light a fire, without calling the servants? They had so hard a day's
work yesterday, for mamma kept them both cleaning from morning till
night. Yes: if I can only find some wood, I'll try to light one."
She went down to the kitchen, hunted up what was required, laid the
fire, and lighted it. It did not burn up well. She thought the wood must
be damp, and found the bellows. She was on her knees, blowing away at
the wood, and sending the blaze up into the coal, when some one came
into the kitchen.
"Miss Ethel!"
It was one of the servants: Elizabeth. She had heard movement in the
house, and had risen. Ethel explained that her sister felt ill, and tea
was wanted.
"Why did you not call us, Miss Ethel?"
"You went to rest late, Elizabeth. See how I have made the fire burn!"
"It is not ladies' work, miss."
"I certainly think ladies should put on gloves when they attempt it,"
merrily laughed Ethel. "Look at my black hands."
The tea ready, Ethel carried a cup of it to her sister, with some dry
toast that they had made. Sarah Anne drank the tea, but turned with a
shiver from the toast. She seemed to be shivering much.
"Who was so stupid as to make that? You might know I should not eat it.
I am too ill."
Ethel began to think that she did look unusually ill. Her face was
flushed, shivering though she was, her lips were dry, her heavy eyes
were unnaturally bright. She gently laid her hands, washed now, upon her
sister's brow. It felt burning, and Sarah Anne screamed.
"Do keep your hands away! My head is splitting with pain."
Involuntarily Ethel thought of the fever; the danger from which they had
been reckoning had passed away. It was a low sort of typhus which had
prevailed; not very extensively, and chiefly amidst the poor: the great
fear had been, lest it should turn to a more malignant type. About half
a dozen deaths had taken place altogether.
"Would you like me to bathe your forehead with water, Sarah Anne?" asked
Ethel kindly. "Or to get you some eau-de-Cologne?"
"I should like you to wait until things are asked for, and not to worry
me," retorted Sarah Anne.
Ethel sighed. Not for the temper: Sarah Anne was always fractious in
illness: but for the suffering she thought she saw, and the half doubt,
half dread, which had arisen within her. "I think I had better call
mamma," she deliberated to herself. "Though, if she sees nothing
unusually the matter with Sarah Anne, she will only be angry with me."
Proceeding to her mother's chamber, Ethel knocked softly. Lady Sarah
slept still, but the entrance aroused her.
"Mamma, I do not like to disturb you; I was unwilling to do so: but
Sarah Anne is ill."
"Ill again! And only last week she was in bed three days! Poor dear
sufferer! Is it her chest again?"
"Mamma, she seems _unusually_ ill. Otherwise I should not have disturbed
you. I feared--I thought--you will be angry with me if I say, perhaps?"
"Say what? Don't stand like a statue, Ethel."
Ethel dropped her voice. "Dear mamma, suppose it should be the fever?"
For one startling moment, Lady Sarah felt as if a dagger had pierced
her: the next, she turned upon Ethel. Fever for Sarah Anne! how dared
she prophesy it? A low, common fever, confined to the poor of the town,
and which had subsided; or, all but subsided! Was it likely to return
again and come up here to attack her darling child? What did Ethel mean
by it?
Ethel, the tears in her eyes, said she hoped it would prove to be only
an ordinary headache; it was her love for Sarah Anne which awoke her
fears. Lady Sarah proceeded to the sick-room; and Ethel followed. Her
ladyship was not in the habit of observing caution, and spoke freely of
the "fever" before Sarah Anne; apparently for the purpose of casting
blame at Ethel.
Sarah Anne did not imbibe the fear; she ridiculed Ethel as her mother
had done. For some hours Lady Sarah did not admit it either. She would
have summoned medical advice at first, but that Sarah Anne, in her
peevishness, protested she would not have a doctor. Later on she grew
worse, and Mr. Snow was sent for. You saw him in his gig hastening to
the house.
Lady Sarah came forward to receive him; Ethel, full of anxiety, near
her. She was a thin woman, with a shrivelled face and a sharp red nose,
her grey hair banded plainly under a close white net cap.
She grasped Mr. Snow's arm. "You must save my child!"
"Higher aid permitting me," the surgeon answered. "Why do you assume it
to be fever? For the last six weeks I have been summoned by timid
parents to a score of 'fever' cases; and when I have arrived in hot
haste, they have turned out to be no fever at all."
"_This_ is the fever," replied Lady Sarah. "Had I been more willing to
admit that it was, you would have been sent for hours ago. It was
Ethel's fault. She suggested at daylight that it might be fever; and it
made my darling girl so angry that she forbid my sending for advice. But
she is worse now. Come and see her."
Mr. Snow laid his hand upon Ethel's head with a fond gesture, ere he
turned to Lady Sarah. All Prior's Ash loved Ethel Grame.
Tossing upon her uneasy bed, her face flushed, her hair floating
untidily about it, lay Sarah Anne, shivering still. The doctor gave one
glance at her: it was quite enough to satisfy him that Lady Sarah was
not mistaken.
"Is it the fever?" impatiently asked Sarah Anne, unclosing her hot
eyelids.
"If it is, we must drive it away again," said the doctor cheerily.
"Why should the fever have come to _me_?" she rejoined, her tone
rebellious.
"Why was I thrown from my horse last year, and broke my arm?" returned
Mr. Snow. "These things come to all of us."
"To break an arm is nothing--people always recover from that," irritably
answered Sarah Anne.
"And you will recover from the fever, if you will be quiet and
reasonable."
"I am so hot! My head is so heavy!"
Mr. Snow, who had called for water and a glass, was mixing a white
powder which he had produced from his pocket. She took it without
opposition, and then he lessened the weight of bed-clothes, and
afterwards turned his attention to the chamber. It was close and hot;
the sun, which had just burst forth brightly from the grey skies, shone
full upon it.
"You have that chimney stuffed up!" he exclaimed.
"Sarah Anne will not allow it to be open," said Lady Sarah. "She is
sensitive to cold, dear child, and feels the slightest draught."
Mr. Snow walked to the chimney, turned up his coat cuff and wristband,
and pulled down a bag filled with shavings. Soot came with it, and
covered his hand; but he did not mind that. He was as little given to
ceremony as Lady Sarah to caution, and he went leisurely up to the
wash-hand-stand to remove it.
"Now, if I catch that bag, or any other bag up there again, obstructing
the air, I shall attack the bricks next time, and make a good big hole
that the sky can be seen through. Of that I give you notice, my lady."
He next pulled down the window at the top, behind the blind; but the
room, at its best, did not find favour with him. "It is not airy; it is
not cool," he said. "Is there not a better ventilated room in the house?
If so, she should be moved into it."
"My room is cool," interposed Ethel eagerly. "The sun never shines into
it, Mr. Snow."
It would appear that Ethel's thus speaking must have reminded Mr. Snow
that she was present. In the unceremonious manner that he had laid hands
upon the chimney bag, he now laid them upon her shoulders, and
marshalled her outside the door.
"You go downstairs, Miss Ethel. And do not come within a mile of this
chamber again, until I give you leave to do so."
"I will not be moved into Ethel's room!" interposed Sarah Anne,
imperiously and fretfully. "It is not furnished with half the comforts
of mine. And it has only a bit of bedside carpet! I will not go there,
Mr. Snow."
"Now look you here, Miss Sarah Anne!" said the surgeon firmly. "I am
responsible for bringing you well out of this illness; and I shall take
my own way to do it. If not; if I am to be contradicted at every
suggestion; Lady Sarah may summon some one else to attend you: I will
not undertake it."
"My darling, you shall not be moved to Ethel's room," cried my lady
coaxingly: "you shall be moved into mine. It is larger than this, you
know, Mr. Snow, with a thorough draught through it, if you choose to put
the windows and door open."
"Very well," said Mr. Snow. "Let me find her in it when I come up again
this evening. And if there's a carpet on the floor, take it up. Carpets
were never intended for bedrooms."
He passed into one of the sitting-rooms with Lady Sarah when he
descended. "What do you think of the case?" she eagerly asked.
"There will be some difficulty with it," was the candid reply. "Lady
Sarah, her hair must come off."
"Her hair come off!" uttered Lady Sarah, aghast. "That it never shall!
She has the loveliest hair! What is Ethel's hair, compared with hers?"
"You heard the determination I expressed, Lady Sarah," he quietly said.
"But Sarah Anne will never allow it to be done," she returned, shifting
the ground of remonstrance from her own shoulders. "And to do it in
opposition to her would be enough to kill her."
"It will not be done in opposition to her," he answered. "She will be
unconscious before it is attempted."
Lady Sarah's heart sank. "You anticipate that she will be dangerously
ill?"
"In these cases there is always danger, Lady Sarah. But worse cases
than--- as I believe--hers will be, have recovered from it."
"If I lose her, I shall die myself!" she passionately uttered. "And, if
she is to have it badly, she will die! Remember, Mr. Snow, how weak she
has always been!"
"We sometimes find that weak constitutions battle best with an
epidemic," he replied. "Many a sound one has it struck down and taken
off; many a sickly one has struggled through it, and been the stronger
for it afterwards."
"Everything shall be done as you wish," said Lady Sarah, speaking meekly
in her great fear.
"Very well. There is one caution I would earnestly impress upon you:
that of keeping Ethel from the sick-room."
"But there is no one to whom Sarah Anne is so accustomed, as a nurse,"
objected Lady Sarah.
"Madam!" burst forth the doctor in his heat, "would you subject Ethel to
the risk of taking the infection, in deference to Sarah Anne's
selfishness, or to yours? Better lose all your house contains than lose
Ethel! She is its greatest treasure."
"I know how remarkably prejudiced you have always been in Ethel's
favour!" resentfully spoke Lady Sarah.
"If I disliked her as much as I like her, I should be equally solicitous
to guard her from the danger of infection," said Mr. Snow. "If you
choose to put Ethel out of consideration, you cannot put Thomas
Godolphin. In justice to him, she must be taken care of."
Lady Sarah opened her mouth to reply; but closed it again. Strange words
had been hovering upon her lips: "If Thomas Godolphin were not blind,
his choice would have fallen upon Sarah Anne; not upon Ethel." In her
heart that was a sore topic of resentment: for she was quite alive to
the advantages of a union with a Godolphin. Those words were suppressed;
to give place to others.
"Ethel is in the house; and therefore must be liable to infection,
whether she visits the room or not. I cannot fence her round with a
wall, so that not a breath of tainted atmosphere shall touch her. I
would if I could; but I cannot."
"I would send her from the house, Lady Sarah. At any rate, I forbid her
to go near her sister. I don't want two patients on my hands, instead of
one," he added in his quaint fashion, as he took his departure.
He was about to get into his gig, when he saw Mr. Godolphin advancing
with a quick step. "Which of them is it who is seized?" inquired the
latter, as he came up.
"Not Ethel, thank goodness!" responded the surgeon. "It is Sarah Anne. I
have been recommending my lady to send Ethel from home. I should send
her, were she a daughter of mine."
"Is Sarah Anne likely to have it dangerously?"
"I think so. Is there any necessity for you going to the house just now,
Mr. Godolphin?"
Thomas Godolphin smiled. "There is no necessity for my keeping away. I
do not fear the fever any more than you do."
He passed into the garden as he spoke, and Mr. Snow drove away. Ethel
saw him, and came out to him.
"Oh, Thomas, do not come in! do not come!"
His only answer was to take her on his arm and enter. He threw open the
drawing-room window, that as much air might circulate through the house
as possible, and stood there with her, holding her before him.
"Ethel! what am I to do with you?"
"To do with me! What should you do with me, Thomas?"
"Do you know, my darling, that I cannot _afford_ to let this danger
touch you?"
"I am not afraid," she gently whispered.
He knew that: she had a brave, unselfish heart. But he was afraid for
her, for he loved her with a jealous love; jealous of any evil that
might come too near her.
"I should like to take you out of the house with me now, Ethel. I should
like to take you far from this fever-tainted town. Will you come?"
She looked up at him with a smile, the colour rising to her face. "How
could I, Thomas!"
Anxious thoughts were passing through the mind of Thomas Godolphin. We
cannot put aside the _convenances_ of life; though there are times when
they press upon us with an iron weight. He would have given almost his
own life to take Ethel from that house: but how was he to do it? No
friend would be likely to receive her: not even his own sisters: they
would have too much dread of the infection she might bring with her. He
would fain have carried her off to some sea-breezed town, and watch over
her and guard her there, until the danger should be over. None would
have protected her more honourably than Thomas Godolphin. But--those
_convenances_ that the world has to bow down to! how would the step have
agreed with them? Another thought, little less available for common use,
passed through his mind.
"Listen, Ethel!" he whispered. "It would be only to procure a license,
and half an hour spent at All Souls with Mr. Hastings. It could be all
done, and you away with me before nightfall."
She scarcely understood his meaning. Then, as it dawned upon her, she
bent her head and her blushing face, laughing at the wild improbability.
"Oh, Thomas! Thomas! you are only joking. What would people say?"
"Would it make any difference to us what they said?"
"It could _not be_, Thomas," she whispered seriously; "it is as an
impossible vision. Were all other things meet, how could I run away from
my sister, on her bed of sickness, to marry you?"
Ethel was right: and Thomas Godolphin felt that she was so. Punctilios
must be observed, no matter at what cost. He held her fondly to his
heart.
"If aught of ill should arise to you from your remaining here, I shall
blame myself as long as life shall last. My love! my love!"
Mr. Godolphin could not linger. He must be at the bank, for Saturday was
their most busy day of all the week: it was market-day at Prior's Ash:
though he had stolen a moment to leave it when the imperfect news
reached him. George was in the private room alone when he entered.
"Shall you be going to Lady Godolphin's Folly this evening, George?" he
inquired.
"The Fates permitting," replied Mr. George, who was buried five fathoms
deep in business; though he would have preferred to be five fathoms deep
in pleasure. "Why?"
"You can tell my father that I am sorry not to be able to spend an hour
with him, as I had promised. Lady Godolphin will not thank me to be
running from Lady Sarah's house to hers just now."
"Thomas," warmly spoke George, in an impulse of kindly feeling: "I do
hope it will not extend itself to Ethel!"
"I hope not," fervently breathed Thomas Godolphin.
CHAPTER VI.
CHARLOTTE PAIN.
A fine old door of oak, a heavy door, standing deep within a portico,
into which you might almost have driven a coach-and-six, introduced you
to Ashlydyat. The hall was dark and small, the only light admitted to it
being from mullioned windows of stained glass. Innumerable passages
branched off from the hall. One peculiarity of Ashlydyat was, that you
could scarcely enter a single room in it, but you must first go down a
passage, short or long, to reach it. Had the house been designed by any
architect with a head upon his shoulders and a little common sense with
it, he might have made it a handsome mansion with large and noble rooms.
As it was, the rooms were cramped and narrow, cornered and confined; and
space was lost in these worthless passages.
In the least sombre room of the house, one with a large modern window
(put into it by Sir George Godolphin to please my lady, just before that
whim came into her head to build the Folly), opening upon a gravel walk,
were two ladies, on the evening of this same Saturday. Were they
sisters? They did not look like it. Charlotte Pain you have seen. She
stood underneath the wax-lights of the chandelier, tall, commanding,
dark, handsome; scarlet flowers in her hair, a scarlet bouquet in her
corsage; her dress a rich cream-coloured silk interwoven with scarlet
sprigs. She had in her hand a small black dog of the King Charles
species, holding him up to the lights, and laughing at his anger. He was
snarling fractiously, whether at the lights or the position might be
best known to his mistress; whilst at her feet barked and yelped an ugly
Scotch terrier, probably because _he_ was not also held up: for dogs,
like men, covet what they cannot obtain.
In a dress of pink gauze, with pretty pink cheeks, smooth features, and
hazel eyes, her auburn hair interlaced with pearls, her height scarcely
reaching to Miss Pain's shoulder, was Mrs. Verrall. She was younger than
her sister: for sisters they were: a lady who passed through life with
easy indifference, or appeared to do so, and called her husband
"Verrall." She stood before the fire, a delicate white Indian screen in
her hand, shading her face from the blaze. The room was hot, and the
large window had been thrown open. So calm was the night, that not a
breath of air came in to stir the wax-lights: the wind, which you heard
moaning round the Rectory of All Souls in the morning, whirling the
leaves and displeasing Mrs. Hastings, had dropped at sundown to a dead
calm.
"Charlotte, I think I shall make Verrall take me to town with him! The
thought has just come into my mind."
Charlotte made no answer. Possibly she did not hear the words, for the
dogs were barking and she was laughing louder than ever. Mrs. Verrall
stamped her foot petulantly, and her voice rang through the room.
"Charlotte, then, do you hear me? Put that horrible little brute down,
or I will ring for both to be taken away! One might as well keep a
screaming cockatoo! I say I have a great mind to go up to town with
Verrall."
"Verrall would not take you," responded Charlotte, putting her King
Charles on to the back of the terrier.
"Why do you think that?"
"He goes up for business only."
"It will be so dull for me, all alone!" complained Mrs. Verrall. "You in
Scotland, he in London, and I moping myself to death in this gloomy
Ashlydyat! I wish we had never taken it!"
Charlotte Pain bent her dark eyes in surprise upon her sister. "Since
when have you found out that you do not like Ashlydyat?"
"Oh, I don't know. It is a gloomy place inside, especially if you
contrast it with Lady Godolphin's Folly. And they are beginning to
whisper of ghostly things being abroad on the Dark Plain!"
"For shame, Kate!" exclaimed Charlotte Pain. "Ghostly things! Oh, I
see--you were laughing."
"Is it not enough to make us all laugh--these tales of the Godolphins?
But I shall convert it into a pretext for not being left alone here when
you and Verrall are away. Why do you go, Charlotte?" Mrs. Verrall added,
in a tone which had changed to marked significance. "It is waste of
time."
Charlotte Pain would not notice the innuendo. "I never was in Scotland,
and shall like the visit," she said, picking up the King Charles again.
"I enjoy fine scenery: you do not care for it."
"Oh," said Mrs. Verrall; "it is scenery that draws you, is it? Take you
care, Charlotte."
"Care of what?"
"Shall I tell you? You must not fly into one of your tempers and pull my
hair. You are growing too fond of George Godolphin."
Charlotte Pain gave no trace of "flying into a temper;" she remained
perfectly cool and calm. "Well?" was all she said, her lip curling.
"If it would bring you any good; if it would end in your becoming Mrs.
George Godolphin; I should say _well_; go into it with your whole heart
and energy. But it will not so end; and your time and plans are being
wasted."
"Has he told you so much?" ironically asked Charlotte.
"Nonsense! There was one in possession of the field before you,
Charlotte--if my observation goes for anything. _She_ will win the race;
you will not even be in at the distance chair. I speak of Maria
Hastings."
"You speak of what you know nothing," carelessly answered Charlotte
Pain, a self-satisfied smile upon her lips.
"Very well. When it is all over, and you find your time _has_ been
wasted, do not say I never warned you. George Godolphin may be a prize
worth entering the lists for; I do not say he is not: but there is no
chance of your winning him."
Charlotte Pain tossed the dog upwards and caught him as he descended, a
strange look of triumph on her brow.
"And--Charlotte," went on Mrs. Verrall in a lower tone, "there is a
proverb, you know, about two stools. We _may_ fall to the ground if we
try to sit upon both at once. How would Dolf like this expedition to
Scotland, handsome George making one in it?"
Charlotte's eyes flashed now. "I care no more for Dolf than I care
for--not half so much as I care for this poor little brute. Don't bring
up Dolf to me, Kate!"
"As you please. I would not mix myself up with your private affairs for
the world. Only a looker-on sometimes sees more than those engaged in
the play."
Crossing the apartment, Mrs. Verrall traversed the passage that led from
it, and opened the door of another room. There sat her husband at the
dessert-table, taking his wine alone, and smoking a cigar. He was a
slight man, twice the age of his wife, his hair and whiskers yellow, and
his eyes set deep in his head: rather a good-looking man on the whole,
but a very silent one. "I want to go to London with you," said Mrs.
Verrall.
"You can't," he answered.
She advanced to the table, and sat down near him. "There's Charlotte
going one way, and you another----"
"Don't stop Charlotte," he interrupted, with a meaning nod.
"And I must be left alone in the house; to the ghosts and dreams and
shadows they are inventing about that Dark Plain. I _will_ go with you,
Verrall."
"I should not take you with me to save the ghosts running off with you,"
was Mr. Verrall's answer, as he pressed the ashes from his cigar on a
pretty shell, set in gold. "I go up _incog._ this time."
"Then I'll fill the house with guests," she petulantly said.
"Fill it, and welcome, if you like, Kate," he replied. "But, to go to
London, you must wait for another opportunity."
"What a hateful thing business is! I wish it had never been invented!"
"A great many more wish the same. And have more cause to wish it than
you," he drily answered. "Is tea ready?"
Mrs. Verrall returned to the room she had left, to order it in.
Charlotte Pain was then standing outside the large window, leaning
against its frame, the King Charles lying quietly in her arms, and her
own ears on the alert, for she thought she heard advancing footsteps;
and they seemed to be stealthy ones. The thought--or, perhaps, the
wish--that it might be George Godolphin, stealing up to surprise her,
flashed into her mind. She bent her head, and stroked the dog, in the
prettiest unconsciousness of the approaching footsteps.
A hand was laid upon her shoulder. "Charlotte!"
She cried out--a sharp, genuine cry of dismay--dropped the King Charles,
and bounded into the room. The intruder followed her.
"Why, Dolf!" uttered Mrs. Verrall in much astonishment. "Is it you?"
"It is not my ghost," replied the gentleman, holding out his hand. He
was a little man, with fair hair, this Mr. Rodolf Pain, cousin to the
two ladies. "Did I alarm you, Charlotte?"
"Alarm me!" she angrily rejoined. "You must have sprung from the earth."
"I have sprung from the railway station. Where is Verrall?"
"Why have you come down so unexpectedly?" exclaimed Mrs. Verrall.
"To see Verrall. I return to-morrow."
"Verrall goes up to-morrow night."
"I know he does. And that is why I have come down."
"You might have waited to see him in London," said Charlotte, her
equanimity not yet restored.
"It was necessary for me to see him before he reached London. Where
shall I find him, Mrs. Verrall?"
"In the dining-room," Mrs. Verrall replied. "What can you want with him
so hurriedly?"
"Business," laconically replied Rodolf Pain, as he left the room in
search of Mr. Verrall.
It was not the only interruption. Ere two minutes had elapsed, Lady
Godolphin was shown in, causing Mrs. Verrall and her sister almost as
much surprise as did the last intruder. She had walked over from the
Folly, attended by a footman, and some agitation peeped out through her
usual courtly suavity of manner, as she asked whether Charlotte Pain
could be ready to start for Scotland on the morrow, instead of on
Monday.
"To-morrow will be Sunday!" returned Charlotte.
"I do not countenance Sunday travelling, if other days can be made use
of," continued Lady Godolphin. "But there are cases where it is not only
necessary, but justifiable; when we are glad to feel the value of those
Divine words, 'The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the
Sabbath.' Fever has broken out again, and I shall make use of to-morrow
to escape from it. We start in the morning."
"I shall be ready and willing to go," replied Charlotte.
"It has appeared at Lady Sarah Grame's," added Lady Godolphin, "one of
the most unlikely homes it might have been expected to visit. After
this, none of us can feel safe. Were that fever to attack Sir George,
his life, in his present reduced state, would not be worth an hour's
purchase."
The dread of fever had been strong upon Lady Godolphin from the first;
but never had it been so keen as now. Some are given to this dread in an
unwonted degree: whilst an epidemic lasts (of whatever nature it may be)
they live in a constant state of fear and pain. It is death they fear:
being sent violently to the unknown life to come. I know of only one
remedy for this: to be at peace with God: death or life are alike then.
Lady Godolphin had not found it.
"Will Mr. Hastings permit his daughter to travel on a Sunday?" exclaimed
Mrs. Verrall, the idea suddenly occurring to her, as Lady Godolphin was
leaving.
"That is my business," was my lady's frigid answer. It has been said
that she brooked not interference in the slightest degree.
It certainly could not be called the business of Mr. Hastings. For the
travellers were far away from Prior's Ash the next morning before he had
received an inkling of the departure.
CHAPTER VII.
BROOMHEAD
The contrast between them was great. You could see it most remarkably as
they sat together. Both were beautiful, but of a different type of
beauty. There are some people--and they bear a very large proportion to
the whole--- to whom the human countenance is as a sealed book. There
are others for whom that book stands open to its every page. The
capacity for reading character--what is it? where does it lie?
Phrenologists call it, not inaptly, comparison.
There stands a man before you, a stranger; seen now for the first time.
As you glance at him you involuntarily shrink within yourself, and
trench imaginary walls around you, and say: That man is a bad man. Your
eyes fall upon another--equally a stranger until that moment--and your
honest heart flows out to him. You could extend to him the hand of
confidence there and then, for that man's countenance is an index to his
nature, and you _know_ that you may trust him to the death. In what part
of the face does this index seat itself? In the eyes? the mouth? the
features separately? or in the whole?
Certainly in the whole. To judge of temper alone, the eye and
mouth--provided you take them in repose--are sure indications; but, to
judge of what a man is, you must look to the whole. You don't know
precisely where to look for it--any more than do those know who cannot
see it at all. You cannot say that it lies in the forehead, the
eyebrows, the eyes, or the chin. You see it, and that is the most you
can tell. Beauty and ugliness, in themselves, have nothing to do with
it. An ugly countenance may, and often does, bear its own innate
goodness, as certainly as that one of beauty sometimes bears its own
repulsion. Were there certain unerring signs to judge by, the whole
human race might become readers of character: but that will never be, so
long as the world shall last.
In like manner, as we cannot tell precisely where nature's marks lie, so
are we unable to tell where lies the capacity to read them. Is it a
faculty? or an instinct? This I do know: that it is one of the great
gifts of God. Where the power exists in an eminent degree, rely upon it
its possessor is never deceived in his estimation of character. It is
born with him into the world. As a little child he has his likes and
dislikes to persons: and sometimes may be whipped for expressing them
too strongly. As he grows up, the faculty--instinct--call it what you
will--is ever in exercise; at rest when he sleeps; never at any other
time.
Those who do not possess the gift (no disparagement to them: they may
possess others, equally or more valuable) cavil at it--laugh at it--- do
not believe in it. Read what people are by their face? Nonsense! _they_
know better. Others, who admit the fact, have talked of "reducing it to
a science," whatever that may mean; of teaching it to the world, as we
teach the classics to our boys. It may be done, say they. Possibly. We
all acknowledge the wonders of this most wonderful age. Fishes are made
to talk; fleas to comport themselves as gentlemen; monkeys are
discovered to be men--or men monkeys--which is it? a shirt is advertised
to be made in four minutes by a new sewing machine. We send ourselves in
photograph to make morning calls. The opposite ends of the world are
brought together by electric telegraph. Chloroform has rendered the
surgeon's knife something rather agreeable than otherwise. We are made
quite at home with "spirits," and ghosts are reduced to a theory. Not to
mention other discoveries connected with the air, earth, and water,
which would require an F.R.S. to descant upon. Wonderful discoveries of
a wonderful age! Compare the last fifty years with the previous fifty
years; when people made their wills before going to London, and flocked
to the fair to see the learned pig point out the identical young woman
who had had the quarrel with her sweetheart the previous Sunday
afternoon! It is not my province to dispute these wonders: they may, or
may not, be facts; but when you attempt to reduce this great gift to a
"science," the result will be failure. Try and do so. Set up a school
for it; give lectures; write books; beat it into heads; and then say to
your pupils, "Now that you are accomplished, go out into the world and
use your eyes and read your fellow-men." And the pupil will, perhaps,
think he does read them; but, the first deduction he draws, will be the
last--a wrong one. Neither art nor science can teach it; neither man nor
woman can make it theirs by any amount of labour: where the faculty is
not theirs by divine gift, it cannot be made to exist by human skill.
A reader of character would have noted the contrast between those two
young ladies as they stood there: he would have trusted the one; he
would not have trusted the other. And yet, Charlotte Pain had her good
qualities also. She was kind-hearted in the main, liberal by nature,
pleasant tempered, of a spirit firm and resolute, fitted to battle with
the world and to make good her own way in it. But she was not truthful;
she was not high principled; she was not one, whom I--had I been George
Godolphin--would have chosen for my wife, or for my bosom friend.
Maria Hastings was eminent in what Charlotte Pain had not. Of rare
integrity; highly principled; gentle, and refined; incapable of deceit;
and with a loving nature that could be true unto death! But she was a
very child in the ways of the world; timid, irresolute, unfitted to
battle with its cares; swayed easily by those she loved; and all too
passionately fond of George Godolphin.
Look at them both now--Charlotte, with her marked, brilliant features;
her pointed chin, telling of self-will; her somewhat full, red lips; the
pose of the head upon her tall, firm form: her large eyes, made to
dazzle more than to attract; her perfectly self-possessed, not to say
free manners!--All told of power; but not of innate refinement. Maria
had too much of this refinement--if such a thing may be said of a young
and gentle lady. She was finely and sensitively organized; considerate
and gentle. It would be impossible for Maria Hastings to hurt wilfully
the feelings of a fellow-creature. To the poorest beggar in the street
she would have been courteous, considerate, almost humble. Not so much
as a word of scorn could she cast to another, even in her inmost heart.
The very formation of her hands would betray how sensitive and refined
was her nature. And that is another thing which bears its own
character--the hand; if you know how to read it. Her hands were of
exceeding beauty; long, slender, taper fingers, of delicate aspect from
a physical point of view. Every motion of those hands--and they were
ever restless--was a word; every unconscious, nervous movement of the
frail, weak-looking fingers had its peculiar characteristic. Maria
Hastings had been accused of being vain of her hands; of displaying them
more than was necessary: but the accusation, utterly untrue, was made by
those who understood her but little, and her hands less. Such hands are
rare: and it is as well that they are so: for they indicate a nature far
removed from the common; a timid, intellectual, and painfully sensitive
nature, which the rude world can neither understand, nor, perhaps, love.
The gold, too much refined, is not fitted for ordinary uses. Charlotte
Pain's hands were widely different: firm, plump, white; not small, and
never moving unconsciously of themselves.
These pretty hands resting upon her knee, sat Maria Hastings, doing
nothing. Maria--I grieve to have it to say of her in this very
utilitarian age--was rather addicted to doing nothing. In her home, the
Rectory, Maria was reproved on that score more than on any other. It is
ever so with those who live much in the inward life. Maria would fall
into a train of thought--and be idle.
Master Reginald Hastings would have lost his bet--that George Godolphin
would be in Scotland a week after they arrived there--had he found any
one to take it. Ten or eleven days had elapsed, and no George had come,
and no news of his intention of coming. It was not for _this_, to be
moped to death in an old Scotch country-house, that Charlotte Pain had
accepted the invitation of Lady Godolphin. Careless George--careless as
to the import any of his words might bear--had said to her when they
were talking of Scotland: "I wish you were to be of the party; to help
us while away the dull days." Mr. George had spoken in gallantry--he was
too much inclined so to speak, not only to Charlotte--without ever
dreaming that his wish would be fulfilled literally. But, when Lady
Godolphin afterwards gave the invitation--Sir George had remarked aloud
at the family dinner-table that Miss Pain had fished for it--Charlotte
accepted it with undisguised pleasure. In point of fact, Mr. George, had
the choice been given him, would have preferred having Maria Hastings to
himself there.
But he did not come. Eleven days, and no George Godolphin. Charlotte
began to lay mental plans for the arrival of some sudden telegraphic
message, demanding her immediate return to Prior's Ash; and Maria could
only hope, and look, and long in secret.
It was a gloomy day; not rainy, but enveloped in mist, almost as bad as
rain. They had gone out together, after luncheon, these two young
ladies, but the weather drove them in again. Charlotte was restless and
peevish. She stirred the fire as if she had a spite against it; she
dashed off a few bars at the piano, on which instrument she was a
skilful player; she cut half the leaves of a new periodical and then
flung it from her; she admired herself in the pier-glass; she sat down
opposite Maria Hastings and her stillness; and now she jumped up again
and violently rang the bell, to order her desk to be brought to her.
Maria roused herself from her reverie.
"Charlotte, what is the matter? One would think you had St. Vitus's
dance."
"So I have--if to twitch all over with the fidgets is to have it. How
you can sit so calm, so unmoved, is a marvel to me. Maria, if I were to
be another ten days in this house, I should go mad."
"Why did you come to it?"
"I thought it might be a pleasant change. Ashlydyat grows gloomy
sometimes. How was I to know my lady led so quiet a life here? She was
always talking of 'Broomhead,' 'Broomhead!' I could not possibly suppose
it to be so dull a place as this!"
"It is not dull in itself. The house and grounds are charming."
"Oh dear!" uttered Charlotte. "I wonder what fogs were sent for?"
"So do I," laughed Maria. "I should have finished that sketch, but for
this mist."
"No saddle-horses!" went on Charlotte. "I shall forget how to ride. I
never heard of such a thing as a country-house without saddle-horses.
Where was the use of bringing my new cap and habit? Only to have them
crushed!"
Maria seemed to have relapsed into thought. She made no reply. Presently
Charlotte began again.
"I wish I had my dogs here! Lady Godolphin would not extend the
invitation even to King Charlie. She said she did not like dogs. What a
heathen she must be! If I could only see my darling pet, King Charlie!
Kate never mentioned him once in her letter this morning!"
The words aroused Maria to animation. "Did you receive a letter this
morning from Prior's Ash? You did not tell me."
"Margery brought it to my bedroom. It came last night, I fancy, and lay
in the letter-box. I do not think Sir George ought to keep that
letter-box entirely under his own control," continued Charlotte. "He
grows forgetful. Some evenings I know it is never looked at."
"I have not observed that Sir George is forgetful," dissented Maria.
"You observe nothing. I say that Sir George declines daily: both bodily
and mentally. I see a great difference in him, even in the short time
that we have been here. He is not the man he was."
"He has his business letters regularly; and answers them."
"Quite a farce to send them," mocked handsome Charlotte. "Thomas
Godolphin is ultra-filial."
"What news does Mrs. Verrall give you?" inquired Maria.
"Not much. Sarah Anne Grame is out of immediate danger, and the fever
has attacked two or three others."
"In Lady Sarah's house?"
"Nonsense! No. That sickly girl, Sarah Anne, took it because I suppose
she could not help it: but there's not much fear of its spreading to the
rest of the house. If they had been going to have it, it would have
shown itself ere this. It has crept on to those pests of cottages by the
Pollards. The Bonds are down with it."
"The worst spot it could have got to!" exclaimed Maria. "Those cottages
are unhealthy at the best of times."
"They had a dinner-party on Saturday," continued Charlotte.
"At the cottages!"
Charlotte laughed. "At Ashlydyat. The Godolphins were there. At least,
she mentioned Bessy, and your chosen cavalier, Mr. George."
Maria's cheek flushed crimson. Charlotte Pain was rather fond of this
kind of satire. Had she believed there was anything serious between
George Godolphin and Maria, she would have bitten her tongue out rather
than allude to it. It was not Charlotte's intention to spare him to
Maria Hastings.
Charlotte Pain at length settled herself to her desk. Maria drew nearer
to the fire, and sat looking into it, her cheek leaning on her hand: sat
there until the dusk of the winter's afternoon fell upon the room. She
turned to her companion.
"Can you see, Charlotte?"
"Scarcely. I have just finished."
A few minutes, and Charlotte folded her letters. Two. The one was
directed to Mrs. Verrall; the other to Rodolf Pain, Esquire.
"I shall go up to dress," she said, locking her desk.
"There's plenty of time," returned Maria. "I wonder where Sir George and
Lady Godolphin are? They did not intend to stay out so late."
"Oh, when those ancient codgers get together, talking of their past
times and doings, they take no more heed how time goes than we do at a
ball," carelessly spoke Charlotte.
Maria laughed. "Lucky for you, Charlotte, that Lady Godolphin is not
within hearing. 'Ancient codgers!'"
Charlotte left the room, carrying her letters with her. Maria sat on,
some time longer--and then it occurred to her to look at her watch. A
quarter to five.
A quarter to five! Had she been asleep? No, only dreaming. She started
up, threw wide the door, and was passing swiftly into the dark
ante-chamber. The house had not been lighted, and the only light came
from the fire behind Maria--revealing her clearly enough, but rendering
that ante-chamber particularly dark. Little wonder, then, that she gave
a scream when she found herself caught in some one's arms, against whom
she had nearly run.
"Is it you, Sir George? I beg your pardon."
Not Sir George. Sir George would not have held her to him with that
impassioned fervour. Sir George would not have taken those fond kisses
from her lips. It was another George, just come in from his long day's
journey. He pressed his face, cold from the fresh night air, upon her
warm one. "My dearest! I knew you would be the first to welcome me!"
Dark enough around, it was still; but a light as of some sunny Eden,
illumined the heart of Maria Hastings. The shock of joy was indeed
great. Every vein was throbbing, every pulse tingling, and George
Godolphin, had he never before been sure that her deep and entire love
was his, must have known it then.
A servant was heard approaching with lights. George Godolphin turned to
the fire, and Maria turned and stood near him.
"Did any of you expect me?" he inquired.
"Oh no!" impulsively answered Maria. "I can scarcely now believe that it
is you in reality."
He looked at her and laughed; his gay laugh: as much as to say that he
had given her a tolerable proof of his reality. She stood, in her
pretty, timid manner, before the fire, her eyelids drooping, and the
flame lighting up her fair face.
"Is my father at home?" he asked, taking off his overcoat. He had walked
from the railway station, a mile or two distant.
"He went out with Lady Godolphin this morning to pay a visit to some old
friends. I thought they would have returned long before this."
"Is he getting strong, Maria?"
Maria thought of what Charlotte Pain had said, and hesitated. "He
appears to me to be better than when we left Prior's Ash. But he is far
from strong."
The servant finished lighting the chandelier and retired. George
Godolphin watched the door close, and then drew Maria before him, gazing
down at her.
"Let me look at you, my darling! Are you glad to see me?"
Glad to see him! The tears nearly welled up with the intensity of her
emotion. "I had begun to think you were not coming at all," she said, in
a low tone. "Charlotte Pain received a letter from Mrs. Verrall this
morning, in which you were mentioned as----"
Charlotte herself interrupted the conclusion of the sentence. She came
in, dressed for dinner. George turned to greet her, his manner warm; his
hands outstretched.
"Margery said Mr. George was here! I did not believe her!" cried
Charlotte, resigning her hands to him. "Did you come on the
telegraph-wires?"
"They would not have brought me quickly enough to _your_ presence,"
cried Mr. George.
Charlotte laughed gaily. "I was just prophesying you would not come at
all. Mrs. Verrall did not inform me that you were about to start, amidst
her other items of intelligence. Besides, I know that you are rather
addicted to forgetting your promises."
"What items had Mrs. Verrall to urge against me?" demanded George.
"I forget them now. Nothing I believe. Is Prior's Ash alive still?"
"It was, when I left it."
"And the fever, George?" inquired Maria.
"Fever? Oh, I don't know much about it."
"As if fevers were in his way!" ironically cried Charlotte Pain. "He
troubles himself no more about fevers than does Lady Godolphin."
"Than Lady Godolphin would like to do, I suppose you mean, Miss Pain?"
he rejoined.
Maria was looking at him wistfully--almost reproachfully. He saw it, and
turned to her with a smile. "Has it in truth attacked the cottages down
by the Pollards?" she asked.
George nodded. He was not so ignorant as he appeared to be. "Poor Bond
had it first; and now two of his children are attacked. I understand Mr.
Hastings declares it is a judgment upon the town, for not looking better
after the hovels and the drainage."
"Has Bond recovered?" asked Maria.
"No."
"Not recovered?" she exclaimed quickly.
"He is dead, Maria."
She clasped her hands, shocked at the news. "Dead. Leaving that large,
helpless family! And Sarah Anne Grame?--is she out of danger?"
"From the violence of the fever. But she is in so dangerously weak a
state from its effects, that it will be next to a miracle if she
recovers. Lady Sarah is half out of her mind. She had prayers put up for
Sarah Anne on Sunday. Pretty Ethel has escaped! to the delight of
Prior's Ash in general, and of Thomas in particular. What carriage is
that?" suddenly broke off George, as the sound of one approaching was
heard.
It proved to be Sir George's, bringing home himself and my lady. George
hastened to meet them as they entered the hall, his handsome face
glowing, his bright chestnut hair taking a golden tinge in the
lamp-light, his hands held out. "My dear father!"
The old knight, with a cry of glad surprise, caught the hands, and
pressed them to his heart. My lady advanced with her welcome. She bent
her tinted cheek forwards, by way of greeting, and Mr. George touched it
with his delicate lips--lightly, as became its softened bloom.
"So you have found your way to us, George! I expected you would have
done so before."
"Did you, madam?"
"Did we?" cried the knight, taking up the word. "Listen to that vain
George! He pretends to ignore the fact that there was an attraction
here. Had a certain young lady remained at Prior's Ash, I expect you
would not have given us much of your company at Broomhead. If Miss
Charlotte----"
"Did you call me, Sir George?" interrupted Charlotte, tripping forward
from the back of the hall, where she and Maria stood, out of sight, but
within hearing.
"No, my dear, I did not call you," replied Sir George Godolphin.
CHAPTER VIII.
A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.
Seated on a camp-stool, amidst a lovely bit of woodland scenery, was
Maria Hastings. The day, beautifully bright, was warm as one in
September; delightful for the pleasure-seekers at Broomhead, but bad for
the fever at Prior's Ash. Maria was putting some finishing touches to a
sketch--she had taken many since she came--and Mr. George Godolphin and
Charlotte Pain watched her as they pleased, or took sauntering strolls
to a distance.
Lady Godolphin was as fond of Broomhead as the Godolphins were of
Ashlydyat. Certainly Broomhead was the more attractive home of the two.
A fine house of exquisite taste; with modern rooms and modern
embellishments; and when she invited the two young ladies to accompany
her on a visit to it, she was actuated as much by a sense of exultation
at exhibiting the place to them, as by a desire for their companionship,
though she did like and desire the companionship. Lady Godolphin, who
never read, and never worked; in short, never did anything; was obliged
to have friends with her to dissipate her ennui and cheat time. She
liked young ladies best; for they did not interfere with her own will,
and were rarely exacting visitors.
But she required less of this companionship at Broomhead. There she knew
every one, and every one knew her. She was sufficiently familiar with
the smallest and poorest cottage to take an interest in its ill-doings
and its short-comings; at least, as much interest as it was possible to
the nature of Lady Godolphin to take. Old acquaintances dropped in
without ceremony and remained the morning with her, gossiping of times
past and present: or she dropped into their houses, and remained with
them. Of gaiety there was none: Sir George's state of health forbade it:
and in this quiet social intercourse--which Charlotte Pain held in
especial contempt--the young visitors were not wanted. Altogether they
were much at liberty, and went roaming where they would, under the
protection of Mr. George Godolphin.
He had now been a week at Broomhead: flirting with Charlotte, giving
stolen minutes to Maria. A looker-on might have decided that Miss Pain
was the gentleman's chief attraction: for, in public, his attentions
were principally given to her. _She_ may be pardoned for estimating them
at more than they were worth: but she could very well have welcomed any
friendly wind that would have wafted away Maria, and have kept her away.
They knew, those two girls, that their mutual intercourse was of a
hollow nature; their paraded friendship, their politeness, rotten at the
core. Each was jealous of the other; and the one subject which filled
their minds was never alluded to in conversation. Either might have
affirmed to the other, "You are aware that I watch you and George: my
jealous eyes are upon your every movement, my jealous ears are ever
open." But these avowals are not made in social life, and Charlotte and
Maria observed studied courtesy, making believe to be mutually
unconscious: knowing all the time that the consciousness existed in a
remarkable degree. It was an artificial state of things.
"How dark you are putting in those trees!" exclaimed Charlotte Pain.
Maria paused, pencil in hand; glanced at the trees opposite, and at the
trees on paper. "Not too dark," she said. "The grove is a heavy one."
"What's that queer-looking thing in the corner? It is like a half-moon,
coming down to pay us a visit."
Maria held out her sketch at arm's distance, laughing merrily. "You do
not understand perspective, Charlotte. Look at it now."
"Not I," said Charlotte. "I understand nothing of the work. They tried
to teach me when I was a child, but I never could make a straight line
without the ruler. After all, where's the use of it? The best-made
sketch cannot rival its model--nature."
"But sketches serve to remind us of familiar places, when we are beyond
their reach," was Maria's answer. "I love drawing."
"Maria draws well," observed George Godolphin, from his swinging perch
on the branch of a neighbouring tree.
She looked up at him, almost gratefully. "This will be one of the best
sketches I have taken here," she said. "It is so thoroughly picturesque:
and that farm-house, under the hill, gives life to the picture."
Charlotte Pain cast her eyes upon the house in the distance over the
green field, to which she had not before vouchsafed a glance. A shade of
contempt crossed her face.
"Call _that_ a farm-house! I should say it was a tumble-down old
cottage."
"It is large for a cottage; and has a barn and a shed round it,"
returned Maria. "I conclude that it was a farm some time."
"It is not inhabited," said Charlotte.
"Oh, yes it is. There is a woman standing at the door. I have put her
into my sketch."
"And her pipe also?" cried George.
"Her pipe!"
George took his own cigar from his mouth, as he answered. "She is
smoking, that woman. A short pipe."
Maria shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed attentively.
"I--really--do--think--she--is!" she exclaimed slowly. "What a strange
thing!"
"A Welshwoman married to a Scotch husband, possibly," suggested
Charlotte. "The Welsh smoke."
"I'll make her a Welshwoman," said Maria gaily, "with a man's coat, and
a man's hat. But, there's--there's another now. George, it is Margery!"
"Yes," said Mr. George composedly. "I saw her go in half an hour ago.
How smart she is! She must be paying morning calls."
They laughed at this, and watched Margery. A staid woman of middle age,
who had been maid to the late Mrs. Godolphin. Margery dressed plainly,
but she certainly looked smart to-day, as the sun's rays fell upon her.
The sun was unusually bright, and Charlotte Pain remarked it, saying it
made her eyes ache.
"Suspiciously bright," observed George Godolphin.
"Suspiciously?"
He flirted the ashes from his cigar with his finger. "Suspicious of a
storm," he said. "We shall have it, ere long. See those clouds. They
look small and inoffensive; but they mean mischief."
Charlotte Pain strolled away over the meadows towards the side path on
which Margery was advancing. George Godolphin leaped from his seat,
apparently with the intention of following her. But first of all he
approached Maria, and bent to look at her progress.
"Make the farm--as you call it--very conspicuous, Maria, if you are
going to keep the sketch as a memento," said he.
"Is it not a farm?"
"It was, once; until idleness suffered it to drop through."
"Why should I make it particularly conspicuous?" she continued.
There was no reply, and she looked quickly up. A peculiar expression,
one which she did not understand, sat upon his face.
"If we had a mind to cheat the world, Maria, we might do so, by paying a
visit to that house."
"In what way?"
"I might take you in Maria Hastings, and bring you out Mrs. George
Godolphin."
"What do you mean?" she inquired, completely puzzled.
Mr. George laughed. "The man who lives there, Sandy Bray, has made more
couples one than a rustic parson. Some people call him a public
nuisance; others say he is a convenience, as it is three miles to the
nearest kirk. He goes by the nickname of Minister Bray. Many a lad and
lassie have stolen in there, under cover of the twilight, and in five
minutes have come forth again, married, the world being none the wiser."
"Is it the place they call Gretna Green?" inquired Maria in much
astonishment.
"No, it is not Gretna Green. Only a place of the same description, and
equally serviceable."
"But such marriages cannot be binding!"
"Indeed they are. You have surely heard of the Scotch laws?"
"I have been told that any one can marry people in Scotland. I have
heard that the simple declaration of saying you take each other for man
and wife constitutes a marriage."
"Yes; if said before a witness. Would you like to try it, Maria?"
The colour mantled to her face as she bent over her drawing. She smiled
at the joke, simply shaking her head by way of answer. And Mr. George
Godolphin went off laughing, lighting another cigar as he talked.
Overtaking Charlotte Pain just as Margery came up, he accosted the
latter.
"How grand you are, Margery! What's agate?"
"Grand!" returned Margery. "Who says it? What is there grand about me?"
"That shawl displays as many colours as a kaleidoscope. We thought it
was a rainbow coming along. Did it arrive in an express parcel last
night from Paisley?"
"It isn't me that has money to spend upon parcels!" retorted Margery. "I
have too many claims dragging my purse at both ends, for that."
A faithful servant was Margery, in spite of her hard features, and her
stern speech. Scant of ceremony she had always been, and scant of
ceremony she would remain. In fact, she was given to treating the
younger branches of the Godolphins, Mr. George included, very much as
she had treated them when they were children. They knew her sterling
worth, and did not quarrel with her severe manners.
"When you have half a dozen kin pulling at you, 'I want this!' from one,
and 'I want that!' from another, and the same cry running through all,
it isn't much money you can keep to spend on shawls," resumed Margery.
"I was a fool to come here; that's what I was! When the master said to
me, 'You had better come with us, Margery,' I ought to have answered,
'No, Sir George, I'm better away.'"
"Well, what is the grievance, Margery?" George asked, while Charlotte
Pain turned from one to the other in curiosity.
"Why, they are on at me for money, that's what it is, Mr. George. My
lady sent for me this morning to say she intended to call and see Selina
to-day. Of course I knew what it meant--that I was to go and give them a
hint to have things tidy--for, if there's one thing my lady won't do, it
is to put her foot into a pigsty. So I threw on my shawl, that you are
laughing at, and went. There was nothing the matter with the place, for
a wonder; but there was with them. Selina, she's in bed, ill--and if she
frets as she's fretting now, she won't get out of it in a hurry. Why did
she marry the fellow? It does make me so vexed!"
"What has she to fret about?" continued George.
"What does she always have to fret about?" retorted Margery. "His
laziness, and the children's ill-doings. They go roaming about the
country, here, there, and everywhere, after work, as they say, after
places; and then they get into trouble and untold worry, and come home
or send home for money to help them out of it! One of them, Nick--and a
good name for him, say I!--must be off into Wales to those relations of
Bray's; and he has been at some mischief there, and is in prison for it,
and is now committed for trial. And the old woman has walked all the way
here to get funds from them, to pay for his defence. The news has half
killed Selina."
"I said she was a Welshwoman," interrupted Charlotte Pain. "She was
smoking, was she not, Margery?"
"She's smoking a filthy short pipe," wrathfully returned Margery. "But
for that, I should have said she was a decent body--although it's next
to impossible to understand her tongue. She puts in ten words of Welsh
to two of English. Of course they have no money to furnish for it; it
wouldn't be them, if they had; so they are wanting to get it out of me.
Fifteen or twenty pounds! My word! They'd like me to end my days in the
workhouse."
"You might turn a deaf ear, Margery," said George.
"I know I might; and many a hundred times have I vowed I would,"
returned Margery. "But there's she in her bed, poor thing, sobbing and
moaning, and asking if Nick is to be quite abandoned. The worse a lad
turns out, the more a mother clings to him--as it seems to me. Let me be
here, or let me be at Ashlydyat, I have no peace for their wants. By
word of mouth or by letter they are on at me for ever."
"If 'Nick' has a father, why can he not supply him?" asked Charlotte.
"It's a sensible question, Miss Pain," said the woman. "Nick's father is
one of those stinging-nettles that only encumber the world, doing no
good for themselves nor for anybody else. 'Minister' Bray, indeed! it
ought to be something else, I think. Many a one has had cause to rue the
hour that he 'ministered' for them!"
"How does he minister?--what do you mean?" wondered Charlotte.
"He marries folks; that's his ne'er-do-well occupation, Miss Pain. Give
him a five-shilling piece, and he'd marry a boy to his grandmother. I'm
Scotch by birth--though it's not much that I have lived in the
land--but, I do say, that to suffer such laws to stand good, is a sin
and a shame. Two foolish children--and many of those that go to him are
no better--stand before him for a half-minute, and he pronounces them to
be man and wife! And man and wife they are, and must remain so, till the
grave takes one of them: whatever their repentance may be when they wake
up from their folly. It's just one of the blights upon bonny Scotland."
Margery, with no ceremonious leave-taking, turned at the last words, and
continued her way. George Godolphin smiled at the blank expression
displayed on Charlotte Pain's countenance. Had Margery talked in Welsh,
as did the old woman with the pipe, she could not have less understood
her.
"You require the key, Charlotte," said he. "Shall I give it to you?
Margery was my mother's maid, as you may have heard. Her sister, Selina,
was maid to the present Lady Godolphin: not of late years: long and long
before she ever knew my father. It appears the girl, Selina, was a
favourite with her mistress; but she left her, in spite of opposition
from all quarters, to marry Mr. Sandy Bray. And has, there's no doubt,
been rueing it ever since. There are several children, of an age now to
be out in the world; but you heard Margery's account of them. I fear
they do pull unconscionably at poor Margery's purse-strings."
"Why does she let them do so?" asked Charlotte.
Mr. George opened his penknife and ran the point of it through his
cigar, ere he answered. "Margery has a soft place in her heart. As I
believe most of us have--if our friends could but give us credit for
it."
"How strange the two sisters should live, the one with your father's
first wife, the other with his second!" exclaimed Charlotte, when she
had given a few moments to thought. "Were they acquainted with each
other?--the ladies."
"Not in the least. They never saw each other. I believe it was through
these women being sisters that my father became acquainted with the
present Lady Godolphin. He was in Scotland with Janet, visiting my
mother's family; and Margery, who was with them, brought Janet to that
very house, there, to see her sister. Mrs. Campbell--as she was,
then--happened to have gone there that day: and that's how the whole
thing arose. People say there's a fatality in all things. One would
think it must be so. Until that day, Mrs. Campbell had not been in the
house for two or three years, and would not be likely to go into it
again for two or three more."
"Is Bray a _mauvais sujet_?"
George lifted his eyebrows. "I don't know that there's much against him,
except his incorrigible laziness: that's bad enough when a man has
children to keep. Work he will not. Beyond the odds and ends that he
gets by the exercise of what he is pleased to call his trade, the fellow
earns nothing. Lady Godolphin is charitable to the wife; and poor
Margery, as she says, finds her purse drawn at both ends."
"I wondered why Margery came to Scotland," observed Charlotte, "not
being Lady Godolphin's maid. What _is_ Margery's capacity in your
family? I have never been able to find out."
"It might puzzle herself to tell you what it is, now. After my mother's
death, she waited on my sisters: but when they left Ashlydyat, Margery
declined to follow them. She would not leave Sir George. She is
excessively attached to him, almost as much so as she was to my mother.
That quitting Ashlydyat, ourselves first, and then my father, was a blow
to Margery," George added in a dreamy tone. "She has never been the same
since."
"It was Margery, was it not, who attended upon Sir George in his long
illness?"
"I do not know what he would have done without her," spoke George
Godolphin in a tone that betrayed its own gratitude. "In sickness she is
invaluable: certainly not to be replaced, where she is attached. Lady
Godolphin, though in her heart I do not fancy she likes Margery,
respects her for her worth."
"I cannot say I like her," said Charlotte Pain. "Her manners are too
independent. I have heard her order you about very cavalierly."
"And you will hear her again," said George Godolphin. "She exercised
great authority over us when we were children, and she looks upon us as
children still. Her years have grown with ours, and there is always the
same distance as to age between us. I speak of the younger amongst us:
to Thomas and Janet she is ever the respectful servant; in a measure
also to Bessy: of myself and Cecil she considers herself partial
mistress."
"If they are so poor as to drain Margery of her money, how is it they
can live in that house and pay its rent?" inquired Charlotte, looking
towards the building.
"It is Bray's own. The land, belonging to it, has been mortgaged three
deep long ago. He might have been in a tolerably good position, had he
chosen to make the most of his chances: he was not born a peasant."
"Who is this?" exclaimed Charlotte.
A tall, slouching man, with red hair and heavy shoulders, was advancing
towards them from the house. George turned to look.
"That is Bray himself. Look at the lazy fellow! You may tell his
temperament from his gait."
George Godolphin was right. The man was not walking along, but
sauntering; turning to either side and bending his head as if flowers
lay in his path and he wished to look at them: his hands in his pockets,
his appearance anything but fresh and neat. They watched him come up. He
touched his hat then, and accosted Mr. George Godolphin.
"My service to ye, sir. I didna know you were in these parts."
"So you are still in the land of the living, Bray!" was Mr. George's
response. "How is business?"
"Dull as a dyke," returned Bray. "Times are bad. I've hardly took a
crown in the last three months, sir. I shall have to emigrate, if this
is to go on."
"I fear you would scarcely find another country so tolerant to your
peculiar calling, Bray," said George, some mockery in his tone. "And
what would the neighbourhood do without you? It must resign itself to
single blessedness."
"The neighbourhood dunna come to me. Folk go over to the kirk now: that
has come into fashion; and I'm going down. 'Twas different in past
times. A man would give a ten-pun note then to have things done neatly
and quietly. But there's fresh notions and fresh havers; and, for all
the good they have done me, I might as well be out of the world. Is this
Miss Cecil?"
The last question was put abruptly, the man turning himself full upon
Charlotte Pain, and scanning her face. George Godolphin was surprised
out of an answer: had he taken a moment for reflection, he might have
deemed the question an impertinence, and passed it by.
"Miss Cecilia is not in Scotland."
"I thought it might be her," said the man; "for Miss Cecil's looks are a
country's talk, and I have heard much of them. I see now; there's nought
of the Godolphin _there_. But it's a bonny face, young lady: and I dare
say there's those that are finding it so."
He shambled on, with a gesture of the hand by way of salutation.
Charlotte Pain did not dislike the implied compliment. "How can this man
marry people?" she exclaimed. "He is no priest."
"He can, and he does marry them; and is not interfered with, or
forbidden," said George Godolphin. "At least, he did do so. By his own
account, his patronage seems to be on the decline."
"Did he marry them openly?"
"Well--no; I conclude not. If people found it convenient to marry
openly, they would not go to him. And why they should go to him at all,
puzzles me, and always has: for, the sort of marriage that he performs
can be performed by any one wearing a coat, in Scotland, or by the
couple themselves. But he has acquired a name, 'Minister Bray;' and a
great deal lies in a name for ladies' ears."
"Ladies!" cried Charlotte scornfully. "Only the peasants went to him, I
am sure."
"Others have gone as well as peasants. Bray boasts yet of a fifty-pound
note, once put into his hand for pronouncing the benediction. It is a
ceremony that we are given to be lavish upon," added George, laughing.
"I have heard of money being grudged for a funeral, but I never did for
a wedding."
"Were I compelled to be a resident of this place, I should get married
myself, out of sheer ennui, or do something else as desperate," she
exclaimed.
"You find it dull?"
"It has been more tolerable since you came," she frankly avowed.
George raised his hat, and his blue eyes shot a glance into hers. "Thank
you, Charlotte."
"Why were you so long in coming? Do you know what I had done? I had
written a letter to desire Mrs. Verrall to recall me. Another week of it
would have turned me melancholy. Your advent was better than nobody's."
"Thank you again, mademoiselle. When I promise----"
"Promise," she warmly interrupted. "I have learnt what your promises are
worth. Oh, but, George, tell me--What was it that you and Lady Godolphin
were saying yesterday? It was about Ethel Grame. I only caught a word
here and there."
"Thomas wishes Lady Godolphin would invite Ethel here for the remainder
of their stay. He thinks Ethel would be all the better for a change,
after being mured up in that fever-tainted house. But, don't talk of it.
It was only a little private negotiation that Thomas was endeavouring to
carry out upon his own account. He wrote to me, and he wrote to my lady.
Ethel knows nothing of it."
"And what does Lady Godolphin say?"
George drew in his lips. "She says No. As I expected. And I believe she
is for once sorry to say it, for pretty Ethel is a favourite of hers.
But she retains her dread of the fever. Her argument is, that, although
Ethel has escaped it in her own person, she might possibly bring it here
in her boxes."
"Stuff!" cried Charlotte Pain. "Sarah Anne might do so; but I do not see
how Ethel could. I wonder Thomas does not marry, and have done with it!
He is old enough."
"And Ethel young enough. It will not be delayed long now. The vexatious
question, concerning residence, must be settled in some way."
"What residence? What is vexatious about it?" quickly asked Charlotte,
curiously.
"There is some vexation about it, in some way or other," returned George
with indifference, not choosing to speak more openly. "It is not my
affair; it lies between Thomas and Sir George. When Thomas comes here
next week----"
"Is Thomas coming next week?" she interrupted.
"That is the present plan. And I return."
She threw her flashing eyes at him. They said--well, they said a good
deal: perhaps Mr. George could read it. "You had better get another
letter of recall written, Charlotte," he resumed in a tone which might
be taken for jest or earnest, "and give me the honour of your escort."
"How you talk!" returned she peevishly. "As if Lady Godolphin would
allow me to go all that way under _your_ escort! As if I would go
myself!"
"You might have a less safe one, Charlotte mia," cried Mr. George
somewhat saucily. "No lion should come near you, to eat you up."
"George," resumed Charlotte, after a pause, "I wish you would tell me
whether Mrs. Verrall---- Good Heavens! what's that?"
Sounds of distress were sounding in their ears. They turned hastily.
Maria Hastings, her camp-stool overturned, her sketching materials
scattered on the ground, was flying towards them, calling upon George
Godolphin to save her. There was no mistaking that she was in a state of
intense terror.
Charlotte Pain wondered if she had gone mad. She could see nothing to
alarm her. George Godolphin cast his rapid glance to the spot where she
had sat, and could see nothing, either. He hastened to meet her, and
caught her in his arms, into which she literally threw herself.
Entwined round her left wrist was a small snake, or reptile of the
species, more than a foot long. It looked like an eel, writhing there.
Maria had never come into personal contact with anything of the sort:
but she remembered what had been said of the deadly bite of a serpent;
and terror completely overmastered her.
He seized it and flung it from her; he laid her poor terrified face upon
his breast, that she might there sob out her fear; he cast a greedy
glance at her wrist, where the thing had been: and his own face had
turned white with emotion.
"My darling, there is no injury," he soothingly whispered. "Be calm! be
calm!" And, utterly regardless of the presence of Charlotte Pain, he
laid his cheek against hers, as if to reassure her, and kept it there.
Less regardless, possibly, had he seen Charlotte Pain's countenance. It
was dark as night. The scales were rudely torn from her eyes: and she
saw, in that moment, how fallacious had been her own hopes touching
George Godolphin.
CHAPTER IX.
MR. SANDY'S "TRADE."
"What ever is the matter?"
The interruption came from Lady Godolphin. Charlotte Pain had perceived
her approach, but had ungraciously refrained from intimating it to her
companions. My lady, a coquettish white bonnet shading her delicate
face, and her little person enveloped in a purple velvet mantle trimmed
with ermine, was on her way to pay a visit to her ex-maid, Selina. She
surveyed the group with intense astonishment. Maria Hastings, white,
sobbing, clinging to George Godolphin in unmistakable terror; Mr. George
soothing her in rather a marked manner; and Charlotte Pain, erect,
haughty, her arms folded, her head drawn up, giving no assistance, her
countenance about as pleasant as a demon's my lady had once the pleasure
of seeing at the play. She called out the above words before she was
well up with them.
George Godolphin did not release Maria; he simply lifted his head. "She
has been very much terrified, Lady Godolphin; but no harm is done. A
reptile of the snake species fastened itself on her wrist. I have flung
it off."
He glanced towards the spot where stood Lady Godolphin, as much as to
imply that he had flung the offender _there_. My lady shrieked, caught
up her petticoats, we won't say how high, and leaped away nimbly.
"I never heard of such a thing!" she exclaimed. "A snake! What should
bring snakes about, here?"
"Say a serpent!" broke from the pale lips of Charlotte Pain.
Lady Godolphin did not detect the irony, and felt really alarmed. Maria,
growing calmer, and perhaps feeling half ashamed of the emotion which
fear had caused her to display, drew away from George Godolphin. He
would not suffer that, and made her take his arm. "I am sorry to have
alarmed you all so much," she said. "Indeed, I could not help it, Lady
Godolphin."
"A serpent in the grass!" repeated her ladyship, unable to get over the
surprise. "How did it come to you, Maria? Were you lying down?"
"I was sitting on the camp-stool, there; busy with my drawing," she
answered. "My left hand was hanging down, touching, I believe, the
grass. I began to feel something cold at my wrist, but at first did not
notice it. Then I lifted it and saw that dreadful thing wound round it.
I could not shake it off. Oh, Lady Godolphin! I felt--I hardly know how
I felt--almost as if I should have died, had there been no one near to
run to."
Lady Godolphin, her skirts still lifted, the tips of her toes touching
the path gingerly, to which they had now hastened, and her eyes alert,
lest the serpent should come trailing forth from any unexpected
direction, remarked that it was a mercy Maria had escaped with only
fright. "You seem to experience enough of that," she said. "Don't faint,
child."
Maria's lips parted with a sickly smile, which she meant should be a
brave one. She was both timid and excitable; and, if terror did attack
her, she felt it in no common degree. What would have been but a passing
fear to another, forgotten almost as soon as felt, was to her agony.
Remarkably susceptible, was she, to the extreme of pleasure and the
extreme of pain. "There is no fear of my fainting," she answered to Lady
Godolphin. "I never fainted in my life."
"I am on my road to see an old servant who lives in that house," said
Lady Godolphin, pointing to the tenement, little thinking how far it had
formed their theme of discourse. "You shall come with me and rest, and
have some water."
"Yes, that is the best thing to be done," said George Godolphin. "I'll
take you there, Maria, and then I'll have a hunt after the beast. I
ought to have killed him at the time."
Lady Godolphin walked on, Charlotte Pain at her side. Charlotte's lip
was curling.
The house door, to which they were bound, stood open. Across its lower
portion, as if to prevent the exit of children, was a board, formerly
placed there for that express purpose. The children were grown now and
scattered, but the board remained; the inmates stepping over it at their
will. Sandy Bray, who must have skulked back to his home by some unseen
circuit, made a rush to the board at sight of Lady Godolphin, and pulled
it out of its grooves, leaving the entrance clear. But for his intense
idleness, he, knowing she was coming, would have removed it earlier.
They entered upon a large room, half sitting-room, half kitchen, its
boarded floor very clean. The old Welshwoman, a cleanly, well-mannered,
honest-faced old woman, was busy knitting then, and came forward,
curtseying: no vestige of pipe to be seen or smelt. "Selina was in bed,"
Bray said, standing humbly before Lady Godolphin. "Selina had heard bad
news of one of the brats, and had worried herself sick over it, as my
lady knew it was in the stupid nature of Selina to do. Would my lady be
pleased to step up to see her?"
Yes; my lady would be pleased to do so by-and-by. But at present she
directed a glass of water to be brought to Miss Hastings. Bray brought
the water in a cracked yellow cup.
"Eh, but there is some of them things about here," he said, when the
cause of alarm was mentioned. "I think there must be a nest of 'em. They
are harmless, so far as I know."
"Why don't you find the nest?" asked Mr. George Godolphin.
"And what good, if I did find 'em, sir?" said he.
"Kill the lot," responded George.
He strode out of the house, Bray following in his wake, to look for the
reptile which had caused the alarm. Bray was sure nothing would come of
it: the thing had had time to get clear away.
In point of fact, nothing did come of it. George Godolphin could not
decide upon the precise spot where they had stood when he threw away the
reptile; and, to beat over the whole field, which was extensive, would
have been endless work. He examined carefully the spot where Maria had
sat, both he and Bray, but could see no trace of anything alarming.
Gathering up her treasures, including the camp-stool, he set off with
them. Bray made a feeble show of offering to bear the stool. "No," said
George, "I'll carry it myself: it would be too much trouble for you."
Charlotte Pain stood at the door, watching as they approached, her rich
cheek glowing, her eye flashing. Never had she looked more beautiful,
and she bent her sweetest smile upon Mr. George, who had the camp-stool
swinging on his back. Lady Godolphin had gone up to the invalid. Maria,
quite herself again, came forward.
"No luck," said George. "I meant to have secured the fellow and put him
under a glass case as a memento: but he has been too cunning. Here's
your sketch, Maria; undamaged. And here are the other rattletraps."
She bent over the drawing quite fondly. "I am glad I had finished it,"
she said. "I can do the filling-in later. I should not have had courage
to sit in that place again."
"Well, old lady," cried George in his free-and-easy manner, as he stood
by the Welshwoman, and looked down at her nimble fingers, "so you have
come all the way from Wales on foot, I hear! You put some of us to
shame."
She looked up and smiled pleasantly. She understood English better than
she could speak it.
"Not on foot all the way," she managed to explain. "On foot to the great
steamer, and then on foot again after the steamer landed her in
Scotland. Not less than a hundred miles of land, taking both ways
together."
"Oh, I see!" said George, perceiving that Margery had taken up a wrong
impression. "But you must have been a good time doing that?"
"She had the time before her," she answered, more by signs than words,
"and her legs were used to the roads. In her husband's lifetime she had
oftentimes accompanied him on foot to different parts of England, when
he went there with his droves of cattle. It was in those journeys that
she learnt to talk English."
George laughed at her idea of talking English. "Did you learn the use of
the pipe also in the journeys, old lady?"
She certainly had; for she nodded fifty times in answer, and looked
delighted at his divination. "But she was obliged to put up with cheap
tobacco now," she said: "and had a trouble to get that!"
George pulled out a supply of Turkey from some hidden receptacle of his
coat. "Did she like that sort?"
She looked at it with the eye of a connoisseur, touched it, smelt it,
and finally tasted it. "Ah, yes! that was good; very good; too good for
her."
"Not a bit of it," said George. "It's yours, old lady. There! It will
keep your pipe going, on the road home."
When fully convinced that he meant it in earnest, she seized his hand,
shook it heartily, and plunged into a Welsh oration. It was cut short in
the midst. She caught sight of Bray, coming in at the house door, and
smuggled the present out of sight amidst her petticoats. Had Mr. Sandy
seen it, she might have derived little benefit from it herself.
Time lagged, while they waited for Lady Godolphin. The conversation fell
upon Bray's trade--as the man was wont to call it: though who or what
led to the topic none of them could remember. He recounted two or three
interesting incidents; one, of a gentleman marrying a young wife and
being shot dead the next day by her friends. She was an heiress, and
they had run away from Ireland. But that occurred years and years ago,
he added. Would the ladies like to see the room?
He opened a door at the back of the kitchen, traversed a passage, and
entered a small place, which could only be called a room by courtesy.
They followed, wonderingly. The walls were whitewashed, the floor was of
brick, and the small skylight, by which it was lighted, was of thick
coarse glass, embellished with green nobs. What with the lowering sky,
and this lowering window, the room wore an appearance of the gloomiest
twilight. No furniture was in it, except a table (or something that
served for one) covered with a green baize cloth, on which lay a book.
The contrast from the kitchen, bright with its fire, with the appliances
of household life, to this strange comfortless place made them shiver.
"A fit place for the noose to be tied in!" cried irreverent George,
surveying it critically.
Bray took the words literally. "Yes," said he. "It's kept for that
purpose alone. It is a bit out of the common, and that pleases the
women. If I said the words in my kitchen, it might not be so satisfying
to them, ye see. It does not take two minutes to do," he added, taking
his stand behind the table and opening the book. "I wish I had as many
pieces of gold as I have done it, here, in my time."
Charlotte Pain took up the words defiantly. "It is impossible that such
a marriage can stand. It is not a marriage."
"'Deed, but it is, young lady."
"It cannot be legal," she haughtily rejoined. "If it stands good for
this loose-lawed country, it cannot do so for others."
"Ay, how about that?" interrupted George, still in his light tone of
ridicule. "Would it hold good in England?"
Minister Bray craned his long neck towards them, over the table, where
they stood in a group. He took the hand of George Godolphin, and that of
Charlotte Pain, and put them to together. "Ye have but to say, 'I take
you, young lady, to be my lawful wife;' and, 'I take you, sir, to be my
husband,' in your right names. I'd then pronounce ye man and wife, and
say the blessing on it; and the deed would be done, and hold good all
over the world."
Did Mr. Sandy Bray anticipate that he might thus extemporise an
impromptu ceremony, which should bring some grist to his empty mill? Not
improbably: for he did not release their hands, but kept them joined
together, looking at both in silence.
George Godolphin was the first to draw his hand away. Charlotte had only
stared with wondering eyes, and she now burst into a laugh of ridicule.
"Thank you for your information," said Mr. George. "There's no knowing,
Bray, but I may call your services into requisition some time."
"Where are you?" came the soft voice of Lady Godolphin down the passage.
"We must all hurry home: it is going to rain. Charlotte, are you there?
Where have you all gone to? Charlotte, I say?"
Charlotte hastened out. Lady Godolphin took her arm at once, and walked
with a quick step through the kitchen into the open air, nodding adieu
to the old Welshwoman. My lady herself, her ermine, her velvets,
possibly her delicately-bloomed complexion, all shrank from the violence
of a storm. Storms, neither of life nor of weather, had ever come too
near Lady Godolphin. She glanced upward at the threatening and angry
sky, and urged Charlotte on.
"Can you walk fast? So lovely a morning as it was!"
"Here comes one of the servants," exclaimed Charlotte. "With umbrellas,
no doubt. How he runs!"
My lady lifted her eyes. Advancing towards them with fleet foot, as if
he were running for a wager, came a man in the Godolphin livery. If
umbrellas had been the object of his coming, he must have dropped them
on his way, for his arms swung beside him, and his hands were empty.
"My lady," cried the man, almost as much out of breath as Lady
Godolphin: "Sir George is taken ill."
My lady stopped then. "Ill!" she repeated. "Ill in what way?"
"Margery has just found him lying on the floor of his room, my lady. We
have got him on to the bed, but he appears to be quite insensible.
Andrew has gone to the doctor."
"Hasten to the house there, and acquaint Mr. George Godolphin," said my
lady, pointing to Bray's.
But Charlotte had already gone on the errand. She left Lady Godolphin's
arm and started back with all speed, calling out that she would inform
Mr. George Godolphin. My lady, on her part, had sped on in the direction
of Broomhead, with a fleeter foot than before.
Leaving the man standing where he was. "Which of the two am I to follow,
I wonder?" he soliloquized. "I suppose I had better keep up with my
lady."
When Charlotte Pain had left Mr. Sandy Bray's match-making room, at my
lady's call, George Godolphin turned with a rapid, impulsive motion to
Maria Hastings, caught her hand, and drew her beside him, as he stood
before Bray. "Maria, she will fetter me in spite of myself!" he said in
a hoarse whisper. "Let me put it out of her power."
Maria looked at him inquiringly. Well she might!
"Be mine now; here," he rapidly continued, bending his face so that she
alone might hear. "I swear that I never will presume upon the act, until
it can be more legally solemnized. But it will bind us to each other
beyond the power of man or woman to set aside."
Maria turned red, pale, any colour that you will, and quietly drew her
hand from that of Mr. George Godolphin. "I do not quite know whether you
are in earnest or in jest, George. You will allow me to infer the
latter."
Quiet as were the words, calm as was the manner, there was that about
her which unmistakably showed Mr. George Godolphin that he might not
venture further to forget himself; if, indeed, he had not been in jest.
Maria, a true gentlewoman at heart, professed to assume that he had
been.
"I beg your pardon," he murmured. "Nay, let me make my peace, Maria."
And he took her hand again, and held it in his. Minister Bray leaned
towards them with an earnest face. Resigning the hope of doing any
little stroke of business on his own account, he sought to obtain some
information on a different subject.
"Sir, would ye be pleased to tell me a trifle about your criminal laws,
over the border? One of my ne'er-do-weels has been getting into trouble
there, and they may make him smart for it."
George Godolphin knew that he alluded to the ill-starred Nick. "What are
the circumstances?" he asked. "I will tell you what I can."
Sandy entered upon the story. They stood before him, absorbed in it, for
Maria also listened with interest, when an exclamation caused them to
turn. Maria drew her hand from George Godolphin's with a quick gesture.
There stood Charlotte Pain.
Stood with a white face, and a flashing, haughty eye. "We are coming
instantly," said George. "We shall catch you up." For he thought she had
reappeared to remind them.
"It is well," she answered. "And it may be as well to haste, Mr. George
Godolphin, if you would see your father alive."
"What?" he answered. But Charlotte had turned again and was gone like
the wind. With all his speed, he could not catch her up until they had
left the house some distance behind them.
CHAPTER X.
THE SHADOW.
In the heart of the town of Prior's Ash was situated the banking-house
of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin. Built at the corner of a street, it
faced two ways. The bank and its doors were in High Street, the
principal street of the town; the entrance to the dwelling-house was in
Crosse Street, a new, short street, not much frequented, which had been
called after Mr. Crosse, who, at the time it was made, lived at the
bank. There were only six or eight houses in Crosse Street; detached
private dwellings; and the street led to the open country, and to a
pathway, not a carriage-way, that would, if you liked to follow it, take
you to Ashlydyat.
The house attached to the bank was commodious: its rooms were large and
handsome, though few in number. A pillared entrance, gained by steps,
led into a small hall. On the right of this hall was the room used as a
dining-room, a light and spacious apartment, its large window opening on
to a covered terrace, where plants were kept; and that again opened to a
sloping lawn, surrounded with shrubs and flowers. This room was hung
with fine old pictures, brought from Ashlydyat. Lady Godolphin did not
care for pictures; she preferred delicately-papered walls; and very few
of the Ashlydyat paintings had been removed to the Folly. On the left of
the hall were the rooms belonging to the bank. At the back of the hall,
beyond the dining-room, a handsome well-staircase led to the apartments
above, one of which was a fine drawing-room. From the upper windows at
the back of the house a view of Lady Godolphin's Folly might be
obtained, rising high and picturesque; also of the turret of Ashlydyat,
grey and grim. Not of Ashlydyat itself: its surrounding trees concealed
it.
This dining-room, elegant and airy, and fitted up with exquisite taste,
was the favourite sitting-room of the Miss Godolphins. The drawing-room
above, larger and grander, less comfortable, and looking on to the High
Street, was less used by them. In this lower room there sat one evening
Thomas Godolphin and his eldest sister. It was about a month subsequent
to that day, at the commencement of this history, when you saw the
hounds throw off, and a week or ten days since Sir George Godolphin had
been found insensible on the floor of his room at Broomhead. The attack
had proved to be nothing but a prolonged fainting-fit; but even that
told upon Sir George in his shattered health. It had caused plans to be
somewhat changed. Thomas Godolphin's visit to Scotland had been
postponed, for Sir George was not strong enough for business
consultations, which would have been the chief object of his journey;
and George Godolphin had not yet returned to Prior's Ash.
Thomas and Miss Godolphin had been dining alone. Bessy was spending the
evening at All Souls' Rectory: she and Mr. Hastings were active workers
together in parish matters; and Cecil was dining at Ashlydyat. Mrs.
Verrall had called in the afternoon and carried her off. Dessert was on
the table, but Thomas had turned from it, and was sitting over the fire.
Miss Godolphin sat opposite to him, nearer the table, her fingers busy
with her knitting, on which fell the rays of the chandelier. They were
discussing plans earnestly and gravely.
"No, Thomas, it would not do," she was saying. "We must go. One of the
partners always has resided here at the bank. Let business men be at
their place of business."
"But look at the trouble, Janet," remonstrated Thomas Godolphin.
"Consider the expense. You may be no sooner out than you may have to
come back again."
Janet turned her strangely-deep eyes on her brother. "Do not make too
sure of that, Thomas."
"How do you mean, Janet? In my father's precarious state we cannot,
unhappily, count upon his life."
"Thomas, I am sure--I seem to see--that he will not be with us long. No:
and I am contemplating the time when he shall have left us. It would
change many things. Your home would then be Ashlydyat."
Thomas Godolphin smiled. As if any power would keep _him_ from
inhabiting Ashlydyat when he should be master. "Yes," he answered. "And
George would come here."
"There it is!" said Janet. "Would George live here? I do not feel sure
that he would."
"Of course he would, Janet. He would live here with you, as I do now.
That is a perfectly understood thing."
"Does he so understand it?"
"He understands it, and approves it."
Janet shook her head. "George likes his liberty; he will not be content
to settle down to the ways of a sober household."
"Nay, Janet, you must remember one thing. When George shall come to this
house, he comes, so to say, as its master. He will not, of course,
interfere with your arrangements; he will fall in with them readily; but
neither will he, nor must he, be under your control. To attempt anything
of the sort again would not do."
Janet knitted on in silence. She had essayed to keep Master George in
hand when they first came to the bank to live there: and the result was
that he had chosen a separate home, where he could be entirely _en
garçon_.
"Eh me!" sighed Janet. "If young men could but see the folly of their
ways--as they see them in after-life!"
"Therefore, Janet, I say that it would be exceedingly inadvisable for
you to quit the house," continued Thomas Godolphin, leaving her remark
unnoticed. "It might be, that before you were well out of it, you must
return to it."
"I see the inconvenience also; the uncertainty," she answered. "But
there is no help for it."
"Yes there is. Janet, I wish you would let me settle it."
"How would you settle it?"
"By bringing Ethel here. On a visit to you."
Janet laid down her knitting. "What do you mean? That there should be
two mistresses in the house, she and I? No, no, Thomas; the daftest old
wife in the parish would tell you that does not do."
"Not two mistresses. You would be sole mistress, as you are now: I and
Ethel your guests. Janet, indeed it would be the better plan. By the
spring we should see how Sir George went on. If he improved, then the
question could be definitively settled: and either you or I would take
up our residence elsewhere. If he does not improve, I fear, Janet, that
spring will have seen the end."
Something in the words appeared particularly to excite Janet's
attention. She gazed at Thomas as if she would search him through and
through. "By spring!" she repeated. "When, then, do you contemplate
marrying Ethel?"
"I should like her to be mine by Christmas," was the low answer.
"Thomas! And December close upon us!"
"If not, some time in January," he continued, paying no attention to her
surprise. "It is so decided."
Miss Godolphin drew a long breath. "With whom is it decided?"
"With Ethel."
"You would marry a wife without a home to bring her to? Had thoughtless
George told me that he was going to do such a thing, I could have
believed it of him. Not of you, Thomas."
"Janet, the home shall no longer be a barrier to us. I wish you would
receive Ethel here as your guest."
"It is not likely that she would come. The first thing a married woman
looks for is to have a home of her own."
Thomas smiled. "Not come, Janet? Have you yet to learn how unassuming
and meek is the character of Ethel? We have spoken of this plan
together, and Ethel's only fear is, lest she should 'be in Miss
Godolphin's way.' Failing to carry out this project, Janet--for I see
you are, as I thought you would be, prejudiced against it--I shall hire
a lodging as near to the bank as may be, and there I shall take Ethel."
"Would it be seemly that the heir of Ashlydyat should go into lodgings
on his marriage?" asked Janet, grief and sternness in her tone.
"Things are seemly or unseemly, Janet, according to circumstances. It
would be more seemly for the heir of Ashlydyat to take temporary
lodgings while waiting for Ashlydyat, than to turn his sisters from
their home for a month, or a few months, as the case might be. The
pleasantest plan would be for me to bring Ethel here: as your guest. It
is what she and I should both like. If you object to this, I shall take
her elsewhere. Bessy and Cecil would be delighted with the arrangement:
they are fond of Ethel."
"And when children begin to come, Thomas?" cried Miss Godolphin in her
old-fashioned, steady, Scotch manner. She had a great deal of her mother
about her.
Thomas's lips parted with a quaint smile. "Things will be decided, one
way or the other, months before children shall have had time to arrive."
Janet knitted a whole row before she spoke again. "I will take a few
hours to reflect upon it, Thomas," she said then.
"Do so," he replied, rising and glancing at the timepiece. "Half-past
seven! What time will Cecil expect me? I wish to spend half an hour with
Ethel. Shall I go for Cecil before, or afterwards?"
"Go for Cecil at once, Thomas. It will be better for her to be home
early."
Thomas Godolphin went to the hall-door and looked out upon the night. He
was considering whether he need put on an overcoat. It was a bright
moonlight night, warm and genial. So he shut the door, and started. "I
wish the cold would come!" he exclaimed, half aloud. He was thinking of
the fever, which still clung obstinately to Prior's Ash, showing itself
fitfully and partially in fresh places about every third or fourth day.
He took the foot-path, down Crosse Street: a lonely way, and at night
especially unfrequented. In one part of it, as he ascended near
Ashlydyat, the pathway was so narrow that two people could scarcely walk
abreast without touching the ash-trees growing on either side and
meeting overhead. A murder had been committed on this spot a few years
before: a sad tale of barbarity, offered to a girl by one who professed
to be her lover. She lay buried in All Souls' churchyard; and he within
the walls of the county prison where he had been executed. Of course the
rumour went that her ghost "walked" there, the natural sequence to these
dark tales; and, what with that, and what with the loneliness of the
place, few could be found in it after dark.
Thomas Godolphin went steadily on, his thoughts running upon the subject
of his conversation with Janet. It is probable that but for the
difficulty touching a residence, Ethel would have been his in the past
autumn. When anything should happen to Sir George, Thomas would be in
possession of Ashlydyat three months afterwards; such had been the
agreement with Mr. Verrall when he took Ashlydyat. Not in his father's
lifetime would Thomas Godolphin (clinging to the fancies and traditions
which had descended with the old place) consent to take up his abode as
master of Ashlydyat; but no longer than was absolutely necessary would
he remain out of it as soon as it was his own. George would then remove
to the bank, which would still be his sister's home, as it was now. In
the event of George's marrying, the Miss Godolphins would finally leave
it: but George Godolphin did not, as far as people saw, give indications
that he was likely to marry. In the precarious state of Sir George's
health--and it was pretty sure he would soon either get better or
worse--these changes might take place any day: therefore it was not
desirable that the Miss Godolphins should leave the bank, and that the
trouble and expense of setting up and furnishing a house for them should
be incurred. Of course _they_ could not go into lodgings. Altogether, if
Janet could only be brought to see it, Thomas's plan was the best--that
his young bride should be Janet's guest for a short time.
It was through the upper part of this dark path, which was called the
Ash-tree Walk, that George Godolphin had taken Maria Hastings, the night
they had left Lady Godolphin's dinner-table to visit the Dark Plain.
Thomas, in due course, arrived at the end of the walk, and passed
through the turnstile. Lady Godolphin's Folly lay on the right, high and
white and clear in the moonbeams. Ashlydyat lay to the left, dark and
grey, and almost hidden by the trees. Grey as it was, Thomas looked at
it fondly: his heart yearned to it: and it was to be the future home of
himself and Ethel!
"Holloa! who's this? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Godolphin!"
The speaker was Snow, the surgeon. He had come swiftly upon Thomas
Godolphin, turning the corner round the ash-trees from the Dark Plain.
That he had been to Ashlydyat was certain, for the road led nowhere
else. Thomas did not know that illness was in the house.
"Neither did I," said Mr. Snow in answer to the remark, "until an hour
ago, when I was sent for in haste."
A thought crossed Thomas Godolphin. "Not a case of fever, I hope!"
"No. I think that's leaving us. There has been an accident at Ashlydyat
to Mrs. Verrall. At least, what might have been an accident, I should
rather say," added the surgeon, correcting himself. "The injury is so
slight as not to be worth the name of one."
"What has happened?" asked Thomas Godolphin.
"She managed to set her sleeve on fire: a white lace or muslin sleeve,
falling below the silk sleeve of her gown. In standing near a candle,
the flame caught it. But now, look at that young woman's presence of
mind! Instead of wasting moments in screams, or running through the
house from top to bottom, as most people would have done, she instantly
threw herself down upon the rug, and rolled herself in it. That's the
sort of woman to go through life."
"Is she much burnt?"
"Pooh! Many a child gets a worse burn a dozen times in its first dozen
years. The arm between the elbow and the wrist is slightly scorched.
It's nothing. They need not have sent for me. The application of a
little cold water will take out all the fire. Your sister Cecilia was
ten times more alarmed than Mrs. Verrall."
"I am truly glad it is no worse!" said Thomas Godolphin. "I feared fever
might have found its way there."
"That is taking its departure; as I think. And, the sooner it goes, the
better. It has been capricious as the smiles of a coquette. How strange
it is, that not a soul, down by those Pollard pigsties, should have had
it, except the Bonds!"
"It is equally strange that, in many houses, it should have attacked
only one inmate, and spared the rest. What do you think now of Sarah
Anne Grame?"
Mr. Snow shook his head, and his voice grew insensibly low. "In my
opinion she is sinking fast. I found her worse this afternoon; weaker
than she has been at all. Lady Sarah said, 'If she could get her to
Ventnor?'--'If she could get her to Hastings?' But the removal would
kill her: she'd die on the road. It will be a terrible blow to Lady
Sarah, if it does come: and--though it may seem harsh to say it--a
retort upon her selfishness. Did you know that they used to make Ethel
head nurse, while the fever was upon her?"
"No!" exclaimed Thomas Godolphin.
"They did, then. My lady inadvertently let it out to-day. Dear child! If
she had caught it, I should never have forgiven her mother, whatever you
may have done. Good night. I have a dozen visits now to pay before
bedtime."
"Worse!" soliloquized Thomas Godolphin, as he stepped on. "Poor, peevish
Sarah Anne! But--I wonder," he hesitated as the thought struck him,
"whether, if the worst should come, as Snow seems to anticipate, it
would put off Ethel's marriage? What with one delay and another----"
Thomas Godolphin's voice ceased, and his heart stood still. He had
turned the corner, to the front of the ash-tree grove, and stretching
out before him was the Dark Plain, with its weird-like bushes, so like
graves, and--_its Shadow_, lying cold and still in the white moonlight.
Yes! there surely lay the Shadow of Ashlydyat. The grey archway rose
behind it; the flat plain extended out before it, and the Shadow was
between them, all too distinctly visible.
The first shock over, Thomas Godolphin's pulses coursed on again. He had
seen that Shadow before in his lifetime, but he halted to gaze at it
again. It was very palpable. The bier, as it looked in the middle, a
mourner at the head, a mourner at the foot, each--as a spectator could
fancy--with bowed heads. In spite of the superstition touching this
strange Shadow in which Thomas Godolphin had been brought up, he looked
round now for some natural explanation of it. He was a man of intellect,
a man of the world, a man who played his full share in the practical
business of everyday life: and such men are not given to acknowledging
superstitious fancies in this age of enlightenment, no matter what bent
may have been given to their minds in childhood.
Therefore Thomas Godolphin ranged his eyes round and round in the air,
and could see nothing that would solve the mystery. "I wonder whether it
be possible that certain states of the atmosphere should give out these
shadows?" he soliloquized. "But--if so--why should it invariably appear
in that one precise spot; and in no other? Could Snow have seen it, I
wonder?"
He walked on towards Ashlydyat, his head always turned, looking at the
Shadow. "I am glad Janet does not see it! It would frighten her into a
belief that my father's end was near," came his next thought.
Mrs. Verrall, playing the invalid, lay on a sofa, her auburn hair
somewhat ruffled, her pretty pink cheeks flushed, her satin slippers
peeping out; altogether challenging admiration. The damaged arm, its
silk sleeve pinned up, was stretched out on a cushion, a small delicate
cambric handkerchief, saturated with water, resting lightly on the burn.
A basin of water stood near, with a similar handkerchief lying in it,
and Mrs. Verrall's maid was at hand to change the handkerchiefs as might
be required. Thomas Godolphin drew a chair near to Mrs. Verrall, and
listened to the account of the accident, giving her his full sympathy,
for it might have been a bad one.
"You must possess great presence of mind," he observed. "I think your
showing it, as you have done in this instance, has won Mr. Snow's
heart."
Mrs. Verrall laughed. "I believe I do possess presence of mind. And so
does Charlotte. Once we were out with some friends in a barouche, and
the horses took fright, ran up a bank, turned the carriage over, and
nearly kicked it to pieces. While all those with us were fearfully
frightened, Charlotte and I remained calm and cool."
"It is a good thing for you," he observed.
"I suppose it is. Better, at any rate, than to go mad with fear, as some
do. Cecil"--turning to her--"has had fright enough to last her for a
twelvemonth, she says."
"Were you present, Cecil?" asked her brother.
"I was present, but I did not see it," replied Cecil. "It occurred in
Mrs. Verrall's bedroom, and I was standing at the dressing-table, with
my back to her. The first thing I knew, or saw, was Mrs. Verrall on the
floor with the rug rolled round her."
Tea was brought in, and Mrs. Verrall insisted that they should remain
for it. Thomas pleaded an engagement, but she would not listen: they
could not have the heart, she said, to leave her alone. So Thomas--the
very essence of good feeling and politeness--waived his objection and
remained. Not the bowing politeness of a _petit maître_, but the genuine
consideration that springs from a noble and unselfish heart.
"I am in ecstasy that Verrall was away," she exclaimed. "He would have
magnified it into something formidable, and I should not have been
allowed to stir for a month."
"When do you expect him home?" asked Thomas Godolphin.
"I never expect him until he comes," replied Mrs. Verrall. "London seems
to possess attractions for him. Once up there, he may stay a day, or he
may stay fifty. I never know."
Cecil went upstairs to put her things on when tea was over, the maid
attending her. Mrs. Verrall turned to see that the door was closed, and
then spoke abruptly.
"Mr. Godolphin, can anything be done to prevent the wind whistling as it
does in these passages?"
"Does it whistle?" he replied.
"The last few nights it has whistled--oh, I cannot describe it to you!
If I were not a good sleeper, it would have kept me awake all night. I
wish it could be stopped."
"It cannot be done, I believe, without pulling the house down," he said.
"My mother had a great dislike to hear it, and a good deal of expense
was incurred in trying to remedy it; but it did little or no good."
"What puzzles me is, that the wind should have been whistling within the
house, when there's no wind whistling without. The weather has been
quite calm. Sometimes when it is actually blowing great guns we cannot
hear it at all."
"Something peculiar in the construction of the passages," he carelessly
remarked. "You hear the whistling or not, according to the quarter from
which the wind may happen to be blowing."
"The servants tell a tale--these old Ashlydyat retainers who remain in
the house--that this strangely-sounding wind is connected with the
Ashlydyat superstition, and foretells ill to the Godolphins."
Thomas Godolphin smiled. "I am sure you do not give ear to anything so
foolish, Mrs. Verrall."
"No, that I do not," she answered. "It would take a great deal to imbue
me with faith in the supernatural. Ghosts! Shadows! As if any one with
common sense could believe in such impossibilities! They tell another
tale about here, do they not? That a shadow of some sort may
occasionally be seen in the moonbeams in front of the archway, on the
Dark Plain; a shadow cast by no earthly substance. Charlotte once
declared she saw it. I only laughed at her!"
His lips parted as he listened, and he lightly echoed the laugh said to
have been given by Charlotte. Considering what his eyes had just seen,
the laugh must have been a very conscious one.
"When do you expect your brother home?" asked Mrs. Verrall. "He seems to
be making a long stay at Broomhead."
"George is not at Broomhead," replied Thomas Godolphin. "He left it
three or four days ago. He has joined a party of friends in the
Highlands. I do not suppose he will return here much before Christmas."
Cecil appeared. They wished Mrs. Verrall good night, and a speedy cure
to her burns; and departed. Thomas took the open roadway this time,
which did not bring them near to the ash-trees or the Dark Plain.
CHAPTER XI.
A TELEGRAPHIC DESPATCH.
"Cecil," asked Thomas Godolphin, as they walked along, "how came you to
go alone to Ashlydyat, in this unceremonious manner?"
"There was no harm in it," answered Cecil, who possessed a spice of
self-will. "Mrs. Verrall said she was lonely, and it would be a charity
if I or Bessy would go home with her. Bessy could not: she was engaged
at the Rectory. Where was the harm?"
"My dear, had there been 'harm,' I am sure you would not have wished to
go. There was none. Only, I do not care that you should become very
intimate with the Verralls. A little visiting on either side cannot be
avoided: but let it end there."
"Thomas! you are just like Janet!" impulsively spoke Cecil. "She does
not like the Verralls."
"Neither do I. I do not like him. I do not like Charlotte Pain----"
"Janet again!" struck in Cecil. "She and you must be constituted
precisely alike, for you are sure to take up the same likes and
dislikes. She would not willingly let me go to-day; only she could not
refuse without downright rudeness."
"I like Mrs. Verrall the best of them, I was going to say," he
continued. "Do not become too intimate with them, Cecil."
"But you know nothing against Mr. Verrall?"
"Nothing whatever. Except that I cannot make him out."
"How do you mean--'make him out?'"
"Well, Cecil, it may be difficult to define my meaning. Verrall is so
impassive; so utterly silent with regard to himself. Who is he? Where
did he come from? Did he drop from the moon? Where has he previously
lived? What are his family? Where does his property lie?--in the funds,
or in land, or in securities, or what? Most men, even though they do
come as strangers into a neighbourhood, supply indications of some of
these things, either accidentally or purposely."
"They have lived in London," said Cecil.
"London is a wide term," answered Thomas Godolphin.
"And I'm sure they have plenty of money."
"There's where the chief puzzle is. When people possess so much money as
Verrall appears to do, they generally make no secret of whence it is
derived. Understand, my dear, I cast no suspicion on him in any way: I
only say that we know nothing of him: or of the ladies either----"
"They are very charming ladies," interrupted Cecil again. "Especially
Mrs. Verrall."
"Beyond the fact that they are very charming ladies," acquiesced Thomas
in a tone that made Cecil think he was laughing at her: "you should let
me finish, my dear. But I would prefer that they were rather more open,
as to themselves, before they became the too-intimate friends of Miss
Cecilia Godolphin."
Cecil dropped the subject. She did not always agree with what she called
Thomas's prejudices. "How quaint that old doctor of ours is!" she
exclaimed. "When he had looked at Mrs. Verrall's arm, he made a great
parade of getting out his spectacles, and putting them on, and looking
again. 'What d'ye call it--a burn?' he asked her. 'It is a burn, is it
not?' she answered, looking at him. 'No,' said he, 'it's nothing but a
scorch.' It made her laugh so. I think she was pleased to have escaped
with so little damage."
"That is just like Snow," said Thomas Godolphin.
Arrived at home, Miss Godolphin was in the same place, knitting still.
It was turned half-past nine. Too late for Thomas to pay his visit to
Lady Sarah's. "Janet, I fear you have waited tea for us!" said Cecil.
"To be sure, child. I expected you home to tea."
Cecil explained why they did not come, relating the accident to Mrs.
Verrall. "Eh! but it's like the young!" said Janet, lifting her hands.
"Careless! careless! She might have been burned to death."
"What a loud ring!" exclaimed Cecil, as the hall-bell, pealed with no
gentle hand, echoed and re-echoed through the house. "If it is Bessy
come home, she thinks she will let us know who's there."
It was not Bessy. A servant entered the room with a telegraphic
despatch. "The man is waiting, sir," he said, holding out the paper for
signature to his master.
Thomas Godolphin affixed his signature, and took up the despatch. It
came from Scotland. Janet laid her hand upon it ere it was open: her
face looked ghastly pale. "A moment of preparation!" she said. "Thomas,
it may have brought us tidings that we have no longer a father."
"Nay, Janet, do not anticipate evil," he answered, though his memory
flew unaccountably to that ugly Shadow, and to what he had deemed would
be Janet's conclusions respecting it. "It may not be ill news at all."
He glanced his eye rapidly and privately over it, while Cecil came and
stood near him with a stifled sob. Then he held it out to Janet, reading
it aloud at the same time.
"'Lady Godolphin to Thomas Godolphin, Esquire.
"'Come at once to Broomhead. Sir George wishes it. Take the first
train.'"
"He is not dead, at any rate, Janet," said Thomas quietly. "Thank
Heaven."
Janet, her extreme fears relieved, took refuge in displeasure. "What
does Lady Godolphin mean, by sending so vague a message as that?" she
uttered. "Is Sir George worse? Is he ill? Is he in danger? Or has the
summons no reference at all to his state of health?"
Thomas had taken it into his hand again, and was studying the words: as
we are all apt to do in uncertainty. He could make no more out of them.
"Lady Godolphin should have been more explicit," he resumed.
"Lady Godolphin has no _right_ thus to play upon our fears, our
suspense," said Janet. "Thomas, I have a great mind to start this very
night for Scotland."
"As you please, of course, Janet. It is a long and fatiguing journey for
a winter's night."
"And I object to being a guest at Broomhead, unless driven to it, you
might add," rejoined Janet. "But our father may be dying."
"I should think not, Janet. Lady Godolphin would certainly have said so.
Margery, too, would have taken care that those tidings should be sent to
us."
The suggestion reassured Miss Godolphin. She had not thought of it.
Margery, devoted to the interests of Sir George and his children
(somewhat in contravention to the interests of my lady), would
undoubtedly have apprised them were Sir George in danger. "What shall
you do?" inquired Janet of her brother.
"I shall do as the despatch desires me--take the first train. That will
be at midnight," he added, as he prepared to pay a visit to Lady
Sarah's.
Grame House, as you may remember, was situated at the opposite end of
the town to Ashlydyat, past All Souls' Church. As Thomas Godolphin
walked briskly along, he saw Mr. Hastings leaning over the Rectory gate,
the dark trees shading him from the light of the moon.
"You are going this way late," said the Rector.
"It is late for a visit to Lady Sarah's. But I wish particularly to see
them."
"I have now come from thence," returned Mr. Hastings.
"Sarah Anne grows weaker, I hear."
"Ay. I have been praying over her."
Thomas Godolphin felt shocked. "Is she so near death as that?" he asked,
in a hushed tone.
"So near death as that!" repeated the clergyman in an accent of reproof.
"I did not expect to hear a like remark from Mr. Godolphin. My good
friend, is it only when death is near that we are to pray?"
"It is chiefly when death is near that prayers are said _over us_,"
replied Thomas Godolphin.
"True--for those who have not known when and how to pray for themselves.
Look at that girl: passing away from amongst us, with all her worldly
thoughts, her selfish habits, her evil, peevish temper! But that God's
ways are not as our ways, we might be tempted to question why such as
these are removed; such as Ethel left. The one child as near akin to an
angel as it is well possible to be, here; the other---- In our blind
judgment, we may wonder that she, most ripe for heaven, should not be
taken to it, and that other one left, to be pruned and dug around; to
have, in short, a chance given her of making herself better."
"Is she so very ill?"
"I think her so; as does Snow. It was what he said that sent me up
there. Her frame of mind is not a desirable one: and I have been trying
to do my part. I shall be with her again to-morrow."
"Have you any message for your daughter?" asked Thomas Godolphin. "I
start in two hours' time for Scotland." And then, he explained why:
telling of their uncertainty.
"When shall you be coming back again?" inquired Mr. Hastings.
"Within a week. Unless my father's state should forbid it. I may be
wishing to take a holiday at Christmas time, or thereabouts, so shall
not stay away now. George is absent, too."
"Staying at Broomhead?"
"No; he is not at Broomhead now."
"Will you take charge of Maria? We want her home."
"If you wish it, I will. But I should think they would all be returning
very shortly. Christmas is intended to be spent here."
"You may depend upon it, Christmas will not see Lady Godolphin at
Prior's Ash, unless the fever shall have departed to spend its Christmas
in some other place," cried the Rector.
"Well, I shall hear their plans when I get there."
"Bring back Maria with you, Mr. Godolphin. Tell her it is my wish.
Unless you find that there's a prospect of her speedy return with Lady
Godolphin. In that case, you may leave her."
"Very well," replied Thomas Godolphin.
He continued his way, and Mr. Hastings looked after him in the bright
moonlight, till his form disappeared in the shadows cast by the roadside
trees.
It was striking ten as Thomas Godolphin opened the iron gates at Lady
Sarah Grame's: the heavy clock-bell of All Souls' came sounding upon his
ear in the stillness of the night. The house, all except from one
window, looked dark: even the hall-lamp was out, and he feared they
might all have retired. From that window a dull light shone behind the
blind: a stationary light it had been of late, to be seen by any
nocturnal wayfarer all night long; for it came from the sick-chamber.
Elizabeth opened the door. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed in the surprise of
seeing him so late, "I think Miss Ethel has gone up to bed."
Lady Sarah came hastening down the stairs as he stepped into the hall:
she also was surprised at the late visit.
"I would not have disturbed you, but that I am about to leave for
Broomhead," he explained. "A telegraphic despatch has arrived from Lady
Godolphin, calling me thither. I should like to see Ethel, if not
inconvenient to her. I know not how long I may be away."
"I sent Ethel to bed: her head ached," said Lady Sarah. "It is not many
minutes since she went up. Oh, Mr. Godolphin, this has been such a day
of grief! heads and hearts alike aching."
Thomas Godolphin entered the drawing-room, and Lady Sarah Grame called
Ethel down, and then returned to her sick daughter's room. Ethel came
instantly. The fire in the drawing-room was still alight, and Elizabeth
had been in to stir it up. Thomas Godolphin stood over it with Ethel,
telling her of his coming journey and its cause. The red embers threw a
glow upon her face: her brow looked heavy, her eyes swollen.
He saw the signs, and laid his hand fondly upon her head. "What has
given you this headache, Ethel?"
The ready tears came into her eyes. "It does ache very much," she
answered.
"Has crying caused it?"
"Yes," she replied. "It is of no use to deny it, for you would see it by
my swollen eyelids. I have wept to-day until it seems that I can weep no
longer, and it has made my eyes ache and my head dull and heavy."
"But, my darling, you should not give way to this grief. It may render
you seriously ill."
"Oh, Thomas! how can I help it?" she returned, with emotion, as the
tears dropped swiftly over her cheeks. "We begin to see that there is no
chance of Sarah Anne's recovery. Mr. Snow told mamma so to-day: and he
sent up Mr. Hastings."
"Ethel, will your grieving alter it?"
Ethel wept silently. There was full and entire confidence between her
and Thomas Godolphin: she could speak out all her thoughts, her troubles
to him, as she could have told them to a mother--if she had had a mother
who loved her.
"If she were only a little more prepared to go, the pain would seem
less," breathed Ethel. "That is, we might feel more reconciled to losing
her. But you know what she is, Thomas. When I have tried to talk a
little bit about heaven, or to read a psalm to her, she would not
listen: she said it made her dull, it gave her the horrors. How can she,
who has never thought of God, be fit to meet Him?"
Ethel's tears were deepening into sobs. Thomas Godolphin involuntarily
thought of what Mr. Hastings had just said to him. His hand still rested
on Ethel's head.
"_You_ are fit to meet Him?" he exclaimed involuntarily. "Ethel, whence
can have arisen the difference between you? You are sisters; reared in
the same home."
"I do not know," said Ethel simply. "I have always thought a great deal
about heaven; I suppose it is that. A lady, whom we knew as children,
used to buy us a good many story-books, and mine were always stories of
heaven. It was that which first got me into the habit of thinking of
it."
"And why not Sarah Anne?"
"Sarah Anne would not read them. She liked stories of gaiety and
excitement; balls, and things like that."
Thomas smiled; the words were so simple and natural. "Had the fiat gone
forth for you, instead of for her, Ethel, it would have brought you no
dismay?"
"Only that I must leave all my dear ones behind me," she answered,
looking up at him, a bright smile shining through her tears. "I should
know that God would not take me, unless it were for the best. Oh,
Thomas! if we could only save her!"
"Child, you contradict yourself. If what God does must be for the
best--and it _is_--that thought should reconcile you to parting with
Sarah Anne."
"Y--es," hesitated Ethel. "Only I fear she has never thought of it
herself, or in any way prepared for it."
"Do you know that I have to find fault with you?" resumed Thomas
Godolphin, after a pause. "You have not been true to me, Ethel."
She turned her eyes upon him in surprise.
"Did you not promise me--did you not promise Mr. Snow, not to enter your
sister's chamber while the fever was upon her? I hear that you were in
it often: her head nurse."
A hot colour flushed into Ethel's face. "Forgive me, Thomas," she
whispered; "I could not help myself. Sarah Anne--it was on the third
morning of her illness, when I was getting up--suddenly began to cry out
for me very much, and mamma came to my bedroom and desired me to go to
her. I said that Mr. Snow had forbidden me, and that I had promised you.
It made mamma angry. She asked if I could be so selfish as to regard a
promise before Sarah Anne's life; that she might die if I thwarted her:
and she took me by the arm and pulled me in. I would have told you,
Thomas, that I had broken my word; I wished to tell you; but mamma
forbade me to do so."
Thomas Godolphin stood looking at her. There was nothing to answer: he
had _known_, in his deep and trusting love, that the fault had not lain
with Ethel. She mistook his silence, thinking he was vexed.
"You know, Thomas, so long as I am here in mamma's home, her child, it
is to her that I owe obedience," she gently pleaded. "As soon as I shall
be your wife, I shall owe it and give it implicitly to you."
"You are right, my darling."
"And it has produced no ill consequences," she resumed. "I did not catch
the fever. Had I found myself growing in the least ill, I should have
sent for you and told you the truth."
"Ethel?" he impulsively cried--very impulsively for calm Thomas
Godolphin; "had you caught the fever, I should never have forgiven those
who led you into danger. I _could_ not lose you."
"Hark!" said Ethel. "Mamma is calling."
Lady Sarah had been calling to Mr. Godolphin. Thinking she was not
heard, she now came downstairs and entered the room, wringing her hands;
her eyes were overflowing, her sharp thin nose was redder than usual.
"Oh dear! I don't know what we shall do with her!" she uttered. "She is
so ill, and it makes her so fretful. Mr. Godolphin, nothing will satisfy
her now but she must see you."
"See me!" repeated he.
"She will, she says. I told her you were departing for Scotland, and she
burst out crying, and said if she were to die she should never see you
again. Do you mind going in? You are not afraid?"
"No, I am not afraid," said Thomas Godolphin. "Infection cannot have
remained all this time. And if it had, I should not fear it."
Lady Sarah Grame led the way upstairs. Thomas followed her. Ethel stole
in afterwards. Sarah Anne lay in bed, her thin face, drawn and white,
raised upon the pillow; her hollow eyes were strained forward with a
fixed look. Ill as he had been led to suppose her, he was scarcely
prepared to see her like this; and it shocked him. A cadaverous face,
looking ripe for the tomb.
"Why have you never come to see me?" she asked in her hollow voice, as
he approached and leaned over her. "You'd never have come till I died.
You only care for Ethel."
"I would have come to see you had I known you wished it," he answered.
"But you do not look strong enough to receive visitors."
"They might cure me, if they would," she continued, panting for breath.
"I want to go away somewhere, and that Snow won't let me. If it were
Ethel, he would take care to cure _her_."
"He will let you go as soon as you are equal to it, I am sure," said
Thomas Godolphin.
"Why should the fever have come to me at all?--Why couldn't it have gone
to Ethel instead? She's strong. She would have got well in no time. It's
not fair----"
"My dear child, my dear, dear child, you must not excite yourself,"
implored Lady Sarah, abruptly interrupting her.
"I shall speak," cried Sarah Anne, with a touch, feeble though it was,
of her old peevish vehemence. "Nobody's thought of but Ethel. If you had
had your way," looking hard at Mr. Godolphin, "she wouldn't have been
allowed to come near me; no, not if I had died."
Her mood changed to tears. Lady Sarah whispered to him to leave the
room: it would not do, this excitement. Thomas wondered why he had been
brought to it. "I will come and see you again when you are better," he
soothingly whispered.
"No you won't," sobbed Sarah Anne. "You are going to Scotland, and I
shall be dead when you come back. I don't want to die. Why do they
frighten me with their prayers? Good-bye, Thomas Godolphin."
The last words were called after him; when he had taken his leave of her
and was quitting the room. Lady Sarah attended him to the threshold: her
eyes full, her hands lifted. "You may see that there's no hope of her!"
she wailed.
Thomas did not think there was the slightest hope. To his eye--though it
was not so practised an eye in sickness as Mr. Snow's, or even as that
of the Rector of All Souls'--it appeared that in a very few days,
perhaps hours, hope for Sarah Anne Grame would be over for ever.
Ethel waited for him in the hall, and was leading the way back to the
drawing-room; but he told her he could not stay longer, and opened the
front door. She ran past him into the garden, putting her hand into his
as he came out.
"I wish you were not going away," she sadly said, her spirits, that
night very unequal, causing her to see things with a gloomy eye.
"I wish you were going with me!" replied Thomas Godolphin. "Do not weep,
Ethel. I shall soon be back again."
"Everything seems to make me weep to-night. You may not be back
until--until the worst is over. Oh! if she might but be saved!"
He held her face close to him, gazing down at it in the moonlight. And
then he took from it his farewell kiss. "God bless you, my darling, for
ever and for ever!"
"May He bless you, Thomas!" she answered, with streaming eyes: and, for
the first time in her life, his kiss was returned. Then they parted. He
watched Ethel indoors, and went back to Prior's Ash.
CHAPTER XII.
DEAD.
"Thomas, my son, I must go home. I don't want to die away from
Ashlydyat!"
A dull pain shot across Thomas Godolphin's heart at the words. Did he
think of the old superstitious tradition--that evil was to fall upon the
Godolphins when their chief should die, and not at Ashlydyat? At
Ashlydyat his father could not die; he had put that out of his power
when he let it to strangers: in its neighbourhood, he might.
"The better plan, sir, will be for you to return to the Folly, as you
seem to wish it," said Thomas. "You will soon be strong enough to
undertake the journey."
The decaying knight was sitting on a sofa in his bedroom. His second
fainting-fit had lasted some hours--if that, indeed, was the right name
to give to it--and he had recovered, only to be more and more weak. He
had grown pretty well after the first attack--when Margery had found him
in his chamber on the floor, the day Lady Godolphin had gone to pay her
visit to Selina. The next time, he was on the lawn before the house,
talking to Charlotte Pain, when he suddenly fell to the ground. He did
not recover his consciousness until evening; and nearly the first wish
he expressed was a desire to see his son Thomas. "Telegraph for him," he
said to Lady Godolphin.
"But you are not seriously ill, Sir George," she had answered.
"No; but I should like him here. Telegraph to him to start by first
train."
And Lady Godolphin did so, accordingly, sending the message that angered
Miss Godolphin. But, in this case, Lady Godolphin did not deserve so
much blame as Janet cast on her: for she did debate the point with
herself whether she should say Sir George was ill, or not. Believing
that these two fainting-fits had proceeded from want of strength only,
that they were but the effect of his long previous illness, and would
lead to no bad result, she determined not to speak of it. Hence the
imperfect message.
Neither did Thomas Godolphin see much cause for fear when he arrived at
Broomhead. Sir George did not look better than when he had left Prior's
Ash, but neither did he look much worse. On this, the second day, he had
been well enough to converse with Thomas upon business affairs: and,
that over, he suddenly broke out with the above wish. Thomas mentioned
it when he joined Lady Godolphin afterwards. It did not meet with her
approbation.
"You should have opposed it," said she to him in a firm, hard tone.
"But why so, madam?" asked Thomas. "If my father's wish is to return to
Prior's Ash, he should return."
"Not while the fever lingers there. Were he to take it--and die--you
would never forgive yourself."
Thomas had no fear of the fever on his own score, and did not fear it
for his father. He intimated as much. "It is not the fever that will
hurt him, Lady Godolphin."
"You have no right to say that. Lady Sarah Grame, a month ago, might
have said she did not fear it for Sarah Anne. And now Sarah Anne is
dying!"
"Or dead," put in Charlotte Pain, who was leaning listlessly against the
window frame devoured with ennui.
"Shall you be afraid to go back to Prior's Ash?" he asked of Maria
Hastings.
"Not at all," replied Maria. "I should not mind if I were going to-day,
as far as the fever is concerned."
"That is well," he said. "Because I have orders to convey you back with
me."
Charlotte Pain lifted her head with a start. The news aroused her.
Maria, on the contrary, thought he was speaking in jest.
"No, indeed I am not," said Thomas Godolphin. "Mr. Hastings made a
request to me, madam, that I should take charge of his daughter when I
returned," continued he to Lady Godolphin. "He wants her at home, he
says."
"Mr. Hastings is very polite!" ironically replied my lady. "Maria will
go back when I choose to spare her."
"I hope you will allow her to return with me--unless you shall soon be
returning yourself," said Thomas Godolphin.
"It is not I that shall be returning to Prior's Ash yet," said my lady.
"The sickly old place must give proof of renewed health first. You will
not see either me or Sir George there on this side Christmas."
"Then I think, Lady Godolphin, you must offer no objection to my taking
charge of Maria," said Thomas courteously, but firmly, leaving the
discussion of Sir George's return to another opportunity. "I passed my
word to Mr. Hastings."
Charlotte Pain, all animation now, approached Lady Godolphin. She was
thoroughly sick and tired of Broomhead: since George Godolphin's
departure, she had been projecting how she could get away from it. Here
was a solution to her difficulty.
"Dear Lady Godolphin, you must allow me to depart with Mr.
Godolphin--whatever you may do with Maria Hastings," she exclaimed. "I
said nothing to you--for I really did not see how I was to get back,
knowing you would not permit me to travel so far alone--but Mrs. Verrall
is very urgent for my return. And now that she is suffering from this
burn, as Mr. Godolphin has brought us news, it is the more incumbent
upon me to be at home."
Which was a nice little fib of Miss Charlotte's. Her sister had never
once hinted that she wished her home again; but a fib or two more or
less was nothing to Charlotte.
"You are tired of Broomhead," said Lady Godolphin.
Charlotte's colour never varied, her eye never drooped, as she protested
that she should not tire of Broomhead were she its inmate for a
twelvemonth; that it was quite a paradise upon earth. Maria kept her
head bent while Charlotte said it, half afraid lest unscrupulous
Charlotte should call upon her to bear testimony to her truth. Only that
very morning she had protested to Maria that the ennui of the place was
killing her.
"I don't know," said Lady Godolphin shrewdly. "Unless I am wrong,
Charlotte, you have been anxious to leave. What was it that Mr. George
hinted at--about escorting you young ladies home--and I stopped him ere
it was half spoken? Prior's Ash _would_ talk if I sent you home under
his convoy."
"Mr. Godolphin is not George," rejoined Charlotte.
"No, he is not," replied my lady significantly.
The subject of departure was settled amicably; both the young ladies
were to return to Prior's Ash under the charge of Mr. Godolphin. There
are some men, single men though they be, and not men in years, whom
society is content to recognize as entirely fit escorts. Thomas
Godolphin was one of them. Had my lady despatched the young ladies home
under Mr. George's wing, she might never have heard the last of it from
Prior's Ash: but the most inveterate scandalmonger in it would not have
questioned the trustworthiness of his elder brother. My lady was also
brought to give her consent to her own departure for it by Christmas,
provided Mr. Snow would assure her that the place was "safe."
In a day or two Thomas Godolphin spoke to his father of his marriage
arrangements. He had received a letter from Janet, written the morning
after his departure, in which she agreed to the proposal that Ethel
should be her temporary guest. This removed all barrier to the immediate
union.
"Then you marry directly, if Sarah Anne lives?"
"Directly. In January, at the latest."
"God bless you both!" cried the old knight. "She'll be a wife in a
thousand, Thomas."
Thomas thought she would. He did not say it.
"It's the best plan; it's the best plan," continued Sir George in a
dreamy tone, gazing into the fire. "No use to turn the girls out of
their home. It will not be for long; not for long. Thomas"--turning his
haggard, but still fine blue eye upon his son--"I wish I had never left
Ashlydyat!"
Thomas was silent. None had more bitterly regretted the departure from
it than he.
"I wish I could go back to it to die!"
"My dear father, I hope that you will yet live many years to bless us.
If you can get through this winter--and I see no reason whatever why you
should not, with care--you may regain your strength and be as well again
as any of us."
Sir George shook his head. "It will not be, Thomas; I shall not long
keep you out of Ashlydyat. Mind!" he added, turning upon Thomas with
surprising energy, "I _will_ go back before Christmas to Prior's Ash.
The last Christmas that I see shall be spent with my children."
"Yes, indeed, I think you should come back to us," warmly acquiesced
Thomas.
"Therefore, if you find, when Christmas is close upon us, that I am not
amongst you, that you hear no tidings of my coming amongst you, you come
off at once and fetch me. Do you hear, Thomas? I enjoin it upon you now
with a father's authority; do not forget it, or disobey it. My lady
fears the fever, and would keep me here: but I must be at Prior's Ash."
"I will certainly obey you, my father," replied Thomas Godolphin.
Telegraphic despatches seemed to be the order of the day with Thomas
Godolphin. They were all sitting together that evening, Sir George
having come downstairs, when a servant called Thomas out of the room. A
telegraphic message had arrived for him at the station, and a man had
brought it over. A conviction of what it contained flashed over Thomas
Godolphin's heart as he opened it--the death of Sarah Anne Grame.
From Lady Sarah it proved to be. Not a much more satisfactory message
than had been Lady Godolphin's; for if hers had not been explanatory,
this was incoherent.
"The breath has just gone out of my dear child's body. I will write by
next post. She died at four o'clock. How shall we all bear it?"
Thomas returned to the room; his mind full. In the midst of his sorrow
and regret for Sarah Anne, his compassion for Lady Sarah--and he did
feel all that with true sympathy--intruded the thought of his own
marriage. It must be postponed now.
"What did Andrew want with you?" asked Sir George, when he entered.
"A telegraphic message had come for me from Prior's Ash."
"A business message?"
"No, sir. It is from Lady Sarah."
By the tone of his voice, by the falling of his countenance, they could
read instinctively what had occurred. But they kept silence,
all,--waiting for him to speak further.
"Poor Sarah Anne is gone. She died at four o'clock."
"This will delay your plans, Thomas," observed Sir George, after some
minutes had been given to expressions of regret.
"It will, sir."
The knight leaned over to his son, and spoke in a whisper, meant for his
ear alone: "I shall not be very long after her. I feel that I shall not.
You may yet take Ethel home at once to Ashlydyat."
Very early indeed did they start in the morning, long before daybreak.
Prior's Ash they would reach, all things being well, at nine at night.
Margery was sent to attend them, a very dragon of a guardian, as
particular as Miss Godolphin herself--had a guardian been necessary.
A somewhat weary day; a long one, at any rate; but at last their train
steamed into the station at Prior's Ash. It was striking nine. Mr.
Hastings was waiting for Maria, and Mrs. Verrall's carriage for
Charlotte Pain. A few minutes were spent in collecting the luggage.
"Shall I give you a seat as far as the bank, Mr. Godolphin?" inquired
Charlotte, who must pass it on her way to Ashlydyat.
"Thank you, no. I shall just go up for a minute's call upon Lady Sarah
Grame."
Mr. Hastings, who had been placing Maria in a fly, heard the words. He
turned hastily, caught Thomas Godolphin's hand, and drew him aside.
"Are you aware of what has occurred?"
"Alas, yes!" replied Thomas. "Lady Sarah telegraphed to me last night."
The Rector pressed his hand, and returned to his daughter. Thomas
Godolphin struck into a by-path, a short cut from the station, which
would take him to Grame House.
Six days ago, exactly, since he had been there before. The house looked
precisely as it had looked then, all in darkness, excepting the faint
light that burned from Sarah Anne's chamber. It burnt there still. Then
it was lighting the living; now----
Thomas Godolphin rang the bell gently.--Does any one like to do
otherwise at a house in which death is an inmate? Elizabeth, as usual,
opened the door, and burst into tears when she saw who it was. "I said
it would bring you back, sir!" she exclaimed.
"Does Lady Sarah bear it pretty well?" he asked, as she showed him into
the drawing-room.
"No, sir, not over well," sobbed the girl. "I'll tell my lady that you
are here."
He stood over the fire, as he had done the other night: it was low now,
as it had been then. Strangely still seemed the house: he could almost
have told that one was lying dead in it. He listened, waiting for
Ethel's step, hoping she would be the first to come to him.
Elizabeth returned. "My lady says would you be so good as to walk up to
her, sir?"
Thomas Godolphin followed her upstairs. She made for the room to which
he had been taken the former night--Sarah Anne's chamber. In point of
fact, the chamber of Lady Sarah, until it was given up to Sarah Anne for
her illness. Elizabeth, with soft and stealthy tread, crossed the
corridor to the door, and opened it.
Was she going to show him into the presence of the dead? He thought she
must have mistaken Lady Sarah's orders, and he hesitated on the
threshold.
"Where is Miss Ethel?" he whispered.
"Who, sir?"
"Miss Ethel. Is she well?"
The girl stared, flung the door full open, and with a great cry flew
down the staircase.
He looked after her in amazement. Had she gone crazy? Then he turned and
walked into the room with a hesitating step.
Lady Sarah was coming forward to meet him. She was convulsed with grief.
He took both her hands in his with a soothing gesture, essaying a word
of comfort: not of inquiry, as to why she should have brought him to
this room. He glanced to the bed, expecting to see the dead upon it. But
the bed was empty. And at that moment, his eyes caught something else.
Seated by the fire in an invalid chair, surrounded with pillows, covered
with shawls, with a wan, attenuated face, and eyes that seemed to have a
glaze over them, was--_who_?
_Sarah Anne?_ It certainly _was_ Sarah Anne, and in life still. For she
feebly held out her hand in welcome, and the tears suddenly gushed from
her eyes. "I am getting better, Mr. Godolphin."
Thomas Godolphin--Thomas Godolphin--how shall I write it? For one happy
minute he was utterly blind to what it could all mean: his whole mind
was a chaos of wild perplexity. And then, as the dreadful truth burst
upon him, he staggered against the wall, with a wailing cry of agony.
It was Ethel who had died.
CHAPTER XIII.
UNAVAILING REGRETS.
Yes. It was Ethel who had died.
Thomas Godolphin leaned against the wall in his agony. It was one of
those moments that can fall only once in a lifetime; in many lives
never; when the greatest limit of earthly misery bursts upon the
startled spirit, shattering it for all time. Were Thomas Godolphin to
live for a hundred years, he never could know another moment like this:
the power so to feel would have left him.
It had not left him yet. Nay, it had scarcely come to him in its full
realization. At present he was half stunned. Strange as it may seem, the
first impression upon his mind, was--that he was so much nearer to the
next world. How am I to define this "nearer?" It was not that he was
nearer to it by time; or in goodness: nothing of that sort. _She_ had
passed within its portals; and the great gulf, which divides time from
eternity, seems to be only a span now to Thomas Godolphin: it was as if
he, in spirit, had followed her in. From being a place far, far off,
vague, indefinite, indistinct, it had been suddenly brought to him,
close and palpable: or he to it: Had Thomas Godolphin been an atheist,
denying a hereafter,--Heaven in its compassion have mercy upon all
such!--that one moment of suffering would have recalled him to a sense
of his mistake. It was as if he looked above with the eye of inspiration
and saw the truth; it was as a brief, passing moment of revelation from
God. She, with her loving spirit, her gentle heart, her simple trust in
God, had been taken from this world to enter upon a better. She was as
surely living in it, had entered upon its mysteries, its joys, its rest,
as that he was living here; she, he believed, was as surely regarding
him now and his great sorrow, as that he was left alone to battle with
it. From henceforth Thomas Godolphin possessed a lively, ever-present
link with that world; and knew that its gates would, in God's good time,
be opened for him.
These feelings, impressions, facts--you may designate them as you
please--took up their place in his mind all in that first instant, and
seated themselves there for ever. Not yet very consciously. To his
stunned senses, in his weight of bitter grief, nothing could be to him
very clear: ideas passed through his brain quickly, confusedly; as the
changing scenes in a phantasmagoria. He looked round as one bewildered.
The bed, prepared for occupancy, on which, on entering, he had expected
to see the dead, but not _her_, was between him and the door. Sarah Anne
Grame in her invalid chair by the fire, a table at her right hand,
covered with adjuncts of the sick-room--a medicine-bottle with its
accompanying wine-glass and tablespoon--jelly, and other delicacies to
tempt a faded appetite--Sarah Anne sat there and gazed at him with her
dark hollow eyes, from which the tears rolled slowly over her cadaverous
cheeks. Lady Sarah stood before him; sobs choking her voice as she wrung
her hands. Ay, both were weeping. But he----it is not in the presence
of others that man gives way to grief: neither will tears come to him in
the first leaden weight of anguish.
Thomas Godolphin listened mechanically, as one who cannot do otherwise,
to the explanations of Lady Sarah. "Why did you not prepare me?--why did
you let it come upon me with this startling shock?" was his first
remonstrance.
"I did prepare you," sobbed Lady Sarah. "I telegraphed to you last
night, as soon as it had happened. I wrote the message with my own hand,
and sent it off to the office before I turned my attention to any other
thing."
"I received the message. But you did not say--I thought it was,"--Thomas
Godolphin turned his glance on Sarah Anne. He remembered her state, in
the midst of his own anguish, and would not alarm her. "You did not
mention Ethel's name," he continued to Lady Sarah. "How could I suppose
you alluded to her? How could I suppose that she was ill?"
Sarah Anne divined his motive for hesitation. She was uncommonly keen in
penetration: sharp, as the world says; and she had noted his words on
entering, when he began to soothe Lady Sarah for the loss of a child;
she had noticed his startled recoil, when his eyes fell on her. She
spoke up with a touch of her old querulousness, the tears arrested, and
her eyes glistening.
"You thought it was I who had died! Yes, you did, Mr. Godolphin, and you
need not attempt to deny it. You would not have cared, so that it was
not Ethel."
Thomas Godolphin had no intention of contradicting her. He turned from
Sarah Anne in silence, to look inquiringly and reproachfully at her
mother.
"Mr. Godolphin, I could not prepare you better than I did," said Lady
Sarah, "When I wrote the letter to you, telling of her illness----"
"What letter?" interrupted Thomas Godolphin. "I received no letter."
"But you must have received it," returned Lady Sarah in her quick, cross
manner. Not cross with Thomas Godolphin, but from a rising doubt whether
the letter had miscarried. "I wrote it, and I know that it was safely
posted. You ought to have had it by last evening's delivery, before you
would receive the telegraphic despatch."
"I never had it," said Thomas Godolphin. "When I waited in your
drawing-room now, I was listening for Ethel's footsteps to come to me."
Thomas Godolphin knew, later, that the letter had arrived duly and
safely at Broomhead, at the time mentioned by Lady Sarah. Sir George
Godolphin either did not open the box that night; or, if he opened it,
had overlooked the letter for his son. Charlotte Pain's complaint, that
the box ought not to be left to the charge of Sir George, had reason in
it. On the morning of his son's departure with the young ladies, Sir
George had found the letter, and at once despatched it back to Prior's
Ash. It was on its road at this same hour when he was talking with Lady
Sarah. But the shock had come.
He took a seat by the table, and covered his eyes with his hand as Lady
Sarah gave him a detailed account of the illness and death. Not all the
account, that she or any one else could give, would take one iota from
the dreadful fact staring him in the face. She was gone; gone for ever
from this world; he could never again meet the glance of her eye, or
hear her voice in response to his own. Ah, my readers, there are griefs
that change all our after-life! rending the heart as an earthquake will
rend the earth: and, all that can be done is, to sit down under them,
and ask of Heaven strength to bear them. To bear them as we best may,
until time shall in a measure bring healing upon its wings.
On the last night that Thomas Godolphin had seen her, Ethel's brow and
eyes were heavy. She had wept much in the day, and supposed the pain in
her head to arise from that circumstance; she had given this explanation
to Thomas Godolphin. Neither she, nor he, had had a thought that it
could come from any other source. More than a month since Sarah Anne was
taken with the fever; fears for Ethel had died out. And yet those dull
eyes, that hot head, that heavy weight of pain, were only the symptoms
of approaching sickness! A night of tossing and turning, snatches of
disturbed sleep, of terrifying dreams, and Ethel awoke to the conviction
that the fever was upon her. About the time that she generally rose, she
rang her bell for Elizabeth.
"I do not feel well," she said. "As soon as mamma is up, will you ask
her to come to me? Do not disturb her before then."
Elizabeth obeyed her orders. But Lady Sarah, tired and wearied out with
her attendance upon Sarah Anne, with whom she had been up half the
night, did not rise until between nine and ten. Then the maid went to
her and delivered the message.
"In bed still! Miss Ethel in bed still!" exclaimed Lady Sarah. She spoke
in much anger: for Ethel was wont to be up betimes and in attendance
upon Sarah Anne. It was _required_ of her to be so.
Throwing on a dressing-gown, Lady Sarah proceeded to Ethel's room. And
there she broke into a storm of reproach and anger; never waiting to
ascertain what might be the matter with Ethel, anything or nothing. "Ten
o'clock, and that poor child to have lain until now with no one near her
but a servant!" she reiterated. "You have no feeling, Ethel."
Ethel drew the clothes from her flushed face, and turned her glistening
eyes, dull last night, bright with fever now, upon her mother. "Oh,
mamma, I am ill, indeed I am! I can hardly lift my head for the pain.
Feel how it is burning! I did not think I ought to get up."
"What is the matter with you?" sharply inquired Lady Sarah.
"I cannot quite tell," answered Ethel. "I only know that I feel ill all
over. I feel, mamma, as if I could not get up."
"Very well! There's that dear suffering angel lying alone, and you can
think of yourself before you think of her! If you choose to remain in
bed you must. But you will reproach yourself for your selfishness when
she is gone. Another four and twenty hours and she may be no longer with
us. Do as you think proper."
Ethel burst into tears, and caught her mother's robe as she was turning
away. "Mamma, do not be angry with me! I trust I am not selfish.
Mamma"--and her voice sank to a whisper--"I have been thinking that it
may be the fever."
The fever! For one moment Lady Sarah paused in consternation, but the
next she decided there was no fear of it. She really believed so.
"The fever!" she reproachfully said. "Heaven help you for a selfish and
a fanciful child, Ethel! Did I not send you to bed with headache last
night, and what is it but the remains of that headache that you feel
this morning? I can see what it is; you have been fretting after this
departure of Thomas Godolphin! Get up and dress yourself, and come in
and attend upon your sister. You know she can't bear to be waited on by
any one but you. Get up, I say, Ethel."
Will Lady Sarah Grame remember that little episode until death shall
take her? I should, in her place. She suppressed all mention of it to
Thomas Godolphin. "The dear child told me she did not feel well, but I
only thought she had a headache, and that she would perhaps feel better
up," were the words in which she related it to him. What sort of a
vulture was gnawing at her heart as she spoke them? It was true that, in
her blind selfishness for that one undeserving child, she had lost sight
of the fact that illness could come to Ethel; she had not allowed
herself to entertain its probability; she, who had accused of
selfishness that devoted, generous girl, who was ready at all hours to
sacrifice herself to her sister; who would have sacrificed her very life
to save Sarah Anne's.
Ethel got up. Got up as she best could; her limbs aching, her head
burning. She went into Sarah Anne's room, and did for her what she was
able, gently, lovingly, anxiously, as of yore. Ah, child! let those, who
are left, be thankful that it was so: it is well to be stricken down in
the path of duty, working until we can work no more.
_She_ did so. She stayed where she was until the day was half gone;
bearing up, it was hard to say how. She could not touch breakfast; she
could not take anything. None saw how ill she was. Lady Sarah was
wilfully blind; Sarah Anne had eyes and thoughts for herself alone.
"What are you shivering for?" Sarah Anne once fretfully asked her. "I
feel cold, dear," was Ethel's unselfish answer: not a word said she
further of her illness. In the early part of the afternoon, Lady Sarah
was away from the room for some time upon domestic affairs; and when she
returned to it Mr. Snow was with her. He had been prevented from calling
earlier in the day. They found that Sarah Anne had dropped into a doze,
and Ethel was stretched on the floor before the fire, moaning. But the
moans ceased as they entered.
Mr. Snow, regardless of waking the invalid, strode up to Ethel, and
turned her face to the light. "How long has she been like this?" he
cried out, his voice shrill with emotion. "Child! child! why did they
not send for me?"
Alas! poor Ethel was, even then, growing too ill to reply. Mr. Snow
carried her to her room with his own arms, and the servants undressed
her and laid her in the bed from which she was never more to rise. The
fever attacked her violently: but not more so than it had attacked Sarah
Anne; scarcely as badly; and danger, for Ethel, was not imagined. Had
Sarah Anne not got over a similar crisis, they would have feared for
Ethel: so are we given to judge by collateral circumstances. It was only
on the third or fourth day that highly dangerous symptoms declared
themselves, and then Lady Sarah wrote to Thomas Godolphin the letter
which had not reached him. There was this much of negative consolation
to be derived from its miscarriage: that, had it been delivered to him
on the instant of its arrival, he could not have been in time to see
her.
"You ought to have written to me as soon as she was taken ill," he
observed to Lady Sarah.
"I would have done so had I apprehended danger," she repentantly
answered. "But I never did apprehend it. Mr. Snow did not do so. I
thought how pleasant it would be to get her safe through the danger and
the illness, before you should know of it."
"Did she not wish me to be written to?"
The question was put firmly, abruptly, after the manner of one who will
not be cheated of his answer. Lady Sarah dared not evade it. How could
she equivocate, with her child lying dead in the house.
"It is true. She did wish it. It was on the first day of her illness
that she spoke. 'Write, and tell Thomas Godolphin.' She never said it
but that once."
"And you did not do so?" he returned, his voice hoarse with pain.
"Do not reproach me! do not reproach me!" cried Lady Sarah, clasping her
hands in supplication, while the tears fell in showers from her eyes. "I
did it for the best. I never supposed there was danger: I thought what a
pity it was to bring you back, all that long journey: putting you to so
much unnecessary trouble and expense."
Trouble and expense, in such a case! She could speak of expense to
Thomas Godolphin! But he remembered how she had had to battle both with
expense and trouble her whole life long; that for her these must wear a
formidable aspect: and he remained silent.
"I wish now I had written," she resumed, in the midst of her choking
sobs. "As soon as Mr. Snow said there was danger, I wished it. But"--as
if she would seek to excuse herself--"what with the two upon my hands,
she upstairs, Sarah Anne here, I had not a moment for proper
reflection."
"Did you tell her you had not written?" he asked. "Or did you let her
lie waiting for me, hour after hour, day after day, blaming me for my
careless neglect?"
"She never blamed any one; you know she did not," wailed Lady Sarah:
"and I believe she was too ill to think even of you. She was only
sensible at times. Oh, I say, do not reproach me, Mr. Godolphin! I would
give my own life to bring her back again! I never knew her worth until
she was gone. I never loved her as I love her now."
There could be no doubt that Lady Sarah Grame was reproaching herself
far more bitterly than any reproach could tell upon her from Thomas
Godolphin. An accusing conscience is the worst of all evils. She sat
there, her head bent, swaying herself backwards and forwards on her
chair, moaning and crying. It was not a time, as Thomas Godolphin felt,
to say a word of her past heartless conduct, in forcing Ethel to breathe
the infection of Sarah Anne's sick-room. And, all that he could say, all
the reproaches, all the remorse and repentance, would not bring Ethel
back to life.
"Would you like to see her?" whispered Lady Sarah, as he rose to leave.
"Yes."
She lighted a candle, and preceded him upstairs. Ethel had died in her
own room. At the door, Thomas Godolphin took the candle from Lady Sarah.
"I must go in alone."
He passed on into the chamber, and closed the door. On the bed, laid out
in her white night-dress, lay what remained of Ethel Grame. Pale, still,
pure, her face was wonderfully like what it had been in life, and a calm
smile rested upon it.--But Thomas Godolphin wished to be alone.
Lady Sarah stood outside, leaning against the opposite wall, and weeping
silently, the glimmer from the hall-lamp below faintly lighting the
corridor. Once she fancied that a sound, as of choking sobs, struck upon
her ears, and she caught up a small black shawl that she wore, for grief
had chilled her, flung it over her shoulders, and wept the faster.
He came out by-and-by, calm and quiet as he ever was. He did not
perceive Lady Sarah standing there in the shade, and went straight down,
the wax-light in his hand. Lady Sarah caught him up at the door of Sarah
Anne's room, and took the light from him.
"She looks very peaceful, does she not?" was her whisper.
"She could not look otherwise."
He went on down alone, wishing to let himself out. But Elizabeth had
heard his steps, and was already at the door. "Good night, Elizabeth,"
he said, as he passed her.
The girl did not answer. She slipped out into the garden after him. "Oh,
sir! and didn't you know of it?" she whispered.
"No."
"If anybody was ever gone away to be an angel, sir, it's that sweet
young lady," continued Elizabeth, letting her tears and sobs come forth
as they would. "She was just one here! and she's gone to her own fit
place above."
"Ay. It is so."
"You should have been in this house throughout the whole of the illness,
to have see the difference between them, sir! Nobody would believe it.
Miss Grame, angry and snappish, and not caring who suffered, or who was
ill, or who toiled, so that she was served: Miss Ethel, lying like a
tender lamb, patient and meek, thankful for all that was done for her.
It does seem hard, sir, that we should lose her for ever."
"Not for ever, Elizabeth," he answered.
"And that's true, too! But, sir, the worst is, one can't think of that
sort of consolation just when one's troubles are fresh. Good night to
you, sir."
"No, no," he murmured to himself; "not for ever."
CHAPTER XIV.
GONE ON BEFORE.
Thomas Godolphin walked on, leaving the high-road for a less-frequented
path, the one by which he had come. About midway between this and the
railway station, a path, branching to the right, would take him into
Prior's Ash. He went along, musing. In the depth of his great grief,
there was no repining. He was one to trace the finger of God in all
things. If Mrs. Godolphin had imbued him with superstitious feelings,
she had also implanted within him something better: and a more entire
trust in God it was perhaps impossible for any one to feel, than was
felt by Thomas Godolphin. It was what he lived under. He could not see
why Ethel should have been taken; why this great sorrow should fall upon
him: but that it must be for the best, he implicitly believed. The best:
for God had done it. How he was to live on without her, he knew not. How
he could support the lively anguish of the immediate future, he did not
care to think about. All his hope in this life gone! all his plans, his
projects, uprooted by a single blow! never, any of them, to return. He
might still look for the bliss of a hereafter--ay! that remains even for
the most heavy-laden, thank God!--but his sun of happiness in this world
had set for ever.
Thomas Godolphin might have been all the better for a little sun
then--not speaking figuratively. I mean the good sun that illumines our
daily world; that would be illumining my pen and paper at this moment,
but for an envious fog, which obscures everything but itself. The moon
was not shining as it had shone the last night he left Lady Sarah's,
when he had left his farewell kiss--oh that he could have known it was
the last!--on the gentle lips of Ethel. There was no moon yet; the stars
were not showing themselves, for a black cloud enveloped the skies like
a pall, fitting accompaniment to his blasted hopes; and his path
altogether was dark. Little wonder then, that Thomas Godolphin all but
fell over some dark object, crouching in his way: he could only save
himself by springing back. By dint of peering, he discovered it to be a
woman. She was seated on the bare earth; her hands clasped under her
knees, which were raised almost level with her chin which rested on
them, and was swaying herself backwards and forwards as one does in
grief; as Lady Sarah Grame had done not long before.
"Why do you sit here?" cried Thomas Godolphin. "I nearly fell over you."
"Little matter if ye'd fell over me and killed me," was the woman's
response, given without raising her head, or making any change in her
position. "'Twould only have been one less in an awful cold world, as
seems made for nothing but trouble. If the one half of us was out of it,
there'd be room perhaps for them as was left."
"Is it Mrs. Bond?" asked Thomas Godolphin, as he caught a glimpse of her
features.
"Didn't you know me, sir? I know'd you by the voice as soon as you
spoke. You have got trouble too, I hear. The world's full of nothing
else. Why does it come?"
"Get up," said Thomas Godolphin. "Why do you sit there? Why are you here
at all at this hour of the night?"
"It's where I'm going to stop till morning," returned the woman,
sullenly. "There shall be no getting up for me."
"What is the matter with you?" he resumed.
"Trouble," she shortly answered. "I've been toiling up to the work'us,
asking for a loaf, or a bit o' money: anything they'd give to me, just
to keep body and soul together for my children. They turned me back
again. They'll give me nothing. I may go into the union with the
children if I will, but not a stiver of help'll they afford me out of
it. Me, with a corpse in the house, and a bare cubbort."
"A corpse!" involuntarily repeated Thomas Godolphin. "Who is dead!"
"John."
Curtly as the word was spoken, the tone yet betrayed its own pain. This
John, the eldest son of the Bonds, had been attacked with the fever at
the same time as the father and brother. They had succumbed to it: this
one had recovered: or, at least, had appeared to be recovering.
"I thought John was getting better," observed Thomas Godolphin.
"He might ha' got better, if he'd had things to make him better! Wine
and meat, and all the rest of it. He hadn't got 'em; and he's dead."
Now a subscription had been entered into for the relief of the poor
sufferers from the fever, Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin having been
amongst its most liberal contributors; and to Thomas Godolphin's certain
knowledge, a full share, and a very good share, had been handed to the
Bonds. Quite sufficient to furnish proper nourishment for John Bond for
some time to come. He did not say to the woman, "You have had enough:
where has it gone to? it has been wasted in riot." That it had been
wasted in riot and improvidence, there was no doubt, for it was in the
nature of the Bonds so to waste it; but to cast reproach in the hour of
affliction was not the religion of everyday life practised by Thomas
Godolphin.
"Yes, they turned me back," she resumed, swaying herself nose and knees
together, as before. "They wouldn't give me as much as a bit o' bread. I
wasn't going home without taking something to my famished children; and
I wasn't going to beg like a common tramp. So I just sat myself down
here; and I shan't care if I'm found stark and stiff in the morning!"
"Get up, get up," said Thomas Godolphin. "I will give you something for
bread for your children to-night."
In the midst of his own sorrow he could feel for her, improvident old
sinner though she was, and though he knew her to be so. He coaxed and
soothed, and finally prevailed upon her to rise, but she was in a
reckless, sullen mood, and it took him a little effort before it was
effected. She burst into tears when she thanked him, and turned off in
the direction of the Pollard cottages.
The reflection of Mr. Snow's bald head was conspicuous on the surgery
blind: he was standing between the window and the lamp. Thomas Godolphin
observed it as he passed. He turned to the surgery door, which was at
the side of the house, opened it, and saw that Mr. Snow was alone.
The surgeon turned his head at the interruption, put down a glass jar
which he held, and grasped his visitor's hand in silence.
"Snow! why did you not write for me?"
Mr. Snow brought down his hand on a pair of tiny scales, causing them to
jangle and rattle. He had been bottling up his anger against Lady Sarah
for some days now, and this was his first explosion.
"Because I understood that she had done so. I was present when that poor
child asked her to do it. I found her on the floor in Sarah Anne's
chamber. On the floor, if you'll believe me! Lying there, because she
could not hold her aching head up. My lady had dragged her out of bed in
the morning, ill as she was, and forced her to attend as usual upon
Sarah Anne. I got it all out of Elizabeth. 'Mamma,' she said, when I
pronounced it to be fever, though she was almost beyond speaking then,
'you will write to Thomas Godolphin.' I never supposed but that my lady
did it. Your sister, Miss Godolphin, inquired if you had been written
for, and I told her yes."
"Snow," came the next sad words, "could you not have saved her?"
The surgeon shook his head and answered in a quiet tone, looking down at
the stopper of a phial, which he had taken up and was turning about
listlessly in his fingers.
"Neither care nor skill could save her. I gave her the best I had to
give. As did Dr. Beale. Godolphin,"--raising his quick dark eyes,
flashing then with a peculiar light--"she was ready to go. Let it be
your consolation."
Thomas Godolphin made no answer, and there was silence for a time. Mr.
Snow resumed. "As to my lady, the best consolation I wish her, is, that
she may have her heart wrung with remembrance for years to come! I don't
care what people may preach about charity and forgiveness; I do wish it.
But she'll be brought to her senses, unless I am mistaken: she has lost
her treasure and kept her bane. A year or two more, and that's what
Sarah Anne will be."
"She ought to have written for me."
"She ought to do many things that she does not do. She ought to have
sent Ethel from the house, as I told her, the instant the disorder
appeared in it. Not she. She kept her in her insane selfishness: and now
I hope she's satisfied with her work. When alarming symptoms showed
themselves in Ethel, on the fourth day of her illness, I think it was, I
said to my lady, 'It is strange what can be keeping Mr. Godolphin!'
'Oh,' said she, 'I did not write to him.' 'Not write!' I answered: and I
fear I used an ugly word to my lady's face. 'I'll write at once,'
returned she humbly. 'Of course,' cried I, 'when the steed's stolen we
shut the stable-door.' It's the way of the world."
Another pause. "I would have given anything to take Ethel from the house
at the time; to take her from the town," observed Thomas Godolphin in a
low tone. "I said so then. But it could not be."
"I should have done it, in your place," said Mr. Snow. "If my lady had
said no, I'd have carried her off in the face of it. Not married, you
say? Rubbish! Every one knows she'd have been safe with you. And you
would have been married as soon as was convenient. What are forms and
ceremonies and carping tongues, in comparison with a girl's life? A
life, precious as was Ethel's!"
Thomas Godolphin leaned his forehead in his hand, lost in retrospect.
Oh, that he _had_ taken her! that he had set at nought what he had then
bowed to, the _convenances_ of society! She might have been by his side
now, in health and life, to bless him! Doubting words interrupted the
train of thought.
"And yet I don't know," the surgeon was repeating, in a dreamy manner.
"What is to be, will be. We look back, all of us, and say, 'If I had
acted thus, if I had done the other, so and so would not have happened;
events would have turned out differently.' But who is to be sure of it?
Had you taken Ethel out of harm's way--as we might have thought
it--there's no telling but she'd have had the fever just the same: her
blood might have become infected before she left the house. There's no
knowing, Mr. Godolphin."
"True. Good evening, Snow."
He turned suddenly and hastily to the outer door, but the surgeon caught
him before he passed its threshold, and touched his arm to detain him.
They stood there in the obscurity, their faces shaded in the dark night.
"She left you a parting word, Mr. Godolphin."
"Ah?"
"An hour before she died she was calm and sensible, though fearfully
weak. Lady Sarah had gone to her favourite, and I was alone with Ethel.
'Has he not come yet?' she asked me, opening her eyes. 'My dear,' I
said, 'he could not come; he was never written for.' For I knew she
alluded to you, and was determined to tell her the truth, dying though
she was. 'What shall I say to him for you?' I continued. She put up her
hand to motion my face nearer hers, for her voice was growing faint.
'Tell him, with my dear love, not to grieve,' she whispered, between her
panting breath. 'Tell him that I have gone on before.' I think they were
almost the last words she spoke."
Thomas Godolphin leaned against the modest post of the surgery door, and
eagerly drank in the words. Then he wrung the doctor's hand, and
departed, hurrying along the street as one who shrank from observation:
for he did not care, just then, to encounter the gaze of his fellow-men.
Coming with a quick step up the side street, in which the entrance to
the surgery was situated, was the Reverend Mr. Hastings. He stopped to
accost the surgeon.
"Was that Mr. Godolphin?"
"Ay. This is a blow for him."
Mr. Hastings's voice insensibly shrank to a whisper. "Maria tells me
that he did not know of Ethel's death or illness. Until they arrived
here to-night, they thought it was Sarah Anne who died. He went up to
Lady Sarah's after the train came in, thinking so."
"Lady Sarah's a fool," was the complimentary rejoinder of Mr. Snow.
"She is, in some things," warmly assented the Rector. "The telegraphic
message she despatched to Scotland, telling of the death, was so
obscurely worded as to cause them to assume that it alluded to Sarah
Anne."
"Ah well! she's only heaping burdens on her conscience," rejoined Mr.
Snow in a philosophic tone. "She has lost Ethel through want of care (as
I firmly believe) in not keeping her out of the way of infection; she
prevented their last meeting, through not writing to him; she----"
"He could not have saved her, had he been here," interrupted Mr.
Hastings.
"No one said he could. There would have been satisfaction in it for him,
though. And for her too, poor child."
Mr. Hastings did not contest the point. He was so very practical a man
(in contradistinction to an imaginative one) that he saw little use in
"last" interviews, unless they produced actual good. Turning away, he
walked home at a brisk pace. Maria was alone when he entered. Mrs.
Hastings and Grace were out of the room, talking to some late applicant:
a clergyman's house, like a parish apothecary's, is never free long
together. Divested of her travelling cloaks and seated before the fire
in her quiet merino dress, Maria looked as much at home as if she had
never left it. The blaze, flickering on her face, betrayed to the keen
glance of the Rector that her eyelashes were wet.
"Grieving after Broomhead already, Maria?" asked he, his tone a stern
one.
"Oh, papa, no! I am glad to be at home. I was thinking of poor Ethel."
"She is better off. The time may come, Maria--we none of us know what is
before us--when some of you young ones who are left may wish you had
died as she has. Many a one, battling for very existence with the
world's cares, wails out a vain wish that he had been taken early from
the evil to come."
"It must be so dreadful for Thomas Godolphin!" Maria resumed, looking
straight into the fire, and speaking as if in commune with herself, more
than to her father.
"Thomas Godolphin must find another love."
It was one of those phrases, spoken in satire only, to which the Rector
of All Souls' was occasionally given. He saw so much to condemn in the
world, things which grated harshly on his advanced mind, that his speech
had become imbued with a touch of gall, and he would often give
utterance to cynical remarks, uncalled for at the moment.
Maria took up the words literally. She turned to Mr. Hastings; her cheek
flushed, her hands clasped; altogether betraying vivid emotion. "Oh,
papa! another love! You should not say it of Thomas Godolphin. Love,
such as his, is not for a week or a year: it is for all time."
The Rector paused a moment in his reply. His penetrating gaze was fixed
upon his daughter. "May I inquire whence you have derived your knowledge
of 'love,' Miss Maria Hastings?"
Her eyes drooped, her face turned crimson, her manner grew confused. She
turned her countenance from that of her father, and stammered forth some
lame excuse. "Every one knows, papa, that Thomas Godolphin was fond of
Ethel."
"Possibly. But every one does not know that Maria Hastings deems herself
qualified to enlarge upon the subject," was the Rector's reply. And
Maria shrank into silence.
There came a day, not many days afterwards, when Maria Hastings, her
sisters, and two of her brothers, were gathered in sombre silence around
the study window of the Rectory. The room was built out at the back of
the house, over the kitchen, and its side window commanded a full view
of the churchyard of All Souls', and of the church porch. Grace, who
constituted herself mistress of the others a great deal more than did
Mrs. Hastings herself, allowed the blind to be drawn up about two inches
at the bottom of the window; and Maria, Isaac, Harry, and Rose, kneeling
down for convenience sake, brought their faces into contact with it, as
the mob outside the churchyard gate did there. Human nature is the same
everywhere, whether in the carefully-trained children of a Christian
gentleman, or in those who know no training but what the streets have
given.
The funeral, even now, was inside the church: it had been inside so long
that those eager watchers, estimating time by their impatience, began to
think it was never coming out again. A sudden movement in the church
porch reassured them, and Grace knelt down and made one with the rest.
Slowly--slowly--on it came. The Reverend Mr. Hastings first, in his
white robes; the coffin next; Thomas Godolphin last, with a stranger by
his side. Nothing more, except some pall-bearers in their white scarfs,
and the necessary attendants. It was a perfectly simple funeral:
according well with what the dead had been in her simple life.
The appearance of this stranger took the curious gazers by surprise. Who
was he? A spare man, past middle age, with a red nose and an
unmistakable wig on his head. Rumours circulating in Prior's Ash had
said that Thomas Godolphin would be sole mourner. Lady Sarah Grame's
relatives--and she could not boast of many--lived far north of Aberdeen.
"Who can he be?" murmured Grace Hastings.
"Why, don't you girls know? That's through your having stuck yourselves
in the house all the morning, for fear you should lose the funeral. If
you had gone out, you'd have heard who he is." The retort came from
Harry Hastings. Let it be a funeral or a wedding, that may be taking
place under their very eyes, boys must be boys all the world over. And
so they ever will be.
"Who is he, then?" asked Grace.
"He is Ethel's uncle," answered Harry. "He arrived by train this
morning. The Earl of Macsomething."
"The Earl of Macsomething!" repeated Grace.
Harry nodded. "Mac begins the name, and I forget the rest. Lady Sarah
was his sister."
"Is, you mean," said Grace. "It must be Lord Macdoune."
The church porch was opposite the study window. The grave had been dug
in a line between the two, very near to the family vault of the
Godolphins and to the entrance gate of the churchyard. On it came,
crossing the broad churchyard path which wound round to the road,
treading between mounds and graves. The clergyman took his place at the
head, the mourners near him, the rest disposing themselves decently
around.
"Grace," whispered Isaac, "if we had the window open an inch, we should
hear." And Grace was pleased to accord her sanction, and they silently
raised it.
"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full
of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it
were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay."
The children--indeed they were little more--hushed their breath and
listened, and looked at Thomas Godolphin. Thomas Godolphin stood there,
his head bowed, his face still, the gentle wind stirring his thin dark
hair. It was probably a marvel to himself in after-life, how he had
contrived, in that closing hour, to retain his calmness before the
world.
"The coffin's lowered at last!" broke out Harry, who had been more
curious to watch the movements of the men, than the aspect of Thomas
Godolphin.
"Hush, sir!" sharply rebuked Grace. And the minister's voice again stole
over the silence.
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take
unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore
commit her body to the ground; earth to earth ... ashes to ashes ...
dust to dust ... in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal
life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body,
that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty
working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."
Every word came home to Thomas Godolphin's senses; every syllable
vibrated upon his heartstrings. That sure and certain hope laid hold of
his soul, never again to quit it. It diffused its own holy peace and
calm into his troubled mind: and never, until that moment, had he fully
realized the worth, the truth, of her dying legacy: "Tell him that I
have gone on before." A few years--God, now present with him, alone knew
how few or how many--and Thomas Godolphin would have joined her in
eternal life.
But why had Mr. Hastings come to a temporary pause? Because his eye had
fallen upon one, then gliding up from the entrance of the churchyard to
take his place amidst the mourners. One who had evidently arrived in a
hurry. He wore neither scarf nor hatband, neither cloak nor hood:
nothing but a full suit of plain black clothes.
"Look, Maria," whispered Grace.
It was George Godolphin. He fell quietly in below his brother, his hat
carried in his hand, his head bowed, his fair curls waving in the
breeze. It was all the work of an instant: and the minister resumed:
"I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth
blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit;
for they rest from their labours."
And so went on the service to the end.
The beadle, with much bustle and a liberal use of his staff, scattered
and dispersed the mob from the gates, to clear a passage. Two mourning
coaches were in waiting. Thomas Godolphin came forth, leaning on his
brother's arm, both of them bare-headed still. They entered one; Lord
Macdoune stepped into the other.
"Thomas!" cried George Godolphin, leaning forward and seizing his
brother's hand impulsively, as the mourning-coach paced slowly on: "I
should have been here in good time, but for a delay in the train."
"How did you hear of it? I did not know where to write to you," was
Thomas's reply, spoken calmly.
"I heard of it at Broomhead. I went back there, and then I came off at
once. Thomas, could they not save her?"
A slight negative movement was all Thomas Godolphin's answer. "How did
you find your father, George?"
"Breaking. Breaking fast. Thomas, all his talk is, that he must come
home to die."
"To Ashlydyat. I know. How is he to come to it? The Folly is not
Ashlydyat. He has desired me to see that he is at Prior's Ash before
Christmas, and I shall do so."
George looked surprised. "Desired you to see that he is?"
"If he is not back speedily, I am to go to Broomhead."
"Oh, I see. That your authority, upholding his, may be pitted against my
lady's. Take care, Thomas: she may prove stronger than both of you put
together."
"I think not," replied Thomas quietly; and he placed his elbow on the
window frame, and bent his face upon his hand, as if wishing for
silence.
Meanwhile the Reverend Mr. Hastings had passed through the private gate
to his own garden; and half a dozen men were shovelling earth upon the
coffin, sending it with a rattle upon the bright plate, which told who
was mouldering within:
"ETHEL GRAME. Aged twenty years."
CHAPTER XV.
A MIDNIGHT WALK.
Thomas Godolphin sat in his place at the bank, opening the morning
letters. It was some little time after the interment of Ethel Grame, and
the second week in December was already on the wane. In two days more it
was his intention to start for Broomhead: for no tidings arrived of the
return of Sir George. The very last of the letters he came upon, was one
bearing the Scotch post-mark. A poor little note with a scrawled
address: no wonder the sorting-clerk had placed it last of all! It
looked singularly obscure, in comparison with those large blue letters
and their business hands.
Thomas Godolphin knew the writing. It was Margery's. And we may as well
read the contents with him, _verbatim_:
"MR. THOMAS SIR,
"I imbrace this favurible oportunaty of adresing you for I
considur it my duty to take up my pen and inform you about my
master, _He's not long for this world_, Mr. Thomas I know it by
good tokens which I don't write not being an easy writer but
they are none the less true, The master's fretting his life away
because he is not at home and she is keeping him because she's
timorus of the fever. But you saw how it was sir when you were
here and it's the same story still. There'd have been a fight
for it with my lady but if I'd been you Mr. Thomas I'd have took
him also when me and the young ladies went with you to Prior's
Ash. When I got back here, sir I saw an awful change in him and
Mr. George he saw it but my lady didn't. I pen these lines sir
to say you had better come off at once and not wait for it to be
nearer Christmas, The poor master is always saying _Thomas is
coming for me, Thomas is coming for me_ but I'd not answer for
it now that he will ever get back alive, Sir it was the worst
day's work he ever did to go away at all from Ashlydyat if my
lady was dying to live at the new Folly place she might have
gone to it but not him, When we do a foolish wrong thing we
don't think of the consekences at the time at least not much of
em but we think all the more after and fret our hearts out with
blame and it have been slowly killing him ever since, I am vexed
to disturb you Mr. Thomas with this epistle for I know you must
be in enough grief of your own just now.
"Your humble servant,
"MARGERY."
Thomas Godolphin read it over twice, and then crossed to the opposite
side of the private room, where sat a gentleman at another desk. A tall,
portly man, with a fresh colour, large, keen dark eyes, and hair white
as snow. It was Mr. Crosse.
"Anything particular, Thomas?" he asked, as Thomas Godolphin put the
letter into his hand.
"Not in business. Read it, will you?"
Mr. Crosse read the letter through. "Is it my advice you wish for?"
asked he, when he came to the last word.
"Not exactly," replied Thomas Godolphin. "I have made up my mind, I
believe."
"To go immediately?"
"Yes. Within an hour."
"Right. It is what I should have recommended you to do, had you been
undecided. When it comes to letter-writing with Margery, the thing is
serious, rely upon it."
And within the hour Thomas Godolphin had started.
The railway station nearest to Broomhead, was three miles distant from
it, by the road: but there was a shorter cut across some fields--bearing
past the house of that Mr. Sandy Bray, if you are curious to know--which
reduced it to less than two. It was one of those rural stations so
little frequented that travellers are tempted to ask why they were built
at all. Such a thing as a fly, or an omnibus, had never yet been seen at
it, at midday: you may therefore judge what chance Thomas Godolphin had
of either, getting there, as he did, at midnight. He was the only
passenger to alight, and the train went puffing on. The man, who lived
in the one-roomed cottage close by, and was called the station-master,
appeared to be the only official to receive him. A man who had been
drafted thither from one of the English lines.
"For Broomhead, sir?" he questioned, recognizing the traveller.
"Yes. Do you happen to know how Sir George Godolphin is?"
"He looks rare and poorly, sir. He was past here in his carriage to-day.
Huddled up in a corner of it, as if he was cold; or else hadn't the
strength to sit up. Her ladyship was inside with him."
"There's no porter about, I suppose?"
"He has been gone this two hours, sir. I'd offer to carry your luggage
myself, but I shall have the up-express by in half an hour. I shut up
for the night then."
"I would not trouble you for so trifling a matter, at this hour, were
you at liberty," replied Thomas Godolphin.
He took up his portmanteau himself: a thing not much larger than what
the French would call a petit sac-de-nuit, containing little besides a
clean shirt and his shaving-tackle: and started, bending his steps not
along the road, but across it to the stile.
"I wouldn't take the field way to-night, sir, if I were you," said the
man from the station door. "The road is safest."
"Why is it?" asked Thomas Godolphin.
"There's a nasty bit by the field way, a quarter of a mile before you
come to Bray's. Anybody, not knowing it well, might take the wrong
turning, and go, head first, into the dam."
"But I do know it well," said Thomas Godolphin. "And the night is light
enough to distinguish the turnings."
The station-master looked up at the skies--figuratively speaking, for he
could see nothing but fog. A light, hazy mist; not a dark one; which
seemed likely to turn to rain. He said no more, except a "Good night,
sir:" and Thomas Godolphin walked on, hesitating for a moment between
the two roads, and then turning decisively to that of the fields, as if
some hidden impulse impelled him. Perhaps it did so.
It was not a pleasant night, a pleasant time, or a pleasant way; and
Thomas Godolphin began to think he should have done well to have
telegraphed his intended journey from Prior's Ash to Broomhead, that
they might have sent a conveyance to await him at the station. Regrets
were of no use now, and he trudged along, taking two steps forward, and
one backward, for the ground in places was wet and slippery. It was a
peculiar night. There was no moon; there were no stars; no skies in fact
to be seen at all, as you have heard; and yet the night was light.
What were Thomas Godolphin's thoughts bent upon? Need you ask? For some
time to come, days and weeks and months, they must run chiefly upon her
who had left him. He remembered his last arrival at Broomhead: he
remembered his thoughts as he had walked from the station as he was
doing now; though then it had been by daylight. His musings had been of
Ethel, and his coming marriage; of that farewell kiss which she had
pressed upon his lips. Now--now he must only think of her as one of
Heaven's angels.
He lifted his hat to wipe his brow, and then changed his load to the
other hand. He was coming to the dam now. He could hear its waters. Go
carefully, Thomas Godolphin! A few steps down that dark turning, and you
might never be heard of more. But he knew his way, and the night was
light, and he bore on his course, and the dangerous turn was passed.
A little way farther on, and he could discern the outline of Bray's
cottage in the distance. A light burnt in one of the windows, and he
wondered who was ill. Probably Margery's sister. It diverted his own sad
reflections. Next he became absorbed in thoughts of his father. How
should he find him? Ideas, we all know, assume the colouring of
surrounding associations, and Thomas Godolphin, in that solitary
midnight hour, grew to take a more sombre view of the news contained in
Margery's letter than he had hitherto done. It is wonderful how
circumstances affect us! In the broad light of day, walking, for
instance, as he had done previously to Broomhead, apprehensions would
not have come over him. Now he pictured his father (by no will of his
own: the scenes rose up unbidden) as lying ill; perhaps dying. Perhaps
even then a telegraphic message to him might be on its road to Prior's
Ash! Perhaps----
A cry right over his head! And Thomas Godolphin positively started. It
proceeded from some night-bird that had dived down upon him, and now
flew onwards, flapping its wings. Superstitious Margery would have
called it an omen.
Thomas Godolphin followed it with his eyes, speculating upon what bird
it could be. It looked like a sea-gull; had screamed like one; but the
sea was far off, and, if it was one, it must have come a long distance.
Back it came again, and dived down as before. Thomas Godolphin did not
like it, and he wished the portmanteau in his hand had been a gun. "I
wonder what good these restless night-birds do," he ejaculated, "except
to disturb from sleep any worn-out mortal who may be within hearing?"
Scenes of the recent past rose up before him: the sombre scenes in which
he had been an actor. The ominous Shadow of Ashlydyat, striking on his
sight as he turned the ash-trees, the night of his previous summons to
Broomhead: the dead face of Ethel lying on her bed; the reminiscence of
the funeral scene; of his walking away from it with the dull sound of
the earth falling on her coffin smiting his ears! None of them pleasant
things to recall at that particular hour. Why should they have come to
him?
"What business had they there at such a time?"
Drive them away he could not. But neither did he try to do so. They
served to make doubly sad, doubly ominous, his new fears for his father.
He knew how precarious was Sir George's life. What if he were then
dying! Nay, what if it were the very moment of his departure?--if he
were dead? having called upon his children; upon him, Thomas, in vain?
That odious bird once more! It flew over his head with a shriller cry
than the last. Thomas Godolphin was at that moment within a few paces of
a stile which lay in his path. He turned his head round to look after
the bird, without slackening his pace, putting out his hand before him
to feel for the stile. The hand came into contact with it, and Thomas
let it rest momentarily. His head was turned, still watching the bird,
which was then flying round and round, making fierce circlets in the
air.
But he could not stop there all night, staring at the bird, and he
turned sharply round to cross the stile. Placing one foot on its lower
rail, he----
What made Thomas Godolphin start as if he had been shot? Who and what
was that standing on the other side of the stile fixedly gazing at him?
A tall, shadowy, upright form, bearing the unmistakable features of Sir
George Godolphin.
Will you--strong, practical, unimaginative men of the world--forgive
Thomas Godolphin if in that one brief moment the wild superstitions,
instilled into his mind in childhood, were allowed their play? Forgive
him, or not, it was the fact. In imagination, only the instant before,
he had seen his father lying upon his bed, the soul parting from the
body: and Thomas Godolphin as much believed what he now saw before him
was his father's spirit, as that he, himself, was in existence. The
spirit, appearing to him at the moment of its departure. His flesh
turned cold, and dew gathered on his brow.
"My son, can it be you?"
Thomas Godolphin came out of his folly, and grasped his father. That it
was real flesh and blood which yielded to his arms, he knew now: but
perhaps the _surprise_ that it should be so, was even greater than the
other emotion. Sir George Godolphin there! at that midnight hour! nearly
a mile from home! and bareheaded! Was it really Sir George? Thomas
Godolphin rubbed his eyes, and thought he, himself, must have taken
leave of his senses.
"My father! my dear father! what are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd go to the station, Thomas, and see about a special train.
I must go back to Ashlydyat to die."
Thomas climbed over the stile. The tone, the manner, the words,
altogether had betrayed to him an unhappy fact--that his father's mind
was not in a state of perfect sanity. He trembled for his health, too.
It was a cold raw night, and here was Sir George in evening dress,
without so much as an overcoat thrown on! He, who had only been out
since the last fainting-fit in a close carriage: and then well wrapped
up.
"Where is your hat, father?"
The old knight lifted his hand to his head, as if he had not known that
his hat was not there. "I must have come out without it, Thomas," he
said. "What was that noise over there?" he continued, pointing above the
stile to the way Thomas had come, his frame shivering with cold as he
spoke.
"I think it was a sea-gull. Or some screaming night-bird."
"I could not get over the stile, Thomas. The walk seemed to have taken
the strength out of me. How did you come here? I thought you were at
Prior's Ash."
Thomas Godolphin was busy. He had taken off his great coat, and was
putting it upon his father, buttoning it up carefully. A smaller man
than Sir George, it did not fit well: but Sir George had shrunk. The hat
fitted better.
"But you have no hat yourself!" said Sir George, surveying his son's
head, when he had submitted in patient silence to the dressing.
"I don't want one," replied Thomas. "The night air will not hurt me."
Nevertheless, all the way to Broomhead, he was looking on either side,
if perchance he might come upon Sir George's hat, lying in the road.
Thomas drew his father close, to support him on his arm, and they
commenced their walk to the house. Not until then did Thomas know how
very weak his father was. Stooping, shivering, tripping, with every
other step, it appeared impossible that he could walk back again: the
wonder was, how he had walked there.
Thomas Godolphin halted in dismay. How was he to get his father home?
Carry him, he could not: it was of course beyond his strength. The light
in Bray's window suggested a thought to him.
"Father, I think you had better go to Bray's and stay there, while I see
about your hand-chair. You are not able to walk."
"I won't go to Bray's," returned the knight, with a touch of vehemence.
"I don't like Bray, and I will not put my foot inside his threshold.
Besides, it's late, and my lady will miss us."
He pressed on somewhat better towards home, and Thomas Godolphin saw
nothing else that could be done, except to press on with him, and give
him all the help in his power. "My dear father, you should have waited
until the morning," he said, "and have gone out then."
"But I wanted to see about a train, Thomas," remonstrated the knight.
"And I can't do it in the day. She will not let me. When we drive past
the railway station, she won't get out, and won't let me do so. Thomas,
I want to go back to Ashlydyat."
"I have come to take you back, my dear father."
"Ay, ay. And mind you are firm when she says I must not go because of
the fever. The fever will not hurt me, Thomas. I can't be firm. I have
grown feeble, and people take my will from me. You are my first-born
son, Thomas."
"Yes."
"Then you must be firm for me, I say."
"I will be, father."
"This is a rough road, Thomas."
"No, it is smooth; and I am glad that it is so. But you are tired."
The old knight bent his head, as if choosing his steps. Presently he
lifted his head:
"Thomas, when do they leave Ashlydyat?"
"Who, sir? The Verralls? They have not had notice yet."
Sir George stopped. He drew up his head to its full height, and turned
to his son. "Not had notice? When, then, do I go back? I won't go to
Lady Godolphin's Folly. I must go to Ashlydyat."
"Yes, sir," said Thomas soothingly. "I will see about it."
The knight, satisfied, resumed his walk. "Of course you will see about
it. You are my son and heir, Thomas. I depend upon you."
They pursued their way for some little time in silence, and then Sir
George spoke again, his tone hushed. "Thomas, I have put on mourning for
her. I mourn her as much as you do. And you did not get there in time to
see her alive!"
"Not in time. No," replied Thomas, looking hard into the mist overhead.
"I'd have come to the funeral, Thomas, if she had let me. But she was
afraid of the fever. George got there in time for it?"
"Barely."
"When he came back to Broomhead, and heard of it, he was so cut up, poor
fellow. Cut up for your sake, Thomas. He said he should be in time to
follow her to the grave if he started at once, and he went off then and
there. Thomas"--dropping his voice still lower--"whom shall you take to
Ashlydyat now?"
"My sisters."
"Nay. But as your wife? You will be replacing Ethel sometime."
"I shall never marry now, father."
At length Broomhead was reached. Thomas held open the gate of the
shrubbery to his father, and guided him through it.
"Shall we have two engines, Thomas?"
"Two engines, sir! What for?"
"They'd take us quicker, you know. This is not the station!" broke forth
Sir George in a sharp tone of complaint, as they emerged beyond the
shrubbery, and the house stood facing them. "Oh, Thomas! you said you
were taking me to Ashlydyat! I cannot die away from it!"
Thomas Godolphin stood almost confounded. His father's discourse, the
greater part of it, at any rate, had been so rational that he had begun
to hope he was mistaken as to his weakness of mind. "My dear father, be
at rest," he said: "we will start if you like with to-morrow's dawn. But
to go now to the station would not forward us: it is by this time closed
for the night."
They found the house in a state of commotion. Sir George had been
missed, and servants were out searching for him. Lady Godolphin gazed at
Thomas with all the eyes she possessed, thunderstruck at his appearance.
"What miracle brought you here?" she exclaimed, wonderingly.
"No miracle, Lady Godolphin. I am thankful that I happened to come. What
might have become of Sir George without me, I know not. I expect he
would have remained at the stile where I found him until morning; and
might have caught his death there."
"He will catch that speedily enough if he is to wander out of the house
at midnight in this mad manner," peevishly rejoined my lady.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE LAST JOURNEY.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Godolphin. That is not the question."
"Not the question!" reiterated Lady Godolphin. "I say that it is the
question. The question is, whether Sir George is better and safer here
than he would be at Prior's Ash. And of course he is so."
"I think not," replied Thomas Godolphin quietly. "He would be equally
well at Prior's Ash: equally safe, as I believe and trust. And the
anxiety to be there, which has taken hold of his mind, has grown too
strong to be repressed. To detain him here, against his wish, would make
him ill, Lady Godolphin. Not returning home."
"Prior's Ash is an unhealthy place just now."
"Its unhealthiness has passed away. The last to be attacked was--was
Ethel. And you are aware that time, since then, may be counted by
weeks."
"Sir George is partially childish," pursued Lady Godolphin. "You may see
for yourself that he is so. It would be most unreasonable, it would be
ridiculous to take notice of his whims. Look at his starting out of the
house to-night, with nothing on, and roaming a mile or two away in the
dark! Is that a proof of sanity?"
"It is a proof how fixedly his mind is bent upon returning home,"
replied Thomas Godolphin. "He was endeavouring, as I have already
informed you, Lady Godolphin, to make his way to the station."
"I shall have him watched in future," said she.
"Lady Godolphin," he resumed, speaking in the calmly quiet tone which
characterized him, unmistakably firm now, in spite of its courteousness:
"I am here by the desire of my father to accompany him back to Prior's
Ash. I may almost say, to convey him back: for I fear he can no longer
boast much power of his own, in any way. The last words I said to him,
before entering, were, that he should start, if it pleased him, with
to-morrow's dawn. I must keep my promise."
"Do you defy me, Thomas Godolphin?"
"I have no wish to do so. I have no wish to abate a particle of the
respect and consideration due to you as my father's wife. At the same
time, my duty to him is paramount: I hold it more sacred, Lady
Godolphin, than any earthly thing. He has charged me, by my duty, to
take him back to Ashlyd--to Prior's Ash: and I shall do so."
"You would take him back, I suppose, if Prior's Ash were full of snakes
and scorpions?" returned my lady, somewhat losing her temper.
"It is full of neither. Nothing is there, so far as I am aware, that can
harm Sir George. Can you urge a single good reason why he should not
return to it, Lady Godolphin!"
The delicate bloom on my lady's cheeks was surely heightened--or did
Thomas Godolphin fancy it? "But, what if I say he shall _not_ return?"
she asked, her voice slightly raised.
"I think you will not say it, Lady Godolphin," he replied. "It is Sir
George's wish to go to Prior's Ash, and it is my province to see that
wish carried out--as he has requested me. Much as I desire to respect
your feelings and any plans you may have formed, they cannot weigh with
me in this case. There is no necessity whatever for your returning home,
Lady Godolphin, unless you choose to do so: but Sir George will leave
for it to-morrow."
"And you boast that you do not defy me!" cried Lady Godolphin, with a
short laugh. "I would use force to keep him in this house, rather than
he should go out of it against my will."
"Force?" repeated Thomas Godolphin, looking at her for an explanation.
"What sort of force?"
"Physical force," she answered, assuming a degree of fair suavity. "I
would command the servants to bar his exit."
A faint smile crossed Thomas Godolphin's lips. "Do not attempt that,
Lady Godolphin," he replied in the respectful manner of one who tenders
earnest advice. "I should be sorry indeed to publicly oppose my
authority to yours. You know the servants have, most of them, grown old
in our service: and that may plead their excuse: but there is not one of
them who would not be obedient to the lifting of my finger, in the cause
of their master."
Lady Godolphin was foiled. Lady Godolphin had long been aware that she
should be foiled, if it ever came to an encounter--strength against
strength--between herself and Thomas Godolphin. Easy George she could
manage, the Miss Godolphins she could put down, Sir George was, now, as
a reed in her hands. But Thomas?--he was different. None of them had
been so uniformly respectful and courteous to her as Thomas. And yet she
had known that he, of all the rest, would not bend to her authority,
were any cause to arise why he should not do so.
She sat biting--as far as she dared--her rose-tinted lips; she lifted
one hand and toyed with her perfumed ringlets; she opened a fan which
lay at her side, and gently fanned herself; she glanced at the still
countenance of Thomas Godolphin: and she knew that she must give up the
game. To give it up with a good grace was essential to her future
ruling: and she was now making up her mind to do this. It would never
do, either, for her to stand in the hall on the morrow, call the
servants around her, and say, "It is my pleasure that Sir George does
not leave this place for Prior's Ash. Keep him in; hold him in; lock the
door; use any necessary means," while Thomas Godolphin was at hand, to
lift--as he had phrased it--his finger, and say, "It is my pleasure that
my father does go to Prior's Ash. Stand back while he passes." Lady
Godolphin was no simpleton, and she could hazard a shrewd guess as to
which of the two would be obeyed. So she sat, bringing her mind to make
a virtue of necessity, and throw up the plea. In point of fact, she had
no cause of objection to Sir George's returning to Prior's Ash, except
that she did not care to return to it herself. For two reasons: one,
that she liked Broomhead best: the other, that she could not yet subdue
her fears of the fever. She bent her head, as if examining the chaste
devices on her fan, and spoke indifferently.
"You must be aware that my wish to keep Sir George here arises solely
from the state of Prior's Ash. It always has been our custom to spend
Christmas there, amongst you all, and I should have had no other thought
for this Christmas, but for the illness which arose. Will you guarantee
that it is safe for him?"
"Nay, Lady Godolphin. To 'guarantee' an assurance of the sort would be
impossible at the best of times. I believe that any fears you may
entertain now of the fever will prove only a bugbear."
"The fever has been more than a bugbear to you," she exclaimed, acidity
in her tone.
"Yes," he sadly answered.
He drew his chair from the table, where he had been taking some
refreshment after his journey, and at that moment the hall clock struck
two.
"I am keeping you up very late, Lady Godolphin."
"It is a pleasant change," she answered. "The life here, with Sir George
in his delicate state, is so excessively monotonous, that a few nights
of sitting up and days of bed, might prove an agreeable variety. Did I
understand you rightly--that you intend to start in the morning?"
"If Sir George shall then wish to do so as anxiously as he appeared to
wish it to-night. Otherwise, I shall not object to delay it until the
following one. I cannot remain longer: business demands my presence at
home. And," he added, lowering his voice, "I fear that speed is
necessary for my father's sake. If he does not go pretty soon, he may
not be able to go at all. It is more than likely that we shall start
to-morrow."
"You cannot expect me to be ready in that space of time."
"Certainly not. Just as you please, Lady Godolphin."
Thomas Godolphin was shown to his room. Margery waylaid him in the
corridor and entered it with him. "Did you get my epistle, Mr. Thomas?"
"It was that which brought me here now, Margery. Otherwise, I should not
have come until the end of the week."
"Then you would have come too late, sir. Yes, Mr. Thomas, I mean what I
say," added the woman, dropping her voice to solemnity. "By dreams and
signs and tokens, which I have had----"
"Stay, Margery. You know that I am never very tolerant of your dreams
and signs. Let them rest."
"It's true you are not," answered Margery, without the least appearance
of discomfiture; "and many's the argument I would have liked to hold
with you over it. But you'd never let me. When you were a young man,
you'd laugh and joke it down--just as Mr. George might now, were I so
foolish as to waste words upon _him_--and since you grew older and
steadier you have just put me off as you are doing at this moment. Mr.
Thomas, gifts are different in different people. They are not sent upon
all alike: and the Scripture says so. One will see what another can't.
One will play beautiful music, while another can't tell one tune from
another. One man has a head for steam-engines and telegraphs, and will
put 'em together as if he had a workshop inside him; and another, his
own cousin maybe, can hardly tell an engine when he sees it, and
couldn't work one out if he lived to be a hundred years old. And so with
other things."
"Well?" responded Thomas Godolphin: for Margery paused, as if waiting
for an answer.
"And do you suppose, Mr. Thomas, that it's not the same with signs and
warnings? It is not given to all to see or understand them. It is not
given, as I take it, for many to see or understand them. But it _is_
given to a few. And those few can no more be talked out of knowing that
it's truth, than they can be talked out of their own life, or of the
skies above 'em. And, Mr. Thomas, it's not only that those who have not
the gift can't see or believe for themselves, but they can't be brought
to believe that others may do so: and so they laugh at and ridicule it.
Many a time, sir, you have laughed at me."
"You see so many, you know, Margery," said Thomas Godolphin, with a
slight smile.
Margery looked at him. "Sometimes I have thought, sir, that you are not
quite as unbelieving as you seem. But I know it does not do for a
gentleman, high and educated and looked up to in his town, to say he
puts faith in such. So I'll not trouble you, Mr. Thomas, with the tokens
I have had. I'll not tell you that only last night that ever was, I
heard the footsteps of----"
"But you are telling me, Margery."
"That's just how you take me up, Mr. Thomas! Well, sir, I say I'll not
bring forward these things, but I'll speak of what you may think a surer
sign--and that's Sir George's state of health."
"Ay! I can follow you there."
He let her talk on. And she did so, until he was obliged to give her a
gentle hint that he should be glad to be alone and get to bed.
The house was awakened before it was yet dawn. Sir George had rung for
his servant, had rung for Margery, had rung for the coachman to say the
carriage was wanted--in short, had rung for so many, that the whole
household was aroused. My lady appeared, in fur slippers and a warm
dressing-gown, to know what the commotion could mean. His son Thomas was
there, the knight answered. He was sure he had not dreamt it, but that
Thomas _had_ come the previous night; he met him at the stile; and
Thomas had promised that they should go to Ashlydyat in the early
morning.
It appeared he was sane enough to remember that. My lady retired,
grumbling; and Margery went and called Thomas.
When Thomas reached the room, Sir George was almost in the last stage of
dressing. His own trembling, eager fingers had done as much towards it
as his servant. He lifted his face with its ashy hue and its strange
yearning. "Thomas, my son, I must hasten back to Ashlydyat. You said I
should go there to die."
"Do you wish to start immediately, father?"
"You said I should do so!" he wailed in a tone imploringly earnest. "You
said I should start with this morning's dawn."
"Yes, yes," acquiesced Thomas. And he forthwith busied himself to
advance the preparations.
The best hour that they could leave the station was a little before
nine. No train, except one much earlier, stopped at it before. This gave
time to get off comfortably: though Sir George, in his impatience, could
with difficulty be induced to sit down to breakfast. My lady came in
when they were at the table.
"This is really the most extraordinary proceeding!" she exclaimed,
speaking chiefly to Thomas Godolphin. "Were such a thing related to me
as taking place in another house I should decline to give credence to
it. Are the hours of the day so few that you must choose the gloom of a
winter's morning for commencing a journey?"
Thomas glanced at Sir George, as if to draw her attention to him. "My
father's anxiety will not allow him to wait, Lady Godolphin. I think it
well that we should catch the first train."
"I wash my hands of the journey altogether," said Lady Godolphin. "If
Sir George does not reach the other end of it alive, you will have the
goodness to remember that _I_ am not to blame. Far better that he were
safely kept in his room wrapped up in his dressing-gown in front of a
good fire."
"In that case, my lady, I would not answer for it that he reached the
end of the day alive," interposed Margery, who was in and out of the
room busier than any of them. "Whether Sir George stays, or whether he
goes, he'll not last many days," she added in a lower tone, so that it
might not reach her master's ear.
"If I must have gone, I would have started at a Christian hour, Sir
George," resumed his wife. "Getting us all out of bed as if we were so
many milkmaids?"
Sir George looked round, timidity in his voice and manner. Did he fear
that she would detain him even now? "You can come on afterwards, you
know, Lady Godolphin; we need not hurry you. Oh, I must, I must be at
Ashlydyat!"
Thomas Godolphin came to the rescue. "We shall be in the carriage in
five minutes, my dear father, if you will only take your breakfast."
And in a little more than five minutes they were seated in it, on their
way to the station, Sir George's own man and Margery attending them.
Margery would have deemed it just as possible to cut herself in twain,
as to be separated from her master in his present state.
They did not get him that night to Prior's Ash. Thomas feared the long
journey for him without a break, so they halted for the night about
midway. Singularly to state, Sir George did not utter an impatient word
at the delay: from the moment of leaving Broomhead he had become
perfectly calm. Whether the fact of his being indisputably on the road
had soothed his mind to tranquillity, or whether the strangely eager
desire to be home had now left it, certain it was, that he had never
mentioned Ashlydyat throughout the day. Of one thing there could be no
doubt--that he was fast sinking. Sinking both in mind and body. Margery
grew terrified. "Pray Heaven we may get him home!" she aspirated. "Mr.
Thomas, as sure as that we are here, he would have been dead before
this, had he stopped at Broomhead!"
In the twilight of the second evening, Sir George was at length once
more at Prior's Ash. Thomas had telegraphed their arrival, and Janet was
at the station with the carriage. But, with the first few words, Janet
perceived that he was perfectly childish. Not only childish, but
alarmingly changed. Janet grew pale as she turned to Margery.
"Since when?" she murmured.
"Since many days, off and on; but worse since we left Broomhead
yesterday morning. He has been sinking hour by hour. Miss Janet, it's
death."
They got him to the Folly. And, in half an hour, the whole of his family
were gathered round his death-bed. His partner, Mr. Crosse; the surgeon;
and the Rector of All Souls' were also there.
He was rambling for the most part in a disconnected manner: but he
recognized them all individually, and occasionally gave utterance to
rational remarks, as he might have done had he been in full possession
of his senses. He fancied himself at Ashlydyat.
"I could not have died away from it, you know, Crosse," he suddenly
cried to that gentleman. "Thomas was for bringing me back to the Folly,
but I told him I must go to Ashlydyat. If I did let it to strangers,
they could not keep me out of it, when I wanted to go there to die. A
Godolphin must not die away from Ashlydyat. Where's Cecil?" he added,
after a pause.
Poor Cecil, the tears streaming down her cheeks, was close to him; in
view then. "I am here, papa."
The knight laid his hand upon her arm--or rather, essayed to do so, but
it fell again. His thoughts seemed to pass to another subject.
"Crosse, I have been telling Thomas that I should not allow more than
three per cent. on those deposits. Have you seen Mainwaring lately?"
Mr. Snow stepped forward and administered something in a wine-glass.
There appeared to be a difficulty in swallowing, and only part of it was
taken. "He grows more restless," said the surgeon in an undertone.
Sir George's eyes, as he was slightly raised to take the medicine, had
fallen upon some object at the other end of the room, and continued to
be strained on it. "Who has changed the position of the cabinet?" he
exclaimed, in a stronger tone than he had yet spoken.
It caused them all to turn and look at the spot. A fine old ebony
cabinet, inlaid with silver, stood opposite the bed: had stood there
ever since they removed to Lady Godolphin's Folly; transplanted thither
from Ashlydyat. In the latter house, it had stood on the right of Sir
George's bed: and his memory had evidently gone back to that. There
could not be a better proof that he was fancying himself at Ashlydyat,
lying in his own chamber.
"Janet! why have you placed the cabinet there?"
Janet Godolphin bent her head soothingly over him. "My dear father, it
shall be moved, if you wish it."
The knight looked at her, inquiringly for a moment, perhaps not
recognizing her. Then he feebly essayed to look beyond her, as if her
head interposed between his own view and something behind. "Hush, my
dear, I am speaking to your mother. I want to know why she changed the
place of the cabinet."
"We thought you'd like it there, Sir George; that you could see it
better there," interposed Margery, who knew better than most of them how
to deal with the sick. "I'll have it put back before to-morrow morning."
This satisfied him, and he lay still for a few minutes. They thought, he
would sleep. Presently his eyes opened again, and they rested on George.
"George, where's Charlotte?"
"Who, sir?" demanded George, somewhat taken aback at the question. "Do
you mean Charlotte Pain? She is at--she is not here."
"Are you married yet?"
"Oh no," said George hastily, while several pairs of wondering eyes were
directed towards him, and those of the Reverend Mr. Hastings were of the
number. "Time enough for that, father."
"George!" next came the words, in a hollow whisper this time, "don't let
her die, as Ethel did."
"Not if I can help it," replied George, speaking without any serious
meaning, except that of humouring his father.
"And don't let Verrall go off the bargain with the money. He is keen
that way; but he has no right to touch Charlotte's. If he does--Bessy,
is Jekyl dead?"
"Oh no, papa," said Bessy, suppressing her tears as she caressed her
father's hand: it was in stooping to do this, that the knight had
observed her. "Jekyl is well and hearty yet, and he asked after you
to-day. He heard you were coming home."
"Ay! All well and hearty, but me. But it is the will of God to take me,
and He knows what's best. Where's Thomas?"
"I am here, father," replied Thomas Godolphin, leaning forward so that
his father could see him.
Sir George tried to put up his hand with a beckoning gesture. Thomas
understood it: he bent his face close to that pale one, and clasped the
nearly inanimate hand in his, listening reverently to the whisper that
was breathed so solemnly.
"Thomas, I charge you, never quit Ashlydyat."
"I will not," replied Thomas Godolphin.
"If you bring one home to it, and she would urge you to quit it, urge
you until you have no will of your own left, do not yield to it. Do not
listen to her. Break with her, let her go forth alone, rather than quit
Ashlydyat."
"Father, I will never, of my own free will, leave Ashlydyat. I promise
you that, so far as I can hold control over human events, I will live
and die in it."
Certainly Sir George understood the promise and its meaning. There could
be no mistaking that he did so, by the smile of content which from that
moment overspread his countenance, lighting up with satisfaction even
his dying eye. He lay for a considerable time still, and then suddenly
called for Margery.
"You'll tell your mistress that we can't root up those bushes," he said,
as she approached. "It's of no use trying. As fast as they are up from
one place they grow in another. They'll not hurt. Tell her I say so."
"I'd get some quicklime, Sir George, and see what that would do," was
Margery's response, and the words brought up a smile from one or two of
her listeners, solemn moment though it was. Margery's maxim was, never
to contradict the dying, but to humour their hallucinations. "Obstinate
things, those gorses!" she continued. "But, never you trouble about my
mistress, sir: she don't mind them."
The children, standing round his bed, knew quite well that he was
alluding to their mother, his first wife. Indeed, Lady Godolphin
appeared to have passed entirely from his mind.
Again he lapsed into silence, and remained to all appearance in a
stupor, his eyes closed, his breathing ominously slow. Mr. Crosse took
his departure, but the Rector and surgeon stayed on yet. The latter saw
that the final moment was at hand, and he whispered to Miss Godolphin
that she and her sisters might be better from the room. "At any rate,"
he added, for he saw the dissenting, displeased look which overspread
her face, "it might be as well to spare the sight to Cecil."
"No," briefly responded Miss Godolphin. "Our place is here." And they
watched on.
With an impulse of strength surprising to see, Sir George suddenly rose
up in bed, his eyes fixed with a yearning gaze at the opposite end of
the room. Not at the cabinet this time, but at some spot, far, far up,
beyond the ceiling, as it appeared. His voice, startling in its
clearness, rang through the air, and his arms were outstretched as if he
were about to fly.
"Janet!--Janet!--Janet! Oh, my dear Janet, I am coming!"
He fell back and died. Did anything really appear to him, not visible to
the mortal eyes around? Were his senses, in that moment of the soul's
departure, opened to a glimpse of the world he was about to enter? It
cannot be known. Had it been fiction it would not have been written
here.
A little later, the bell of All Souls' Church, booming out over the town
on the night air, told that Sir George Godolphin had passed away.
It was somewhat remarkable that another funeral, at which Thomas
Godolphin was again chief mourner, should follow so closely upon
Ethel's. A different sort of ceremony, this: a rare pageant. A pageant
which was made up of plumes and trappings and decorated horses, and
carriages and mutes and batons, and a line of attendants, and all the
other insignia of the illustrious dead. Ethel could be interred simply
and quietly, but Sir George must be attended to the grave as the
Godolphin of Ashlydyat. I don't suppose poor Sir George rested any the
better for it.
Sir George made an equitable will, but it proved a vexatious one to his
widow. Thomas had Ashlydyat: George, a fair sum of money; the Miss
Godolphins, each her portion; and there were certain bequests to
servants. But little was left to Lady Godolphin: indeed, the amount of
the bequest was more in accordance with what might be willed to a
friend, than to a wife. But, it was not in that that the grievance lay.
Lady Godolphin had the Folly, she had Broomhead, and she had an ample
income of her own. She was not a particularly covetous woman, and she
had never expected or wished that Sir George should greatly take from
his family, to add to it. No, it was not that: but the contents of a
certain little codicil which was appended to the will. This codicil set
forth that every article of furniture or property, which had been
removed to the Folly from Ashlydyat, whatever might be its nature, and
down to the minutest item, should be returned to Ashlydyat, and become
the property of Thomas Godolphin.
It would pretty nearly strip the Folly, and my lady was very wrathful.
Not for the value of the things: she sustained no injury there: for the
codicil directed that a specified sum of money (their full value) should
be handed over to Lady Godolphin to replace them with new at the Folly.
But it struck upon her in the light of a slight, and she chose to resent
it as one. It was specially enjoined that the things should be placed at
Ashlydyat in the old spots where they had formerly stood.
But, be wrathful as she might, grumble as she would, there could be no
rebellion to it in action. And Lady Godolphin had to bow to it.
CHAPTER XVII.
A ROW ON THE WATER.
The time went on. Three months glided by; nay, four, for April had come
in: and positions were changed. Thomas Godolphin was the resident master
of Ashlydyat; Janet its acting mistress; Bessy and Cecil lived with
them. George had taken up his residence at the bank, with Margery to
look after his comforts, never to remove from it, as he supposed, unless
Ashlydyat should fall to him. My lady had left the Folly for a
permanency (unless any whim should at any time send her back to it), and
the Verralls had taken it. It may be said that Lady Godolphin gave up
the Folly in a fit of pique. When she found that the things were
positively to go out of it, she protested that she would never replace
them with others: she would rather throw the money, left for the
purpose, into the midst of the sea. She would let it to any one who
would take it, and go back to Broomhead for ever. Mr. Verrall heard of
this, and made an application for it; and my lady, still smarting, let
it to him off-hand, accepting him as a yearly tenant. Whether she
repented, or not, when the deed was done, and her anger had cooled down,
could not be told: she took her farewell and departed for Scotland
without betraying signs of it. Many thought that she would return after
a while to the place which she had so eagerly and fondly erected.
Perhaps she might: she could get rid of the Verralls at any time by
giving them due notice.
Thomas had settled down in his father's place: head of the bank, head of
all things, as Sir George had been; Mr. Godolphin, of Ashlydyat. Mr.
George was head of himself alone. No one of very particular note was he:
but I can tell you that a great many more anxious palpitations were cast
to him from gentle bosoms, than were given to unapproachable Thomas. It
seemed to be pretty generally conceded that Thomas Godolphin was wedded
to the grave of Ethel. Perhaps his establishing his sisters at
Ashlydyat, as their home, helped to further the opinion, and dash all
hopes; but, very possible hopes from many quarters were wafted secretly
to George. He would be no mean prize: with his good looks, his excellent
position, and his presumptive heirdom to Ashlydyat.
April, I say, had come in. A sunny April. And these several changes had
taken place, and the respective parties were settled in their new homes.
It went forth to the world that the Verralls intended to give a
brilliant fête, a sort of house-warming, as they styled it; and
invitations were circulated far and wide. Amongst those favoured with
one, were Mr. and the Miss Godolphins.
Janet was indignant. She could scarcely bring herself to decline it
civilly. Cecil, who was not less fond of fêtes, and other gay inventions
for killing time, than are pretty girls in general, would have given her
head to go. It appeared that Mrs. Hastings also declined the invitation:
and George Godolphin--who had no intention of declining it on his own
score--resolved to know the reason why.
Though not a frequent visitor at the Rectory: for he could not go there
much, in the teeth of discouragement so evident as had latterly been
shown to him by Mr. Hastings, and depended mostly upon chance meetings
in the street for keeping in exercise his love-vows to Maria: George
resolved to go boldly down that evening.
Down he accordingly went. And was shown into an empty room. The Rector
and Mrs. Hastings were out, the servant said, and the young ladies were
in the study with the boys. She would tell them.
Maria came to him. There was no mistaking her start of surprise when she
saw him, or the rush of emotion which overspread her face.
"Who did you think it was?" asked George.
"I thought it was your brother. She said 'Mr. Godolphin.' Grace will be
down in an instant."
"Will she?" returned George. "You had better go and tell her it's Mr.
George, and not Mr. Godolphin, and then she won't hurry herself. I am
not a favourite with Miss Grace, I fancy."
Maria coloured. She had no excuse to offer for the fact, and she could
not say that it was untrue. George stood with his elbow on the
mantel-piece, looking down at her.
"Maria, I hear that Mrs. Hastings has declined to go to the Folly on
Thursday. What's that for?"
"I don't know," replied Maria. "We do not go very much amidst those
unusually grand scenes," she added, laughing. "Mamma says she always
feels as much out of place in them as a fish does out of water. And I
think, if papa had his own wish, we should never go within a mile of
anything of the sort. He likes quiet social visiting, but not such
entertainments as the Verralls give. He and mamma were consulting for a
few minutes over the invitation, and then she directed Grace to write
and decline it."
"It is an awful shame!" responded George. "I thought I should have had
you with me for a few hours that day, at any rate, Maria."
Maria lifted her eyes. "It had nothing to do with me, George. I was not
invited."
"Not invited!" repeated George Godolphin.
"Only Grace. 'Mrs. and Miss Hastings.'"
"What was that for?" he exclaimed. "Why were you left out?"
"I do not know," replied Maria, bending her eyelids and speaking with
involuntary hesitation. In her heart of hearts, Maria believed that she
did know: but the last person she would have hinted it to, was George
Godolphin. "Perhaps," she added, "it may have been an omission, an
oversight? Or, they may have so many to invite that they can only
dispense their cards charily."
"Moonshine!" cried George. "I shall take upon myself to ask Mrs. Verrall
why you were left out."
"Oh, George! pray don't," she uttered, feeling an invincible repugnance
to have her name brought up in any such way. "Why should you? Had the
invitation been sent to me, I should not have gone."
"It is a slight," he persisted. "A little later, and let any dare to
show slight to you. They shall be taught better. A slight to you will be
a slight to me."
Maria looked at him timidly, and he bent his head with a fond smile. "I
shall want somebody to keep house for me at the bank, you know, Maria."
She coloured even to tears. Mr. George was proceeding to erase them
after his own gallant fashion, when he was summarily brought-to by the
entrance of Grace Hastings.
There was certainly no love lost between them. Grace did not like
George, George did not like Grace. She took her seat demurely in her
mother's chair of state, with every apparent intention of sitting out
his visit. So George cut it short.
"What did he come for?" Grace asked of Maria, when the servant had
showed him out.
"He came to call."
"You appeared to be in very close conversation when I came into the
room," pursued Grace, searching Maria with her keen eyes. "May I ask its
purport?"
"Its purport was nothing wrong," said Maria, her cheeks deepening under
the inspection. "You question me, Grace, as if I were a child, and you
possessed a right over me."
"Well," said Grace equably. "What was he talking of?"
Yielding, timid, sensitive Maria was one of the last to resist this sort
of importunity. "We had been talking of the Verralls not including me in
the invitation. George said it was a slight."
"As of course it was," assented Grace. "And, for that fact alone, I am
glad mamma sent them a refusal. It was Charlotte Pain's doings. She does
not care that you should be brought too much into contact with George
Godolphin, lest her chance should be perilled. Now, Maria, don't pretend
to look at me in that incredulous manner! You know as well as I do that
George has a stupid liking for you; or, at least, acts as though he had.
And that naturally is not pleasant to Charlotte Pain."
Maria knew well that Grace had divined the true cause for the slight.
She stood for a few minutes looking silent and humble: an intimation,
even from Grace, that George "liked her," jarred upon her refined
sensitiveness, when openly alluded to. But that feeling was almost lost
in the dull pain which the hint touching Charlotte had called up.
"Charlotte Pain is nothing to George Godolphin," she resentfully said.
"Charlotte Pain _is_," responded Grace. "And if your eyes are not yet
opened to it, they ought to be. She is to be his wife."
"Oh no, she is not," hastily said Maria.
"Maria, I tell you that she is. I know it."
Now Grace Hastings rarely made an assertion unless she had good grounds
for it. Maria knew that. And the dull pain at her heart grew and grew,
until it was beating with a sharp agony. She appeared impassive enough,
looking down at her thin gold chain, which her fingers were
unconsciously wreathing into knots. "You cannot know it, Grace."
"I tell you I do. Mind you, I don't say that they will inevitably be
married; only, that they contemplate being so at present. Charlotte does
well not to make too sure of him! George Godolphin may see half a dozen
yet whom he will prefer to Charlotte Pain, in his roving, butterfly
nature."
Was Grace right? Not ten minutes before, Maria had listened to words
from his lips which most surely intimated that it was herself George had
chosen. Who was Charlotte?--who was Charlotte Pain, that she should thus
thrust herself between them?
April, as we learn by its reputation, and by our own experience, mocks
us with its weather: and not a few envious criticisers had prophesied
showers, if not snow, for the fête at Lady Godolphin's Folly. The
unusually lovely weather which had marked the month, so far as it had
gone, had put it into Mrs. Verrall's head to give an outdoor
entertainment. Mr. Verrall had himself suggested that the weather might
change; that there was no dependence, at this season of the year, to be
placed on it. But she would not give up her project. If the worst came
to the worst at the last moment, she said, they must do the best they
could with the people indoors.
But, for once, the weather was not fickle. The day rose warm, calm,
beautifully bright, and by three o'clock in the afternoon most of the
gay revellers had gathered at the Folly.
The grounds were dotted with them. These grounds, by the way, were
chiefly the grounds of Ashlydyat; those belonging to the Folly being
exceedingly limited in extent. Janet Godolphin drew down the blinds of
Ashlydyat, that the eyesore might be shut out: but Cecil stole away to
her room, and made herself a peep-hole--as the young Hastingses had done
at Ethel Grame's funeral--and looked out with covetous eyes. Janet had
said something to Thomas about sending a hint to the Folly that the
domains of Ashlydyat would not be open to the guests: but Thomas, with
his quiet good sense, had negatived it.
Graceless George arrived as large as life, one of the first. He was
making himself conspicuous among the many-coloured groups--or, perhaps
it was, that they made him so, by gathering round him--when two figures
in mourning came gliding up to him, one of whom spoke.
"How do you do, Mr. George Godolphin?"
George turned. And--careless and thoughtless as he was, graceless as he
was reported to be--a shock of surprise, not unmixed with indignation,
swept over his feelings: for those standing before him were Lady Sarah
and Miss Grame.
She--Sarah Anne--looked like a shadow still; peevish, white,
discontented. What brought them there? Was it _thus_ that they showed
their regret for the dead Ethel?--Was it seemly that Sarah Anne should
appear at a fête of gaiety in her weak, sickly state; not yet recovered
from the effects of the fever; not yet out of the first deep mourning
worn for Ethel?
"How do you do, Lady Sarah?" very gravely responded George Godolphin.
Lady Sarah may have discerned somewhat of his feeling from the
expression of his face. Not that he intentionally suffered it to rise in
reproof of her: George Godolphin did not set himself up in judgment
against his fellows. He, indeed! Lady Sarah drew him aside with her,
after he had shaken hands with Sarah Anne.
"I am sure it must look strange to you to see us here, Mr. George. But,
poor child, she continues so weak and poorly, that I scarcely know what
to do with her. She set her heart upon coming to this fête. Since Mrs.
Verrall's card arrived, she has talked of nothing else, and I thought it
would not do to cross her. Is Mr. Godolphin here?"
"Oh no," replied George, with more haste than he need have spoken.
"I thought he would not be. I remarked so to Sarah Anne, when she
expressed a hope of seeing him: indeed, I think it was that hope which
chiefly urged her to come. What have we done to him, Mr. George? He
scarcely ever comes near the house."
"I don't know anything about it," returned George. "I can see that my
brother still feels his loss deeply. It may be, Lady Sarah, that visits
to your house remind him too forcibly of Ethel."
Lady Sarah lowered her voice to a confidential whisper: "Will he ever
marry, think you?"
"At present I should be inclined to say he never would," answered
George, wondering what in the world it could matter to Lady Sarah, and
thinking she showed little sorrow or consideration for the memory of
Ethel. "But time works surprising changes," he added: "and time may
marry Mr. Godolphin."
Lady Sarah paused. "How do you think she looks--my poor child?"
"Miserable," all but rose to the tip of George's tongue. "She does not
look well," he said aloud.
"And she does so regret her dear sister; she's grieving after her
always," said Lady Sarah, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
"I don't believe it," thought George to himself.
"How do you like your new residence?" she resumed, passing with little
ceremony to another topic.
"I like it very well. All places are pretty much alike to a bachelor,
Lady Sarah."
"Ah, so they are. _You_ won't remain a bachelor very long," continued
Lady Sarah, with a smile of archness.
"Not so very long, I dare say," frankly acknowledged Mr. George. "It is
possible I may put my head in the noose some time in the next ten
years."
She would have detained him further, but George did not care to be
detained. He went after more attractive companionship.
Chance, or premeditation, led him to Charlotte Pain. Charlotte had all
her attractions about her that day. Her bright green silk dress--green
was a favourite colour of hers--with its white lace mantle, was
frequently to be seen by George Godolphin's side. Once they strayed to
the borders of the stream, in a remote part of the grounds. Several were
gathered here. A row on the water had been proposed, and a boat stood
ready. A small boat, holding very few; but, of those few, George and
Charlotte made two.
Could George Godolphin have foreseen what that simple little excursion
in the boat was to do for him, he had never entered it. How is it, that
no shadow of warning comes over us at these times? How many a day's
pleasure, begun as a jubilee, how many a voyage, entered upon in hope,
ends but in death! Not a fortnight since; since _now_, the very hour at
which I am writing; a fine young lad, fresh from his studies, was going
out to one of our colonies, full of youth, of hope, of prospects. Two
ships were available for the passage, one as eligible as the other:
which should he choose? It seemed not to matter which of them, and the
choice was made. Could no warning rise up to his aid, ever so
indefinite, and point away from the chosen one and say it must be
shunned? The vessel sailed. And she went down--within sight of land--not
three days out; and every soul on board, except one, perished. "If we
had only chosen the other ship for him!" wail that lad's mourning
friends. Ay! if we could only lift the veil, what mistakes might be
avoided!
George Godolphin, strong and active, took the oars. And when they had
rowed about to their heart's content, and George was in a white heat
with exertion, they bethought themselves that they would land for a
while on what was called the mock island: a mossy spot, green and
tempting to the eye. In stepping ashore, Charlotte Pain tripped, lost
her balance, and would have been in the water but for George. He saved
her, but he could not save her parasol: a dainty parasol, for which Miss
Charlotte had given three guineas only the previous day. She naturally
shrieked when it fell into the water: and George Godolphin, in
recovering it, nearly lost _his_ balance, and went in after the parasol.
Nearly; not quite: he got himself pretty wet, but he made light of it,
and sat himself down on the grassy island with the rest.
They were all young. Old people seldom care to venture into these
shallow skiffs: but, had any of mature age been there, experienced in
chills and rheumatism, they would certainly have ordered George
Godolphin home at his utmost speed, for a change of clothes, and perhaps
a glass of brandy.
Charlotte Pain was shaking the wet from her parasol, when some one
noticed the dripping state of George's coat. "It wants shaking also,"
said they. "Do pray take it off, Mr. George Godolphin!"
George took it off, shook, it well, and laid it out in the sun to dry.
And down he sat again, in his shirt-sleeves, passing some jokes upon his
state of costume, and requesting to know what apology he must make for
it.
By-and-by he began to feel rather chilled: in fact, he grew so cold that
he put on his coat again, damp as it was. It might have occurred to him
that the intense perspiration he had been in had struck inwardly, but it
did not. In the evening he was dancing away with the best of them,
apparently having escaped all ill effects from the wetting, and thinking
no further of it.
Eh, but the young are heedless! as Janet would have said.
CHAPTER XVIII.
STRAW IN THE STREETS.
Ankle-deep before the banking-house of Godolphin, Crosse, and Godolphin,
and for some distance on either side; ankle-deep down Crosse Street as
far as you could see, lay masses of straw. As carriages came up to
traverse it, their drivers checked their horses and drove them at a
foot-pace, raising their own heads to look up at the windows of the
dwelling; for they knew that one was lying there hovering between life
and death.
It was George Godolphin. Imprudent George! Healthy and strong as he
might be, sound as his constitution was, that little episode of the
fête-day had told upon him. Few men can do such things with impunity,
and come out of them unscathed. "What was a bit of a ducking; and that
only a partial one? Nothing." As George himself said to some
remonstrator on the following day. It is not much, certainly, to those
who are used to it: but taken in conjunction with a white heat, and with
an hour or two's cooling upon the grass afterwards, in the airy undress
of shirt-sleeves, it is a great deal.
It had proved a great deal for George Godolphin. An attack of rheumatic
fever supervened, dangerous and violent, and neither Dr. Beale nor Mr.
Snow could give a guess as to whether he would live or die. Miss
Godolphin had removed to the bank to share with Margery the task of
nursing him. Knockers were muffled; bells were tied up; straw, as you
hear, was laid in the streets; people passed in and out, even at the
swing doors, when they went to transact business, with a softened tread:
and as they counted the cash for their cheques, leaned over the counter,
and asked the clerks in a whisper whether Mr. George was yet alive. Yes,
he was alive, the clerks could always answer, but it was as much as they
could say.
It continued to be "as much as they could say" for nearly a month, and
then George Godolphin began to improve. But so slowly! day after day
seemed to pass without visible sign.
How bore up Maria Hastings? None could know the dread, the grief, that
was at work within her, or the deep love she felt for George Godolphin.
Her nights were sleepless, her days were restless; she lost her
appetite, her energy, almost her health. Mrs. Hastings wondered what was
wrong with her, and hoped Maria was not going to be one of those sickly
ones who always seem to fade in the spring.
Maria could speak out her sorrow to none. Grace would not have
sympathized with any feeling so strong, whose object was George
Godolphin. And had Grace sympathized ever so, Maria would not have
spoken it. She possessed that shrinking reticence of feeling, that
refined sensitiveness, to which betraying its own emotions to another
would be little less than death. Maria could not trust her voice to ask
after him: when Mr. Hastings or her brothers would come in and say (as
they had more than once), "There's a report in the town that George
Godolphin's dead," she could not press upon them her eager questions,
and ask, "Is it likely to be true? Are there any signs that it is true?"
Once, when this rumour came in, Maria made an excuse to go out: some
trifle to be purchased in the town, she said to Mrs. Hastings: and went
down the street inwardly shivering, too agitated to notice acquaintances
whom she met. Opposite the bank, she stole glances up at its private
windows, and saw that the blinds were down. In point of fact, this told
nothing, for the blinds had been kept down much since George's illness,
the servants not troubling themselves to draw them up: but to the fears
of Maria Hastings, it spoke volumes. Sick, trembling, she continued her
way mechanically: she did not dare to stop, even for a moment, or to
show, in her timidity, as much as the anxiety of an indifferent friend.
At that moment Mr. Snow came out of the house, and crossed over.
Maria stopped then. Surely she might halt to speak to the surgeon
without being suspected of undue interest in Mr. George Godolphin. She
even brought out the words, as Mr. Snow shook hands with her: "You have
been to the bank?"
"Yes, poor fellow; he is in a critical state," was Mr. Snow's answer.
"But I think there's a faint indication of improvement, this afternoon."
In the revulsion of feeling which the words gave, Maria forgot her
caution. "He is not dead, then?" she exclaimed, all too eagerly, her
face turning to a glowing crimson, her lips apart with emotion.
Mr. Snow gathered in the signs, and a grave expression stole over his
lips. But the next minute he was smiling openly. "No, he is not dead
yet, Miss Maria; and we must see what we can do towards keeping him
alive." Maria turned home again with a beating and a thankful heart.
A weary, weary summer for George Godolphin--a weary, weary illness. It
was more than two months before he rose from his bed at all, and it was
nearly two more before he went down the stairs of the dwelling-house. A
fine, balmy day it was, that one in June, when George left his bed for
the first time, and was put in the easy-chair, wrapped up in blankets.
The sky was blue, the sun was warm, and bees and butterflies sported in
the summer air. George turned his weary eyes, weary with pain and
weakness, towards the cheering signs of outdoor life, and wondered
whether he should ever be abroad again.
It was August before that time came. Early in that month the close
carriage of Ashlydyat waited at the door, to give Mr. George his first
airing. A shadowy object he looked, Mr. Snow on one side of him, Margery
on the other; Janet, who would be his companion in the drive, following.
They got him downstairs between them, and into the carriage. From that
time his recovery, though slow, was progressive, and in another week he
was removed for change to Ashlydyat. He could walk abroad then with two
sticks, or with a stick and somebody's arm. George, who was getting up
his spirits wonderfully, declared that he and his sticks should be made
into a picture and sent to the next exhibition of native artists.
One morning, he and his sticks were sunning themselves in the porch at
Ashlydyat, when a stranger approached and accosted him. A
gentlemanly-looking man, in a straw hat, with a light travelling
overcoat thrown upon his arm. George looked a gentleman also, in spite
of his dilapidated health and his sticks, and the stranger raised his
hat with something of foreign urbanity.
"Does Mr. Verrall reside here?"
"No," replied George.
A hard, defiant sort of expression rose immediately to the stranger's
face. It almost seemed to imply that George was deceiving him: and his
next words bore out the impression. "I have been informed that he does
reside here," he said, with a stress upon the "does."
"He did reside here," replied George Godolphin: "but he does so no
longer. That is where Mr. Verrall lives," he added, pointing one of his
sticks at the white walls of Lady Godolphin's Folly.
The stranger wheeled round on his heel, took a survey of it, and then
lifted his hat again, apparently satisfied. "Thank you, sir," he said.
"The mistake was mine. Good morning."
George watched him away as he strode with a firm, quick, elastic step
towards the Folly. George wondered when he should walk again with the
same step. Perhaps the idea, or the desire to do so, impelled him to try
it then. He rose from his seat and went tottering out, drawing his
sticks with him. It was a tempting morning, and George strolled on in
its brightness, resting now on one bench, now on another, and then
bearing on again.
"I might get as far as the Folly, if I took my time," he said to
himself. "Would it not be a surprise to them!"
So he bore onwards to the Folly, as the stranger had done. He was
drawing very near to it, was seated, in fact, on the last bench that he
intended to rest on, when Mr. Verrall passed him.
"Have you had a gentleman inquiring for you?" George asked him.
"What gentleman?" demanded Mr. Verrall.
"A stranger. He came to Ashlydyat, supposing you lived there. I sent him
to the Folly."
"Describe him, will you?" said Mr. Verrall.
"I noticed nothing much to describe," replied George. "He wore a straw
hat, and had a thin tweed coat over his arm. I should fancy he had just
come off a journey."
Mr. Verrall left George where he was, and went back to the Folly. George
rose and followed more slowly. But when he got beyond the trees, he saw
that Mr. Verrall must have plunged into them: as if he would go into the
Folly by the servants' entrance. George crossed the lawn, and made
straight for the drawing-room windows, which stood open.
Scarcely had he entered, and flung himself into the first easy-chair,
when he saw the same stranger approach the house. Where _had_ he been,
not to have found it before? But George immediately divined that he had
taken the wrong turning near the ash-trees, and so had had the pleasure
of a round to Prior's Ash and back again. The room was empty, and George
sat recovering breath and enjoying the luxury of a rest, when the
stranger's knock resounded at the hall-door.
A servant, as he could hear, came forth to open it; but, before that was
effected, flying footsteps followed the man across the hall, and he was
called, in the voice of Charlotte Pain.
"James," said she, in a half-whisper, which came distinctly to the ear
of George Godolphin, "should that be any one for Mr. Verrall, say
nothing, but show him in here."
A second room, a smaller one, stood between the one George had entered,
and the hall. It opened both to the drawing-room and the hall; in fact,
it served as a sort of anteroom to the drawing-room. It was into this
room that the stranger was shown.
Charlotte, who had taken a seat, and was toying with some
embroidery-work, making believe to be busy over it, rose at his
entrance, with the prettiest air of surprise imaginable. He could have
staked his life, had he been required to do it, that she knew nothing
whatever of his approach until that identical moment, when James threw
open the door, and announced, "A gentleman, ma'am." James had been
unable to announce him in more definite terms. Upon his asking the
stranger for a name, the curt answer had been, "Never mind the name. Mr.
Verrall knows me."
Charlotte rose. And the gentleman's abruptness changed to courtesy at
the sight of her. "I wish to see Mr. Verrall," he said.
"Mr. Verrall is in town," replied Charlotte.
"In town!" was the answer, delivered in an accent of excessive surprise.
"Do you mean in London, madam?"
"Certainly," rejoined Charlotte. "In London."
"But he only left London last night to come here!" was the stranger's
answer.
It brought Charlotte to a pause. Self-possessed as she was, she had to
think a moment before hazarding another assertion. "May I inquire how
you know that he left London last night for this?" she asked.
"Because, madam, I had business yesterday of the very last importance
with Mr. Verrall. He made the appointment himself, for three o'clock. I
went at three: and could not find him. I went at four, and waited an
hour, with a like result. I went again at seven, and then I was told
that Mr. Verrall had been telegraphed for to his country seat, and had
started. I had some difficulty in finding out where his country seat was
situated, but I succeeded in doing that: and I followed him in the
course of the night."
"How very unfortunate!" exclaimed Charlotte, who had obtained her clue.
"He was telegraphed for yesterday, and arrived in answer to it, getting
here very late last night. But he could not stay. He said he had
business to attend to in London, and he left here this morning by an
early train. Will you oblige me with your name?" she added.
"My name, madam, is Appleby. It is possible that you may have heard Mr.
Verrall mention it, if, as I presume, I have the honour of speaking to
Mrs. Verrall."
Charlotte did not undeceive him. "When did you see Mr. Verrall last?"
she suddenly inquired, as if the thought had just struck her.
"The day before yesterday. I saw him three times that day, and he made
the appointment for the following one."
"I am so sorry you should have had a useless journey," said Charlotte,
with much sympathy.
"I am sorry also," said the stranger. "Sorry for the delay this causes
in certain arrangements; a delay I can ill afford. I will wish you good
morning, madam, and start back by the first train."
Charlotte touched the bell, and curtsied her adieu. The stranger had the
door open, when he turned round, and spoke again.
"I presume I may entirely rely upon what you tell me--that Verrall _has_
gone back?"
"Oh, certainly," answered Charlotte.
Now, every syllable of this colloquy had reached the ears of George
Godolphin. It puzzled him not a little. Were there _two_ Verralls? The
Verrall of the Folly, with whom he had so recently exchanged words, had
certainly not been in London for a fortnight past, or anywhere else but
in that neighbourhood. And what did Charlotte mean, by saying he had
gone to town that morning?
Charlotte came in, singing a scrap of a song. She started when she saw
George, and then flew to him in a glow of delight, holding out her
hands.
What could he do, but take them? What could he do, but draw Charlotte
down beside him on the sofa, holding them still? "How pleased I am to
see you!" exclaimed Charlotte. "I shall think the dear old times are
coming round again."
"Charlotte mia, do you know what I have been obliged to hear? That
interesting colloquy you have been taking part in in the next room."
Charlotte burst into a laugh. From the moment when she first caught a
glimpse of George, seated there, she had felt sure that he must have
heard it. "Did I do it well?" she cried, triumphantly.
"How could you invent such fibs?"
"Verrall came upstairs to me and Kate," said Charlotte, laughing more
merrily than before. "He said there was somebody going to call here, he
thought with a begging petition, and he did not care to see him. Would I
go and put the man off? I asked him how I should put him off, and he
answered, 'Any way. Say he had gone to London, if I liked.'"
Was Charlotte telling truth or falsehood? That there was more in all
this than met the eye was evident. It was no business, however, of
George Godolphin's, neither did he make it his.
"And you have really walked here all the way by yourself!" she resumed.
"I am so glad! You will get well now all one way."
"I don't know about getting well 'all one way,' Charlotte. The doctors
have been ordering me away for the winter."
"For the winter!" repeated Charlotte, her tone growing sober. "What for?
Where to?"
"To some place where the skies are more genial than in this cold climate
of ours," replied George. "If I wish to get thoroughly well, they say, I
must start off next month, September, and not return until April."
"But--should you go alone?"
"There's the worst of it. We poor bachelors are like stray sheep--nobody
owning us, nobody caring for us."
"Take somebody with you," suggested Charlotte.
"That's easier said than done," said George.
Charlotte threw one of her brilliant glances at him. She had risen, and
was standing before him, all her attractions in full play. "There's an
old saying, Mr. George Godolphin, that where there's a will, there's a
way," quoth she.
George made a gallant answer, and they were progressing in each other's
good graces to their own content, when an interruption came to it. The
same servant who had opened the door to the stranger entered.
"Miss Pain, if you please, my master says will you go up to him."
"I declare you make me forget everything," cried Charlotte to George, as
she left the room. And picking up her King Charley, she threw it at him.
"There! take care of him, Mr. George Godolphin, until I come back
again."
A few minutes after, George saw Mr. Verrall leave the house and cross
the lawn. A servant behind him was bearing a small portmanteau and an
overcoat, similar to the one the stranger had carried on his arm. Was
Mr. Verrall also going to London?
CHAPTER XIX.
ONE STICK DISCARDED.
The morning sun shone on the green lawn, on the clustering flowers, rich
in many colours, sweet in their perfume, before the breakfast-room at
Ashlydyat. The room itself was in shadow: as it is pleasant in summer
for a room to be: but the windows stood open to the delights of outdoor
life.
Janet presided at the breakfast-table. She always did preside there.
Thomas, Bessy, and Cecil were disposed around her; leaving the side next
the windows vacant, that nothing might come between them and the view of
the summer's morning. A summer that would soon be on the wane, for
September was approaching.
"She ought to be here by four o'clock," observed Bessy, continuing the
conversation. "Otherwise, she cannot be here until seven. No train comes
in from Farnley between four o'clock and seven, does it, Thomas?"
"I think not," replied Thomas Godolphin. "But I really know very little
about their branch lines. Stay. Farnley? No: I remember: I am sure that
nothing comes in between four and seven."
"Don't fash yourselves," said Janet with composure, who had been
occupied with the urn. "When Mrs. Briscow sends me word she will arrive
by the afternoon train, I know she can only mean the one that gets here
at four o'clock: and I shall be there at four in the carriage to meet
her. She is early in her ideas, and she would have called seven the
night train."
Cecil, who appeared to be more engaged in toying with the black ribbons
that were flowing from the white sleeves round her pretty wrists, than
in taking her breakfast, looked up at her sister. "How long is it since
she was here last, Janet?"
"She was here the summer after your mother died."
"All that time!" exclaimed Cecil. "It is very good of her to leave her
home at her age, and come amongst us once again."
"It is George who is bringing her here; I am sure of that," returned
Janet. "She was so concerned about his illness. She wants to see him now
he is getting better. George was always her favourite."
"How is George this morning?" inquired Thomas Godolphin.
"George is alive and pretty well," replied a voice from the door, which
had opened. There stood George himself.
Alive decidedly; but weak and wan still. He could walk with the help of
one stick now.
"If I don't make an effort--as somebody says, in that bookcase--I may
remain a puny invalid for ever, like a woman. I thought I'd try and
surprise you."
They made a place for him, and placed a chair, and set good things
before him; all in affectionate eagerness. But George Godolphin could
not accomplish much breakfast yet. "My appetite is capricious, Janet,"
he observed. "I think to-morrow I will try chocolate and milk."
"A cup can be made at once, George, if you would like it."
"No, I don't care about it now. I suppose the doctors are right that I
can't get into proper order again, without change. A dull time of it, I
shall have, whatever place they may exile me to."
A question had been mooted, bringing somewhat of vexation in its
discussion, as to who should accompany George. Whether he should be
accompanied at all, in what he was pleased to term his exile: and if so,
which of them should be chosen. Janet could not go; or thought she could
not; Ashlydyat wanted her. Bessy was deep in her schools, her
district-visiting, in parish affairs generally, and openly said she did
not care to quit them just now. Cecil was perfectly ready and willing.
Had George been going to the wilds of Africa, Cecil would have entered
on the journey with enthusiasm: the outer world had attractions for
Cecil and her inexperience. But Janet did not deem it expedient to trust
pretty Cecil to the sole guardianship of thoughtless George, and that
was put down ere Cecil had well spoken of it. George's private opinion
was--and he spoke it publicly--that he should be better without any of
them than with them; that they would "only be a trouble." On one point,
he turned restive. Janet's idea had been to despatch Margery with him;
to see after his comforts, his medicines, his well-aired beds, and his
beef-tea. Not if he knew it, George answered. Why not set him up at once
with a lady's-maid, and a nurse from the hospitals, in addition to
Margery? And he was pleased to indulge in so much ridicule upon the
point, as to anger Janet and offend Margery.
"I wish I knew some fellow who was going yachting for the next six
months, and would give me boat-room," observed George, stirring his tea
listlessly.
"That _would_ be an improvement!" said Janet, speaking in satire. "Six
months' sea-sickness and sea-drenching would about do for you what the
fever has left undone."
"So it might," said George. "Only that we get over sea-sickness in a
couple of days, and sea-drenchings are wholesome. However, don't let it
disturb your placidity: the yacht is wanting, and I am not likely to
have the opportunity of trying it. No, thank you, Janet"--rejecting a
plate she was offering him--"I cannot eat anything."
"Mrs. Briscow comes to-day, George," observed Bessy. "Janet is going to
meet her at the station at four. She is coming purposely to see you."
"Very amiable of the old lady!" responded George. "It's a pity I am
going out to dinner."
Thomas looked surprised. George was not yet in precisely dinner-visiting
condition.
"I have promised Mrs. Verrall to get as far as the Folly this afternoon,
and stay and dine with them. _En famille_, you know."
"Mr. Verrall is not at home," said Bessy.
"But she and Charlotte are," responded George.
"You know you must not be out in the night air, George."
"I shall be home by sundown, or thereabouts. Not that the night air
would hurt me now."
"You cannot take rich dishes yet," urged Bessy again.
"Bien entendu. Mrs. Verrall has ordered an array of invalid ones:
mutton-broth à l'eau, and boiled whiting au naturel," responded George,
who appeared to have an answer ready for all dissentient propositions.
Janet interposed, looking and speaking very gravely. "George, it will be
a great mark of disrespect to Mrs. Briscow, the lifelong friend of your
father and your mother, not to be at home to sit at table with her the
first day she is here. Only one thing could excuse your absence--urgent
business. And, that, you have not to plead."
George answered tartly. He was weak from his recent illness, and like
many others under the same circumstances, did not like being crossed in
trifles. "Janet, you are unreasonable. As if it were necessary that I
should break a promise, just for the purpose of dining with an old
woman! There will be plenty of other days to dine with her. And I shall
be at home this evening before you have risen from table."
"I beg you to speak of Mrs. Briscow with more respect, George. It cannot
matter whether you dine at the Verralls' to-day or another day,"
persisted Janet. "I would not say a word against it, were it an
engagement of consequence. You can go to the Folly any day."
"But I choose to go to-day," said George.
Janet fixed her deep eyes upon him, her gaze full of sad penetration,
her voice changed to one of mourning. "Have those women cast a spell
upon you, lad?"
It drove away George's ill-humour. He burst into a laugh, and returned
the gaze: openly enough. "Not they, Janet. Mrs. Verrall may have spells
to cast, for aught I know: it's Verrall's business, not mine: but they
have certainly not been directed to me. And Charlotte----"
"Ay," put in Janet in a lower tone, "what of Charlotte Pain?"
"This, Janet. That I can steer clear of any spells cast by Charlotte
Pain. Not but that I admire Charlotte very much," he added in a spirit
of mischief. "I assure you I am quite a slave to her fascinations."
"Keep you out of her fascinations, lad," returned Janet in a tone of
solemn meaning. "It is my first and best advice to you."
"I will, Janet, when I find them growing dangerous."
Janet said no more. There was that expression on her countenance which
they well knew; telling of grievous dissatisfaction.
Rising earlier than his strength was as yet equal to, told upon George
Godolphin: and by the middle of the day he felt so full of weariness and
lassitude, that he was glad to throw himself on to the sofa in the large
drawing-room, quiet and unoccupied then, wheeling the couch first of all
with his feeble strength, close to the window, that he might be in the
sunshine. Its warmth was grateful to him. He dropped asleep, and only
woke considerably later, at the entrance of Cecil.
Cecil was dressed for the day, in a thin, flowing black dress, a jet
necklace on her slender neck, jet bracelets on her fair arms. A fair
flower was Cecilia Godolphin: none fairer within all the precincts of
Prior's Ash. She knelt down by George and kissed him.
"We have been in to glance at you two or three times, George. Margery
has prepared something nice for you, and would have aroused you to take
it, only she says sleep will do you as much good as food."
"What's the time?" asked George, too indolent to take his own watch from
his pocket.
"Half-past three."
"Nonsense!" cried George, partially starting up. "It can't be so late as
that."
"It is, indeed. Janet has just driven off to the station. Don't rise
this minute: you are hot."
"I wonder Janet let me sleep so long!"
"Why should she not? Janet has been very busy all day, and very----"
"Cross?" put in George.
"I was going to say silent," replied Cecil. "You vexed her this morning,
George."
"There was nothing that she need have been vexed at," responded Mr.
George.
Cecil remained for a few moments without speaking. "I think Janet is
afraid of Charlotte Pain," she presently said.
"Afraid of Charlotte Pain! In what way?"
"George"--lowering her voice, and running her fingers caressingly
through his bright hair as he lay--"I wish you would let me ask you
something."
"Ask away," replied George.
"Ay, but will you answer me?"
"That depends," he laughed. "Ask away, Cely."
"_Is_ there anything between you and Charlotte Pain?"
"Plenty," returned George in the lightest possible tone. "As there is
between me and a dozen more young ladies. Charlotte, happening to be the
nearest, gets most of me just now."
"Plenty of what?"
"Talking and laughing and gossip. That's about the extent of it, pretty
Cely."
Cecil wished he would be more serious. "Shall you be likely to marry
her?" she breathed.
"Just as likely as I shall be to marry you," and he spoke seriously now.
Cecil drew a sigh of relief. "Then, George, I will tell you what it is
that has helped to vex Janet. You know our servants get talking to Mrs.
Verrall's, and her servants to ours. And the news was brought here that
Charlotte Pain has said she should probably be going on a journey: a
journey abroad, for six months or so: to some place where she should
remain the winter. Margery told Janet: and--and----"
"You construed it, between you, that Charlotte was going to be a partner
in my exile! What droll people you must all be!"
"There's no doubt, George, that Charlotte Pain was heard to say it."
"I don't know what she may have been heard to say. It could have borne
no reference to my movements. Cecil?"
"Well?"
"Did you ever hear of old Max's hounds losing their scent?"
"No--I don't know. What do you mean?"
And while George Godolphin was laughing at her puzzled look, Margery
came in. "Are you almost famished, Mr. George? How could you think of
dropping off to sleep till you had had something to sustain you?"
"We often do things that we don't 'think' to do, Margery," quoth he, as
he rose from the sofa.
Nothing more true, Mr. George Godolphin.
Ere long he was on his way to Mrs. Verrall's. Notwithstanding Janet's
displeasure, he had no idea of foregoing his engagement. The society of
two attractive women had more charms for listless George than quiet
Ashlydyat. It was a lovely afternoon, less hot than it had been of late,
and George really enjoyed it. He was beginning to walk so much better.
That long sleep had rested and refreshed him, and he believed that he
could walk well into Prior's Ash. "I'll try it to-morrow," thought
George.
Up the steps, over the terrace, across to the open windows of the Folly.
It was the easiest way in, and George was not given to unnecessary
ceremony. He supposed he might find the ladies in the drawing-room, and
he stepped over the threshold.
Only one was there. Charlotte. She did not see him enter. She was before
a pier-glass, holding up her dog, King Charley, that he might snarl and
bark at the imaginary King Charley in the glass. That other dog of hers,
the ugly Scotch terrier which you have heard of before, and a third,
looking something like a bull-dog, were leaping and howling at her feet.
It would appear that nothing pleased Charlotte better than putting her
dogs into a fury. Charlotte wore a dark blue silk dress with shaded
flounces, and a lighter blue silk jacket: the latter, ornamented with
braidings and buttons of silver, somewhat after the fashion of her green
riding-habit, and fitting as tightly to the shape. A well-formed
shape!--and George Godolphin thought so, as she stood with her arms
lifted, setting the dogs at the glass.
"Hi, King! Seize him, Charley! Go at him!--hiss! Tear him! bite
him!--hiss-ss-ss!----"
The noisy reception by the other dogs of Mr. George Godolphin, brought
the young lady's words and her pretty employment to a standstill. She
released the imprisoned dog from her arms, letting him drop anywhere,
and turned to George Godolphin.
"Have you come at last? I had given you up! I expected you an hour and a
half ago."
"And, to while away the time, you set your dogs on to snarl and fight!"
returned he, as he took her hand. "I wonder you don't go distracted with
the noise, Charlotte!"
"You don't like dogs! I often tell you so."
"Yes, I do--in their proper places."
Charlotte turned from him with a pout. The terrier jumped upon her.
"Down, Pluto, down! A gentleman here thinks I ought to hold you poor
dogs at arm's length."
"At the yard's length, if you please, Charlotte," corrected George, who
did not feel inclined to compromise his opinion. "Hark at them! they
might be heard at Prior's Ash."
"And his name's George Godolphin, good Pluto!" went on Charlotte, doing
all she possibly could, in a quiet way, to excite the dogs. "Down, then,
Pluto! down!"
"I should muzzle you, Mr. Pluto, if you were mine," cried George, as the
dog jumped up at him furiously, and then turned to attack his former
adversary. "_Pluto!_" he continued, meaningly: "who gave him that name,
Charlotte?"
"I did," avowed Charlotte. "And I named this other one King Charley,
after his species. And this one is Deuce. What have you to say against
the names?"
"Nothing," said George. "I think them very good, appropriate names," he
added, his lips parting.
They were certainly very good dogs--if to make a most excruciating noise
constitutes merit. George Godolphin, his nerves still in a shattered
condition, lifted his hand wearily to his forehead. It brought Charlotte
Pain to her recollection.
"Oh, George, I forgot! I did, really! I forgot you were not as strong
yet as the rest of us. Be quiet, then, you three horrid brutes! Be
quiet, will you! Go off, and quarrel outside."
Using her pointed toe rather liberally, Charlotte set herself to scatter
the dogs. They were not very obedient. As soon as one was got out
another sprang in, the noise never ceasing. Charlotte snatched up a
basket of macaroons that happened to be on a side-table, and scattered
the cakes on the terrace. "There, quarrel and fight over those!"
She put down the empty basket, closed the window to shut out the noise,
and turned to George. Spreading out her dress on either side, after the
manner once in vogue in ancient ballrooms she dropped him an elaborate
curtsey.
"Mr. George Godolphin, what honour do you suppose is thrust upon me
to-day?"
"You must tell me, Charlotte, if it's one you wish me to know," he
answered. "I can never attempt to guess when I feel tired; as I do now."
"Your walk has tired you?"
"I suppose it has. Though I thought how well I felt as I came along."
"The great honour of entertaining you all by my own self is delegated to
me," cried Charlotte gaily, dropping another curtsey. "I hope we shall
not quarrel, as those dogs are doing."
"The honour of entertaining me!" he repeated, not grasping her meaning.
"Entertaining me for what?"
"For dinner, sir. Mrs. Verrall has gone to London."
"No!" he exclaimed. He did not believe her.
Charlotte nodded. "She went at midday."
"But what took her away so suddenly?" exclaimed George, in surprise.
"She had no intention yesterday of going."
"A freak. Or, impulse--if you like the word better. Kate rarely acts
upon anything else. She has been expecting Verrall home these last three
days; but he has neither come nor written: and this morning, after the
post was in, she suddenly declared she'd go to town, and see what was
keeping him."
"They may cross each other on the road."
"Of course they may: and Kate have her journey for her pains. That's
nothing to her: she likes travelling. 'What am I to do with Mr. George
Godolphin? Entertain him?' I said to her. 'I suppose you can contrive to
do it,' she answered. 'I suppose I could,' I said. 'But, what about its
being proper?' I asked," added Charlotte, with a demure glance at
George. "'Oh,' said Kate, 'it's proper enough, poor sick fellow: it
would never do to disappoint him.' Therefore, sir, please take care that
you behave properly, considering that a young lady is your hostess."
She threw a laughing glance at George; and, sitting down at the table,
took a pack of beautifully painted cards from an ivory box, and began
that delectable game that the French call "Patience." George watched her
from the sofa where he was sitting. A certain thought had darted into
his mind. What fit of prudence called it up? Did he think of Charlotte's
good?--or of his own? Did the recollection of what Cecil had whispered
actuate him? It cannot be told. It was very far indeed from George
Godolphin's intention to make a wife of Charlotte Pain, and he may have
deemed it well to avoid all situations where he might compromise himself
by a hasty word. Such words are more easily dropped than taken up again.
Or perhaps George, free and careless though he was, reflected that it
was not altogether the thing for Charlotte Pain to entertain him alone.
With all his faults, George Godolphin was a gentleman: and Charlotte was
not altogether fitted for a gentleman's wife.
"I am glad of it, Charlotte," he remarked. "I shall now have to make
excuses to one only, instead of to two. I came to ask Mrs. Verrall to
allow me to break through my engagement."
Charlotte had a knave in her hand, pondering where she could place it.
She dropped it in her surprise.
"I must dine at home to-day, Charlotte. An old friend of my father and
mother's, Mrs. Briscow, is arriving for dinner. I cannot be absent."
The flush deepened on Charlotte's face. "It is unkind of you!" she
resentfully said. "But I knew before what your promises are worth."
"Unkind? But, Charlotte, I did not know until this morning that Mrs.
Briscow was coming to-day. There's nothing unkind about it."
"It _is_ unkind!" flashed Charlotte. "If you were not unkind, you would
not leave me here alone, to pass a solitary evening and play at this
wretched 'patience.'"
"But I am not going to leave you here. I wish to take you back with me
to Ashlydyat to dinner. If you will put on your bonnet, we can be
walking thither at once."
"You did not come intending to ask me."
"I did not. I did not know that Mrs. Verrall would be absent. But I ask
you now, being alone as you say. And I intend to take you."
"What will Miss Godolphin say?"
"Miss Godolphin will be very happy to see you." Which little assertion
Mr. George knew to contain more politeness than truth. "Will you get
ready, Charlotte? I must be returning."
Charlotte pushed the cards from her in a heap, and came and stood before
George Godolphin, turning herself about for his inspection. "Shall I do
without further embellishment?" she asked.
"Admirably," was the gallant answer. "Why dress more for Ashlydyat than
you would for home?"
Charlotte marched to the glass and surveyed herself. "Just something in
my hair," she said, ringing the bell.
A maid came in by her desire, and fastened some blue and silver flowers
in her hair. Charlotte Pain wore her hair capriciously: rarely two days
alike. To-day it was all strained back from the face, that most trying
of all styles, let the features be ever so pretty. A shawl was thrown
over her shoulders, and then she turned to George.
"I am ready now."
"But your bonnet?" returned that gentleman, who had looked on with
laughing eyes at the mysteries of the hair-dressing.
"I shall not put on a bonnet," she said. "They can bring it to me to
Ashlydyat, for returning at night. People won't meet us: the road's not
a public road. And if they should meet us," she added, laughing, "they
will rejoice in the opportunity of seeing me abroad like this. It will
be food for Prior's Ash."
So they started. Charlotte would not take his arm: she said he must take
hers: he needed support and she did not. That, George would not agree
to: and they strolled on, side by side, resting on benches occasionally.
George found he had not much to boast of yet, in the way of strength.
"Who's this, coming up?" exclaimed Charlotte, when they had almost
gained Ashlydyat, and were resting for the last time.
George followed the direction of her eyes. Advancing towards Ashlydyat
was a lady, her grey silk dress gleaming in the sun, a light Cashmere
shawl folded round her. There was no mistaking the ladylike figure of
Mrs. Hastings.
"Is she to be one of your dinner-party?"
"Not that I am aware of."
Mrs. Hastings joined them. She sat down on a bench by George's side,
affectionately inquiring into his state of health, speaking kindly and
truthfully her pleasure at seeing him, so far, well again. Whatever
prejudice may have been taken against George Godolphin by the Rector of
All Souls', it did not extend to his wife. She liked him much.
"I am getting on famously," said George, in a merry tone. "I have
promoted myself now to one stick: until yesterday I was forced to use
two. You are going to Ashlydyat, Mrs. Hastings?"
"I wish to say a few words to Bessy. We have discovered something
unpleasant relating to one of the schools, in which the under-mistress
is mixed up. A good deal of deceit has been going on, in fact. Mr.
Hastings says Bessy ought to hear of it at once, for she was as much
interested in it as we are. So I came up."
Mrs. Hastings, in speaking, had taken two or three glances at
Charlotte's head. That young lady set herself to explain. Mr. George
Godolphin had given her an impromptu invitation to go back with him to
dine at Ashlydyat.
Then George explained. He had been engaged to dine at the Folly: but
found, on arriving, that Mrs. Verrall had departed for London. "My
friends are all kind to me, Mrs. Hastings," he observed. "They insist
upon it that a change of a few hours must benefit me, and encumber
themselves with the trouble of a fanciful invalid."
"I am sure there's nothing like change and amusement for one growing
convalescent," said Charlotte.
"Will you let us contribute in some little way to it?" asked Mrs.
Hastings of George. "If a few hours' sojourn in our quiet house would be
agreeable to you, you know that we should only be too happy for you to
try it."
"I should like it of all things," cried George, impulsively, "I cannot
walk far yet without resting, and it is pleasant to sit a few hours at
my walk's end, before I begin to start back again. I shall soon extend
my journeys to Prior's Ash."
"Then come to us the first day that you feel able to get as far. You
will always find some of us at home. We will dine at any hour you like,
and you shall choose your own dinner."
"A bargain," said George.
They rose to pursue their way to Ashlydyat. Mrs. Hastings offered her
arm to George, and he took it with thanks. "He would not take mine!"
thought Charlotte, and she flashed an angry glance at him.
The fact was, that for some considerable time Charlotte Pain had put
Maria Hastings almost out of her head, as regarded her relations to
George Godolphin. Whatever reason she may have seen at Broomhead to
believe he was attached to Maria, the impression had since faded away.
In the spring, before his illness, George had been much more with her
than with Maria. This was not entirely George's fault: the Rectory did
not court him: Charlotte Pain and the Folly did. A week had now passed
since Mr. Verrall's departure for town, when George and his sticks
appeared at the Folly for the first time after his illness; and, not a
day of that week since but George and Charlotte had met. Altogether, her
hopes of winning the prize had gone up to enthusiastic heat; and
Charlotte believed the greatest prize in the world--taking all his
advantages collectively--to be George Godolphin. George went at once to
his sister Janet's chamber. She was in it, dressing for dinner, after
bringing her aged guest, Mrs. Briscow, from the station. He knocked at
the door with his stick, and was told to enter.
Janet was before the glass in her black silk dress, trimmed heavily with
crape still. She was putting on her sober cap, a white one, with black
ribbons. Janet Godolphin had taken to wear caps at thirty years of age:
her hair, like Thomas's, was thin; and she was not troubled with cares
of making herself appear younger than she was.
"Come in, George," she said, turning to him without any appearance of
surprise.
"See how good I am, Janet!" he cried, throwing himself wearily into a
chair. "I have come back to dine with you."
"I saw you from the window. You have been walking too far!"
"Only to the Folly and back. But I sauntered about, looking at the
flowers, and that tires one far worse than bearing on steadily."
"Ay. Lay yourself down on that couch at full length, lad. Mrs. Hastings
is here, I see. And--was that other Charlotte Pain?"
"Yes," replied George, disregarding the injunction to lie down.
"Did she come from the Folly in that guise?--Nothing on her head but
those flowers? I could see no bonnet even in her hand."
"It is to be sent after her. Janet"--passing quickly from the other
matter--"she has come to dine with us."
Miss Godolphin turned in amazement, and fixed her eyes reproachfully on
George. "To dine with us?--to-day? Have you been asking her?"
"Janet, I could not well help myself. When I got to Lady Godolphin's
Folly, I found Charlotte alone: Mrs. Verrall has departed for town. To
break through my engagement there, I proposed that Charlotte should come
here."
"Nay," said Janet, "your engagement was already broken, if Mrs. Verrall
was away."
"Not so. Charlotte expected me to remain."
"Herself your sole entertainer?"
"I suppose so."
A severe expression arose to Miss Godolphin's lips, and remained there.
"It is most unsuitable, Charlotte Pain's being here to-day," she
resumed. "The changes which have taken place render our meeting with
Mrs. Briscow a sad one; no stranger ought to be at table. Least of all,
Charlotte Pain. Her conversation is at times unfeminine."
"How can you say so, Janet?" he involuntarily exclaimed.
"Should she launch into some of her favourite topics, her horses and her
dogs, it will sound unfeminine to Mrs. Briscow's ears. In her young
days--in _my_ days also, George, for the matter of that--these subjects
were deemed more suitable to men's lips than to young women's. George,
had your mother lived, it would have been a sore day to her, the one
that brought the news that you had fixed your mind on Charlotte Pain."
"It was not so to my father, at any rate," George could not help saying.
"And was it possible that you did not see how Charlotte Pain played her
cards before your father?" resumed Janet. "Not a word, that could offend
his prejudices as a refined gentleman, did she ever suffer herself to
utter. I saw; if you did not."
"You manage to see a great deal that the rest of us don't see, Janet. Or
you fancy that you do."
"It is no fancy, lad. I would not like to discourage a thing that you
have set your heart upon; I would rather go a mile out of my way than do
it: but I stand next door to a mother to you, and I can but warn you
that you will repent it, if you ever suffer Charlotte Pain to be more to
you than she now is."
George rose. "Set your mind at rest, Janet. It has never been my
intention to marry Charlotte Pain: and--so far as I believe at
present--it never will be."
The dinner went off pleasantly. Mrs. Briscow was a charming old lady,
although she was of the "antediluvian" school, and Charlotte was on her
best behaviour, and half fascinated Mrs. Briscow. George, like a
trespassing child, received several hints from Janet that bed might be
desirable for him, but he ingeniously ignored them, and sat on.
Charlotte's bonnet and an attendant arrived, and Thomas Godolphin put on
his hat to see her to the Folly.
"I need not trouble you, Mr. Godolphin. I shall not be run away with."
"I think it will be as well that I should see you do not," said he,
smiling.
It was scarcely dark. The clock had not struck ten, and the night was
starlight. Thomas Godolphin gave her his arm, and the maid walked behind
them. Arrived at Ashlydyat, he left her. Charlotte stood for a few
moments, then turned on her heel and entered the hall. The first thing
that caught her notice was a hat; next a travelling coat. They had not
been there when she left in the afternoon.
"Then Verrall's back!" she mentally exclaimed.
Hastening into the dining-room, she saw, seated at a table, drinking
brandy and water, not Mr. Verrall, but Rodolf Pain.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Charlotte, with more surprise in her tone
than satisfaction, "have _you_ come?"
"Come to find an empty house," rejoined Mr. Pain. "Where's Mrs. Verrall?
They tell me she is gone to London."
"She is," replied Charlotte. "Verrall neither came back nor wrote; she
had a restless fit upon her, and started off this morning to him."
"Verrall won't thank her," observed Mr. Pain. "He is up to his eyes in
business."
"Good or bad business?" asked Charlotte.
"Both. We have got into a mess, and Verrall's not yet out of it."
"Through what? Through whom?" she questioned.
Rodolf Pain gave his shoulders a jerk, as if he had been a Frenchman.
"It need not trouble you, Charlotte."
"Some one came down here from London a week ago; a Mr. Appleby. Is it
through him? Verrall seemed strangely put out at his coming."
Mr. Pain nodded his head. "They were such idiots in the office as to
give Appleby the address here. I have seen Verrall in a tolerable
passion once or twice in my life, but I never saw him in such a one as
he went into when he came up. They'll not forget it in a hurry. He lays
the blame on me, remotely; says I must have left a letter about with the
address on it. I know I have done nothing of the sort."
"But what is it, Rodolf? Anything very bad?"
"Bad enough. But it can be remedied. Let Verrall alone for getting out
of pits, however deep they may be. I wish, though, we had never set eyes
on that fellow, Appleby!"
"Tell me about it, Rodolf."
Mr. Rodolf declined. "You could do no good," said he, "and business is
not fitted for ladies' ears."
"I don't care to know it," said Charlotte. "It's no concern of mine:
but, somehow, that man Appleby interested me. As to business not being
fitted for my ears, I should make a better hand at business than some of
you men make."
"Upon my word, I think you would, Charlotte. I have often said it. But
you are one in a thousand."
"Have you had anything to eat since you came in?"
"They brought me some supper. It has just gone away."
"I had better inquire whether there's a room ready for you?" she
remarked, moving towards the bell.
"It's all done, Charlotte. I told them I had come to stay. Just sit
down, and let me talk to you."
"Shall you stay long?"
"I can't tell until I hear from Verrall to-morrow. I may be leaving
again to-morrow night, or I may be here for interminable weeks. The
office is to be clear of Mr. Verrall just now, do you understand?"
Charlotte apparently did understand. She took her seat in a chair
listlessly enough. Something in her manner would have told an accurate
observer that she could very well have dispensed with the company of
Rodolf Pain. He, however, saw nothing of that. He took his cigar-case
from his pocket, selected a cigar, and then, by way of sport, held the
case out to Charlotte.
"Will you take one?"
For answer, she dashed it out of his hand half way across the room. And
she did it in anger, too.
"How uncertain you are!" he exclaimed, as he rose to pick up his
property. "There are times when you can take a joke pleasantly, and
laugh at it."
He sat down again, lighted his cigar, and smoked a few minutes in
silence. Then he turned to her. "Don't you think it is time, Charlotte,
that you and I brought ourselves to an anchor?"
"No, I don't," she bluntly answered.
"But I say it is," he resumed. "And I mean it to be done."
"_You_ mean!"
Something in the tone roused him, and he gazed at her with surprise.
"You are not going from your promise, Charlotte?"
"I don't remember that I made any distinct promise," said she.
Mr. Rodolf Pain grew heated. "You know that you did, Charlotte. You know
that you engaged yourself irrevocably to me----"
"Irrevocably!" she slightingly interrupted. "How you misapply words!"
"It was as irrevocable as promise can be. Have you not led me on, this
twelvemonth past, believing month after month that you would be my wife
the next? And, month after month, you have put me off upon the most
frivolous pretexts!"
He rose as he spoke, drew up his little figure to its utmost height in
his excitement, and pushed back his light hair from his small,
insignificant face. A face that betrayed not too much strength of any
sort, physical, moral, or intellectual; but a good-natured face withal.
Charlotte retained unbroken calmness.
"Rodolf, I don't think it would do," she said, with an air of candid
reasoning. "I have thought it over and over, and that's why I have put
you off. It is not well that we should all be so closely connected
together. Better get new ties, that will shelter us, in case a--a----"
"A what?" asked Rodolf Pain, his eyes strained on Charlotte through
their very light lashes.
"In case a smash comes. That--if we are all in the same boat--would ruin
the lot. Better that you and I should form other connections."
"You are talking great nonsense," he angrily said. "A smash!--to us!
Can't you trust Verrall better than that?"
"Why, you say that, even at this present moment----"
"You are wrong, Charlotte," he vehemently interrupted; "you entirely
misunderstand me. Things go wrong in business temporarily; they must do
so in business of all sorts; but they right themselves again. Why! do
you know what Verrall made last year?"
"A great deal."
"My little petty share was two thousand pounds: and that is as a drop of
water to the ocean compared with his. What has put you upon these
foolish fancies?"
"Prudence," returned Charlotte.
"I don't believe it," was the plain answer. "You are trying to blind me.
You are laying yourself out for higher game; and to shut my eyes, and
gain time to see if you can play it out, you concoct a story of
'prudence' to me. It's one or the other of those Godolphins."
"The Godolphins!" mockingly repeated Charlotte. "You are clever! The one
will never marry as long as the world lasts; the other's dead."
"Dead!" echoed Rodolf Pain.
"As good as dead. He's like a ghost, and he is being sent off for an
everlasting period to some warmer climate. How ridiculous you are,
Rodolf!"
"Charlotte, I'll take care of ways and means. I'll take care of you and
your interests. Only fix the time when you will be mine."
"Then I won't, Rodolf. I don't care to marry yet awhile. I'll see about
it when the next hunting season shall be over."
Rodolf Pain opened his eyes. "The hunting season!" he cried. "What has
that to do with it?"
"Were you my husband, you would be forbidding me to hunt; you don't like
my doing it now. So for the present I'll remain mistress of my own
actions."
"Another lame excuse," he said, knitting his brow. "You will take very
good care always to remain mistress of your own actions, whether married
or single."
Charlotte laughed, a ringing laugh of power. It spoke significantly
enough to Mr. Rodolf Pain. He would have renewed the discussion, but she
peremptorily declined, and shaking hands with him, wished him good
night.
CHAPTER XX.
A REVELATION TO ALL SOULS' RECTOR.
George Godolphin was not long at availing himself of the invitation to
All Souls' Rectory. The very day after it was given, he was on his way
to it. He started with his stick: made one halt at a shop on his road,
and arrived about twelve o'clock.
Not a soul was at home but Maria. Mrs. Hastings, who had not expected
him for some days, for she did not suppose his strength would allow him
to get so far yet, had gone out with Grace. Mr. Hastings was in the
church, and Maria was alone.
She sat in that one pleasant room of the house, the long room looking to
the lawn and the flower-beds. She looked so pretty, so refined, so quiet
in her simple dress of white muslin, as she pursued her employment, that
of drawing, never suspecting how she was going to be interrupted.
The door of the porch stood open, as it often did in summer, and George
Godolphin entered without the ceremony of knocking. The hall was well
matted, and Maria did not hear him cross it. A slight tap at the room
door.
"Come in," said Maria, supposing it to be one of the servants.
He came in and stood in the doorway, smiling down upon her. So shadowy,
so thin! his face utterly pale, his dark blue eyes unnaturally large,
his wavy hair damp with the exertion of walking. Maria's heart stood
still. She rose from her seat, unable to speak, the colour going and
coming in her transparent skin; and when she quietly moved forward to
welcome him, her heart found its action again, and bounded on in
tumultuous beats. The very intensity of her emotion caused her demeanour
to be almost unnaturally still.
"Are you glad to see me, Maria?"
It was the first time they had met since his illness; the first time for
more than four months. All that time separated; all that time fearing he
was about to be removed by death! As he approached Maria, her emotion
broke forth--she burst into tears; and surely it may be excused her.
He was scarcely less agitated. He clasped her tenderly to him, and
kissed the tears from her face, his own eyelashes glistening. There was
no great harm in it after all; for that each looked forward to the hope
of being bound together at no great distance of time by nearer and
dearer ties, was indisputable. At least no harm would have come of it,
if---- Look at the window.
_They_ did. And there they saw the awful face of the Rector glaring in
upon them, and by its side, the more awful of the two, that of Charlotte
Pain.
Why had she followed George Godolphin to the Rectory? Was she determined
not to allow him a single _chance_ of escaping her? She, bearing in
remembrance the compact with Mrs. Hastings, had watched George
Godolphin's movements that morning from the windows of the Folly; had
watched the by-road leading to the Rectory. She saw George and his stick
go tottering down it: and by-and-by she put on her things and went out
too, imperatively declining the escort of Mr. Rodolf Pain.
Her intention was to make a call at the Rectory--all unconscious of
course that she should find Mr. George Godolphin there. By dint of a
little by-play with Mrs. Hastings--who was too thoroughly a lady to be
given to suspicion--she might receive an invitation to remain also for
the day. With these very laudable intentions Charlotte arrived opposite
All Souls' Church, where she caught sight of the Reverend Mr. Hastings
emerging from the door. She crossed the churchyard, and accosted him.
"Is Mrs. Hastings at home, do you know? I am going to call upon her?"
Now Charlotte was no great favourite of that gentleman's: nevertheless,
being a gentleman, he answered her courteously as he shook hands. He
believed Mrs. Hastings and Grace were out, he said, but Maria was at
home.
"I am moped to death!" exclaimed Charlotte, as she and Mr. Hastings
entered the private gate to the Rectory garden. "Mrs. Verrall is gone to
London, and there am I! I came out intending to go the round of the town
until I could find some good Samaritan or other who would take
compassion on me, and let me stay an hour or two with them."
Mr. Hastings gave no particular reply. He did not make for the side door
of the house, his usual entrance from the church, but turned towards the
front, that he might usher in Charlotte in state. This took them by the
windows of the drawing-room: and there they saw--what has been recorded.
Mr. Hastings, in his astonishment, halted: Charlotte halted also, as you
may be very sure.
George was the first to see them, and a word of anger broke from his
lips. Maria hastily raised her head from its resting-place--and felt
almost as if she should die. To be seen thus by Charlotte Pain was bad
enough: but by her strict father! Her face grew white.
George Godolphin saw the signs. "My darling, only be calm! Leave all to
me."
That an explanation was forced upon him somewhat prematurely, was
undoubted. But it was no unwelcome explanation. Nay, in the second
moment, he was deeming it the very best thing that could have happened:
for certain visions of taking Maria with him into exile had crossed his
brain lately. He would try hard now to get them realized. It is true he
would have preferred, all things considered, not to speak before Miss
Charlotte Pain: but necessity, as you know, has no law.
The Rector came in at the door: Charlotte following. "Mr. George
Godolphin!" he frigidly began; but George interrupted what he would have
further said.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, taking a step forward; "allow me one
word of explanation before you cast blame on me. I was asking your
daughter to be my wife. Will you give her to me?"
Mr. Hastings looked as a man confounded. That he was intensely surprised
at the words was evident: perhaps he half doubted whether Mr. George
Godolphin was playing with him. He cast a severe glance at Maria. George
had taken her on his arm, and she stood there shrinking, her head
drooping; her eyelashes resting on her white cheek. As for Charlotte
Pain? well, you should have seen her.
Ah no, there was no deception. George was in true earnest, and Mr.
Hastings saw that he was. His eyes were fixed beseechingly on those of
Mr. Hastings, and emotion had brought the hectic to his wasted cheek.
"Do not blame Maria, sir," he resumed. "She is innocent of all offence,
and dutiful as innocent. Were you to interpose your veto between us, and
deny her to me, I know that she would obey you, even though the struggle
killed her. Mr. Hastings, we have loved each other for some time past:
and I should have spoken to you before, but for my illness intervening.
Will you give her to me at once, and let her share my exile!"
Mr. Hastings had no insuperable objection to George Godolphin. That
report had given Mr. George credit for bushels and bushels of wild oats,
which he would have to sow, was certain: but in this respect he was no
worse than many others, and marriage is supposed to be a cure for
youthful follies. Mr. Hastings had once suspected that Maria was
acquiring more liking for George than was good for her: hence his
repulsion of George, for he believed that he was destined for Charlotte
Pain. Even now he could not comprehend how it was, and the prominent
feeling in his mind was surprised perplexity.
"I love her as my own life, sir. I will strive to render her happy."
"I cannot understand it," said Mr. Hastings, dropping his tone of anger.
"I was under the impression--I beg your pardon, Miss Pain," turning to
her, "but I was under the impression that you were engaged to Mr. George
Godolphin!"
If ever Charlotte Pain had need to fight for composure, she had dire
need then. Her hopes were suddenly hurled to the ground, and she had the
cruel mortification of hearing him, whom she best loved, reject and
spurn her for a long-hated rival. If her love for George Godolphin was
not very deep or refined--and it was neither the one nor the other--she
did love him after a fashion; better, at any rate, than she loved any
one else. The _position_ she would take as George Godolphin's wife was
hurled from her; and perhaps Miss Charlotte cared for that more than she
did for George himself. The Verralls and their appearance of wealth were
all very well in their places--as George had said by the dogs--but what
were they, compared with the ancient Godolphins? There are moments which
drive a woman to the verge of madness, and Charlotte was so driven now.
Anything like control of temper was quite beyond her: and malevolence
entered her heart.
"I engaged to Mr. George Godolphin!" she echoed, taking up the Rector's
words in a shrieking tone, which she could not have helped had her life
depended on it. "Engaged to a married man? Thank you, Mr. Hastings."
"A married man!" repeated the puzzled Rector. Whilst George turned his
questioning eyes upon her.
"Yes, a married man," she continued, her throat working, her breath
panting. "They may have chosen to hoodwink you, to blind you, Mr.
Hastings, but I saw what I saw. When your daughter--innocent Miss Maria
there--came home from Scotland, she had been married to George
Godolphin. A false priest, a sort of Gretna Green man, had married them:
and I saw it done. _I_ engaged to George Godolphin!"
Charlotte Pain knew that the words were false: called up to gratify her
rage in that angry moment. Scarcely anything else that she could conjure
up would so have told upon the Rector. In his straightforward
right-doing, to his practical mind, a clandestine marriage appeared one
of the cardinal sins. His face turned pale, and his eye flashed as he
grasped Maria's shoulder.
"Girl! is this so?"
"Oh, papa, no!" returned Maria, with streaming eyes. "It is a wicked
untruth. Charlotte! to tell such an untruth _is_ wicked. Papa, I affirm
to you----"
"Hush, Maria," interposed George, "let me deal with this. Mr. Hastings,
it is a thing that you need scarcely _ask_ of your daughter--whether it
is true, or untrue. Is she one, think you, to enter into a clandestine
marriage? You know better, sir. Nothing has ever passed between myself
and Maria more than has passed before you this day. Were I thoughtless
enough to solicit her to enter into one--and you need not think of _me_
a whit better than you choose--Maria would only repulse me. Miss Pain,
will you unsay your words?"
For answer, Miss Pain entered into a scornful account of Sandy Bray and
his doings. She reiterated her assertion. She declared that she saw
Maria and George standing before him, their hands clasped together in
the attitude of a couple being married, when she entered suddenly with a
message from Lady Godolphin, and she finished up by saying she had
always believed since that they were married, only it had been no
business of hers to proclaim it. The Rector's brow grew moist again, and
George Godolphin looked significantly at Charlotte. He spoke
significantly, too.
"No, you have not thought it, Charlotte." And he turned and related to
Mr. Hastings as much as he knew of Sandy Bray, emphatically repeating
his denial. "If you will take a moment's thought, sir, you may be
convinced that the truth lies with me. I am beseeching you to give Maria
to me; I crave it of you as the greatest boon that I can ask in life. I
know not whether you will yield to my petition: but, what argument could
I urge, to induce it, with half the force of the one that she was
already secretly my wife? Nay, were she indeed so, why should I care for
the ceremony to be repeated? I should only have to confess it, and throw
myself and my wife upon your forgiveness. I heartily wish it had been
so!"
"You are bold, Mr. George Godolphin!"
"Bold, sir?" returned George, with emotion. "Not more bold than I ought
to be. I don't care to defend myself, but I do care to defend Maria.
Give her to me, Mr. Hastings! give her to me!" he added, changing his
tone to one of tender entreaty. "I will defend her through life with my
best blood."
Mr. Hastings looked at him; looked at the tearful, but certainly not
guilty countenance of his daughter; turned and looked at the furious one
of Charlotte Pain. "Step this way," he said to George Godolphin. "I
would speak to you alone."
He took him to another room, and shut the door. "I want the truth," he
said, "upon one or two points----"
"Mr. Hastings," said George, drawing himself up, "I have told you
nothing but the truth upon all points."
"Were you never engaged to Charlotte Pain?" proceeded Mr. Hastings,
taking no notice of the interruption.
"Never. I never sought or wished to be."
"Then what did your good father, Sir George, mean, when he alluded to it
the night he was dying? He asked if you and Charlotte were married yet,
and you replied, 'Plenty of time for that.'"
"I said it merely in answer to his words: it was not an hour for dissent
or explanation. He was not conscious of what he said."
"Had you expressed to him any particular liking for Charlotte Pain?"
"I had not; at any time. Sir George believed Miss Pain had a large
fortune, and he recommended me, more than once, to think of her, and it.
He said she was a handsome girl, and none the worse for possessing a
fortune. He had heard she would have thirty thousand pounds. I used to
laugh it off. I cared for Maria too much to cast a thought to Charlotte
Pain. That is the whole truth, Mr. Hastings, on my honour."
"Would he have objected to Maria?"
"To Maria I am certain he would not have objected. To her want of
fortune he might. But that is a thing that only concerns myself. I do
not require fortune with my wife, and I do not seek it. You will give
her to me, Mr. Hastings? You will dispense with unnecessary ceremony,
and let her go abroad with me?" he urged. "She will do me more good than
all else."
"I will give you no promise of any sort, Mr. George Godolphin. As to
taking her abroad with you, it is absurd to think of it. And no daughter
of mine shall enter a family where she is not sure of a hearty welcome.
I must first know the sentiments of yours."
George looked radiant. "Mr. Hastings, if they heartily welcome Maria,
will you allow _me_ to welcome her?"
"Possibly I may."
"Then it is an affair decided. Janet will be relieved of a nightmare;
and Maria is, I believe, Thomas's prime favourite in all the world, now
that Ethel is gone."
"Of what nightmare will it relieve Miss Godolphin?" inquired the Rector.
A smile crossed George's lips. "She, like you, has been fearing that I
intended to connect myself with Charlotte Pain. Only yesterday I assured
Janet that she was mistaken; but I scarcely think she placed entire
faith in me. She does not like Miss Pain."
"Do you think you have pursued a wise course in giving cause for this
talk, regarding Miss Pain?"
"I have not given cause to Miss Pain herself, Mr. Hastings," replied
George, warmly. "I am convinced that she has known in her heart of my
attachment to Maria. As to whiling away a few hours with her
occasionally in idle talk, it is a pastime that Charlotte Pain is given
to favour."
"And myself also," Mr. George might have added.
They left the room together. A servant came up to Mr. Hastings as he was
crossing the hall, and said an applicant at the door craved speech of
him. The Rector turned to it, and George entered the drawing-room alone.
Maria stood, pale, anxious, excited, leaning against a corner of the
window, half shrouded by the muslin curtains. She scarcely dared look up
when George entered. It was not _his_ gaze that she dreaded to meet, but
that of Mr. Hastings. To anger or displease her father was wormwood to
Maria.
George cast a glance round the room. "Where's Charlotte Pain?" he asked.
"She is gone," was Maria's answer. "Oh, George!" clasping her hands, and
lifting to him her streaming eyes: "it was cruel of her to say what she
did!"
"I could give it a better name than that, Maria. Never mind: we can
afford to be generous to-day."
"Is papa fully convinced that--that I do not deserve blame?"
"He was convinced of that before he left this room. You are to be mine,
Maria," he softly added in a whisper. "And very shortly. I must take you
abroad with me."
She stood before him, not daring to look up now: shrinking from his
ardent gaze, the crimson mantling to her pure cheek.
"Mr. Hastings demurs at the haste; calls it absurd," continued George;
"but, if you will consent to waive ceremony, surely he may do so. Which
would be more absurd, Maria? your marrying without the three months'
preparation for millinery deemed necessary by fashion, or my going away
alone for an indefinite period, perhaps to die."
"Not to die, George!" she involuntarily answered in a tone painfully
beseeching--as if he held the fiat of life or death in his own hands.
"But--about the haste--I don't know---- I heard you thought of departing
soon?"
"I ought to be away in a fortnight's time."
That startled her. "A fortnight's time!" she echoed, in a voice of
alarm. "Then it could not be. What would Prior's Ash say?"
"Maria," he gravely answered, "some nine months ago, when Sarah Anne
Grame was seized with fever, my brother, alarmed for Ethel's safety,
would have married her hastily, so that he might have the right to
remove her from danger. Ethel's answer to him was, 'What would Prior's
Ash say?'--as you have now answered me. Thomas bowed to it: he suffered
the world's notions to reign paramount--and he lost Ethel. What value do
you suppose _he_ sets now upon the opinions of Prior's Ash? The cases
may not be precisely parallel, but they are sufficiently so to decide
me. If I go away from home, I take you: if I may not take you, I do not
go. And now, my darling, I will say farewell to you for the present."
She was surprised. She thought he had come to stay for some hours.
"Yes," he replied; "but affairs have changed since I entered. Until they
shall be more definitively settled, Mr. Hastings will not care that I
remain his guest."
He bent to kiss her. Not in the stolen manner he had been accustomed to,
but--quietly, gravely, turning her shy face to his, as if it were his
legal province so to do. "A little while, young lady," he saucily
whispered, "and you will be giving me kiss for kiss."
Mr. Hastings was in the porch still, holding a colloquy with ill-doing
and troublesome Mrs. Bond. George held out his hand as he passed.
"You have not rested yourself," said the Rector.
"I shall get back as far as the bank and rest there," replied George. "I
presume, sir, that you intend to see my brother?"
"And also Miss Godolphin," curtly said the Rector.
His eyes followed George down the path to the gate, as he and his stick
moved unsteadily along. "Marry now!" mentally cried Mr. Hastings, his
brow contracting: "he looks more fit to take to his bed, and keep it.
Now, Mrs. Bond," he added aloud, "let me hear the conclusion of this
fine tale."
George took his way to the bank. He had not passed it in coming, having
cut across from Ashlydyat by the nearer way at the back of the town. He
took them by surprise. Mr. Crosse was out, but the clerks were warm in
their congratulations; they had not believed him yet equal to the
exertion.
"You look very tired," said Thomas, when they were alone in the bank
parlour.
"I feel fagged to death," was George's answer. "I must get you to send
out for a fly for me, and go home in that. Thomas," he continued,
plunging into his business abruptly, "I expect you will have an
application made to you, regarding me."
"In what way?" quietly asked Thomas.
"Well--it is not exactly a certificate of character that's required,"
returned George, with a smile. "I--I am thinking of getting married.
Will you approve of it?"
"I have no right to disapprove," said Thomas, in a kind, grave tone.
"You are your own master; free to act as you shall judge best. I only
hope, George, that you will, in choosing, consider your future
happiness."
"Has it never occurred to you that I have chosen?"
"I used to think at times that you had chosen, or felt inclined to
choose, Maria Hastings."
"Right," said George. "I have been speaking to Mr. Hastings, and it
appears to have taken him entirely by surprise. He would give me no
answer until he should have ascertained whether the alliance would be
agreeable to you and Janet. He is a man of crotchets, you know. So I
expect he will be coming to you, Thomas."
Thomas Godolphin's eyes lighted up with pleasure. "He shall receive my
hearty approval," he said, warmly. "George"--changing his tone to
sadness--"in the days gone by I thought there were two young beings
superior to the rest of the world: Ethel and Maria."
"I said so to Mr. Hastings. I conclude he fears that Maria's want of
fortune would render her unpalatable to my family," remarked George.
"Certainly not to me. Ethel, whom I chose, had even less. If you think
well to dispense with fortune in your wife, George, we have no right to
object to it. I am _glad_ that you have chosen Maria Hastings."
But there was Janet yet to come. George went home in a fly, and threw
himself on the first sofa he could find. Janet, full of concern, came to
him.
"I said you were attempting too much, George!" she cried. "But you never
will listen to me."
"I'm sure, Janet, I listen to you dutifully. I have come home to consult
you now," he added, a little spirit of mischief dancing in his gay blue
eyes. "It is not fatigue or illness that has brought me. Janet, I am
going to be married."
Janet Godolphin's pulses beat more quickly. She sat down and folded her
hands with a gesture of pain. "I knew it would be so. You need not have
tried to deceive me yesterday, lad."
"But the young lady's friends refuse her to me, unless my family openly
sanction and approve of the match," went on George. "You'll be kindly
over it, won't you, Janet?"
"No, lad. I cannot forbid it; I have no authority over you: but,
sanction it, I never will. What has put it into your head to marry in
this haste? You, with one foot in the grave, as may be said, and one out
of it?"
"Well, you see, Janet, you won't trust me abroad without some one to
look after me," he slowly answered, as if he were arguing some momentous
question. "You say you can't go, and Bessy can't go, and Cecil may not,
and I say I won't have Margery. What was I to do, but marry? I cannot
take a young lady, you know, without first marrying her."
Janet Godolphin's grave eyes were fixed on vacancy, and her thin lips
drawn in to pressure. She did not answer.
"Thomas heartily approves," he continued. "I have been with him."
"Thomas must do as he likes," said Janet. "But, unless you have
unwittingly misunderstood him, George, you are telling me a deliberate
falsehood. He will never approve of your marrying Charlotte Pain."
"Charlotte Pain!" repeated George, with an air of as much surprise as if
it were genuine, "who was talking about Charlotte Pain? What put her
into your head?"
Janet's face flushed. "Were _you_ not talking of Charlotte Pain?"
"Not I," said George. "In spite of the compliments you pay my
truthfulness, Janet, I _meant_ what I said to you yesterday--that I did
not intend to make her my wife. I am speaking of Maria Hastings."
"Eh, lad, but that's good news!"
George burst into a laugh. "What green geese you must all have been,
Janet! Had you used your eyes, you might have detected this long time
past that my choice was fixed on Maria. But the Rector doubts whether
you will approve. He will not promise her to me until he has your
sanction."
"I'll put my shawl on and go down at once to the Rectory, and tell him
that we all love Maria," said Janet, more impulsively than was common
with her: but in truth she had been relieved from a great fear. There
was something about Charlotte Pain that frightened sedate Janet.
Compared with her, Maria Hastings appeared everything that was desirable
as a wife for George. Her want of fortune, her want of position--which
was certainly not equal to that of the Godolphins--were lost sight of.
"I could manage to take some broth, Janet," cried George, as she was
leaving the room. "I have had nothing since breakfast."
"To be sure. I am growing forgetful. Margery shall wait upon you, my
dear. But, to go down to the Rectory without delay, is a courtesy due
from me."
So, no impediment was placed upon the marriage. Neither was any
impediment placed upon its immediate celebration: the Rector permitting
himself to be persuaded into it.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHARLOTTE'S BARGAIN.
Three weeks after that momentous day at All Souls' Rectory, George
Godolphin and Maria stood before the Rector in All Souls' Church. George
did not appear very ill now; he was not so shadowy, his fine complexion
had returned, and stick the second was discarded. Maria was beautiful.
Her soft bridal robes floated around her, her colour went and came as
she glanced shyly up at George Godolphin. A handsome couple; a couple
seldom seen.
It was quite a private marriage so to say; but few guests being present,
and they relatives, or very close friends. Lady Godolphin had responded
to the invitation (which Janet had not expected her to do), and was the
guest of Ashlydyat. Very superb was she in silks and jewels this day.
Old Mrs. Briscow had also remained for it. Mr. Crosse was present, and
some relatives of the Hastings family: and Grace and Cecil were
bridesmaids. The Rector joined their hands, speaking the necessary words
slowly and emphatically; words that bound them to each other until
death.
Then came the breakfast at the Rectory, and then the going away. The
carriage waited at the gate. The Rector laid his hand upon George
Godolphin's arm as he was going out to it, and addressed him in a low
tone.
"I have confided her to you in entire trust. You will cherish her in all
love and honour?"
"Always!" emphatically pronounced George, grasping the Rector's hand.
"You shall never have cause to repent the gift."
Thomas Godolphin was placing Maria in the carriage. She looked out
through her tears, nodding her last adieus. George took his place beside
her, and the postboy started on the first stage towards Dover.
As they were passing the house of Lady Sarah Grame, by which their route
lay, that lady herself sat at the window, as did also Sarah Anne; both
on the tiptoe of curiosity, beyond all doubt. Between them, laughing and
talking with a gay air, and looking out, stood Charlotte Pain. Maria
gave vent to an involuntary exclamation.
Another moment, and they had whirled by, beyond view. George turned
impulsively to Maria and drew her closer to him. "Thank God! thank
God!" he earnestly said.
"For what?" she murmured.
"That _you_ are mine. Maria, I dreamt last night that I had married
Charlotte Pain, and that you were dying. The dream has been haunting me
all day. I can laugh at it now, thank God!"
In the gayest and lightest room of Lady Godolphin's Folly, its windows
open to the green slopes, the gay flowers, the magnificent prospect
which swept the horizon in the distance, was Mrs. Verrall. She lay back
in a _fauteuil_, in the vain, idle, listless manner favoured by her;
toying with the ribbons of her tasty dress, with the cluster of gleaming
trifles on her watch-chain, with her gossamer handkerchief, its lace so
fine in texture that unobservant eyes could not tell where the cambric
ended and the lace began, with her fan which lay beside her, tapping her
pretty foot upon an ottoman in some impatience; there she sat,
displaying her conscious charms, and waiting for any callers, idle and
vain as herself, who might arrive to admire them.
At a distance, in another _fauteuil_, listless and impatient also, sat
Rodolf Pain. Time hung heavily on Mr. Pain's hands just now. He was kept
a sort of prisoner at Lady Godolphin's Folly, and it appeared to be the
chief business of Charlotte Pain's life to be cross to him. Three weeks
had his sojourn there lasted: and though he had hinted to Charlotte on
his arrival that he might remain a goodly number of weeks--interminable
weeks, was the expression, I think--he had not really expected to do so;
and the delay was chafing him. What particular business might be keeping
Mr. Pain at Prior's Ash it is not our province at present to inquire:
what his especial motive might be for rather shunning observation than
courting it, is no affair of ours. He did not join Mrs. Verrall in her
visiting: he had an innate dislike to visitors--to "fine people," as he
phrased it. Even now, if any carriage drove up and deposited its freight
at the Folly, it would be the signal for Mr. Rodolf Pain to walk out of
the drawing-room. He was shy, and had not been accustomed to society. He
strolled in and out all day in his restlessness, nearly unnoticed by
Mrs. Verrall, fidgeting Charlotte Pain; a cigar in his mouth, and his
hands in his pockets; sauntering about the grounds, flinging himself
into chairs, one sentence of complaint for ever on his lips: "I wish to
goodness Verrall would write!"
But Verrall did not write. Mrs. Verrall had received one or two short
notes from him after her return from London--where she had stayed but
twenty-four hours--and all the allusion in them to Mr. Pain had been,
"Tell Rodolf he shall hear from me as soon as possible." Rodolf could
only wait with what patience he might, and feel himself like a caged
tiger, without its fierceness. There was no fierceness about Rodolf
Pain;--timidity rather than that.
A timidity for which Charlotte despised him. Had he been more bold and
self-asserting, she might have accorded him greater respect. What could
have possessed Charlotte ever to engage herself to Rodolf Pain, would be
a mystery for curious minds to solve, only that such mysteries are
enacted every day. Engagements and marriages apparently the most
incongruous take place. This much may be said for Charlotte: that let
her enter into what engagement she might, she would keep it or break it,
just as whim or convenience suited her. Rodolf Pain's thoughts, as he
sat in that chair, were probably turned to this very fact, for he broke
the silence suddenly by a pertinent question to Mrs. Verrall.
"Does she _never_ mean to marry?"
"Who?" languidly asked Mrs. Verrall.
"Charlotte, of course. I have nothing to do with anybody else, that I
should ask. She faithfully promised to be my wife: you know she did,
Mrs. Verrall----"
"Don't talk to me, Rodolf," apathetically interrupted Mrs. Verrall; "As
if I should interfere between you and Charlotte!"
"I think you are in league together to snub me, Mrs. Verrall, she and
you; that's what I think," grumbled Rodolf. "If I only remind her of her
promise, she snaps my nose off. Are we to be married, or are we not?"
"It is no affair of mine, I say," said Mrs. Verrall, "and I shall not
make it one. I had as soon Charlotte married you, as not; but I am not
going to take an active part in urging it--probably only to be blamed
afterwards. This is all I can say, and if you tease me more, Rodolf, I
shall trouble you to walk into another room."
Thus repulsed, Rodolf Pain held his tongue. He turned about in his
chair, stretched out his feet, drew, them in again, threw up his arms
with a prolonged yawn, and altogether proved that he was going wild for
want of something to do. Presently he began again.
"Where's she off to?"
"Charlotte?" cried Mrs. Verrall. "She went into Prior's Ash. She
said--yes, I think she said, she should call upon Lady Sarah Grame. Look
there!"
Mrs. Verrall rose from her seat, and ran to a farther window, whence she
gained a better view of the high-road, leading from Ashlydyat to Prior's
Ash. A chariot-and-four was passing slowly towards the town. Its
postboys wore white favours, and Margery and a manservant were perched
outside. Mrs. Verrall knew that it was the carriage destined to convey
away George Godolphin and his bride, who were at that moment seated at
the breakfast at All Souls' Rectory, chief amidst the wedding guests.
"Then Margery does go abroad with them!" exclaimed Mrs. Verrall. "The
servants had so many conflicting tales, that it was impossible to know
which to believe. She goes as Mrs. George's maid, I suppose, and to see
after him and his rheumatism."
"His rheumatism's well, isn't it?" returned Rodolf Pain.
"That is well; but _he's_ not. He is weak as water, needing care still.
Prudent Janet does well to send Margery. What should Maria Hastings know
about taking care of the sick? I think they have shown excessively bad
manners not to invite me to the breakfast," continued Mrs. Verrall, in a
tone of acidity.
"Some one said it was to be quite a private breakfast: confined to
relatives."
"I don't care," said Mrs. Verrall; "they might have made an exception in
my favour. They know I like such things: and we lived in their house,
Ashlydyat, and are now living at Lady Godolphin's Folly."
"That's where Charlotte's gone, I'll lay," cried Mr. Rodolf Pain.
Mrs. Verrall turned her eyes upon him with a slight accession of wonder
in them. "Gone _there_! To the Rectory? Nonsense, Rodolf!"
"I didn't say to the Rectory, Mrs. Verrall. She wouldn't be so stupid as
to go there without an invitation. She's gone about the town, to stare
at the carriages, and look out for what she can see."
"Very possibly," returned Mrs. Verrall, throwing herself into her chair
in weariness. "What has become of all the people to-day, that no one
comes to call upon me? I should think they are stopping to look at the
wedding."
Rodolf, in weariness as great, slowly lifted his body out of the chair,
gave himself another stretch, and left the room. The curse of work!
Never did work bring a curse half as great as that brought by idleness.
Better break stones on the road, better work in galley-chains, than sit
through the livelong day, day after day as the year goes round, and be
eaten up by lassitude. Rodolf Pain's compulsory idleness was only
temporary; he was away from his occupation only for a time: but Mrs.
Verrall possessed no occupation from year's end to year's end. Her hands
had no duties to perform, no labour to transact: she never touched
anything in the shape of ornamental work; she rarely, if ever, opened a
book. She was one of those who possess no resources within themselves:
and, may Heaven have mercy upon all such!
By-and-by, after Rodolf had smoked two cigars outside, and had lounged
in again, pretty nearly done to death with the effort to kill time,
Charlotte returned. She came in at the open window, apparently in the
highest spirits, her face sparkling.
"Did you hear the bells?" asked she.
"I did," answered Rodolf. "I heard them when I was out just now."
"The town's quite in a commotion," Charlotte resumed. "Half the
ragamuffins in the place are collected round the Rectory gates: they had
better let the beadle get amongst them!"
"Commotion or no commotion, I know I have not had a soul to call here!"
grumbled Mrs. Verrall. "Where have you been, Charlotte?"
"At Lady Sarah's. And I have had the great honour of seeing the bride
and bridegroom!" went on Charlotte, in a tone of complaisance so intense
as to savour of mockery. "They came driving by in their carriage, and we
had full view of them."
This somewhat aroused Mrs. Verrall from her listlessness. "They have
started, then! How did she look, Charlotte?"
"Look!" cried Charlotte. "She looked as she usually looks, for all I
saw. His cheeks were hectic; I could see that. Mr. George must take care
of himself yet, I fancy."
"How was she dressed?" questioned Mrs. Verrall again.
"Could I see?--seated low in the carriage, as she was, and leaning back
in it!" retorted Charlotte. "She wore a white bonnet and veil, and
that's all I can tell you. Margery and Pearce were with them. Kate,
don't you think Lady Sarah must _feel_ this day? A few months ago, and
it was her daughter who was on the point of marriage with a Godolphin.
But she did not seem to think of it. She'd give her head for a daughter
of hers to wed a Godolphin still."
Mrs. Verrall raised her eyes to Charlotte's with an expression of simple
astonishment. The remark mystified her. Mrs. Verrall could boast little
depth of any sort, and never saw half as far as Charlotte did. Charlotte
resumed:
"_I_ saw; _I_ know: I have seen and known ever since Ethel died. My lady
would like Sarah Anne to take Ethel's place with Thomas Godolphin."
"I can hardly believe that, Charlotte."
"Disbelieve it then," equably responded Charlotte, as she passed out to
the terrace, and began calling to her dogs. They came noisily up in
answer; and Charlotte disappeared with them.
And Mr. Rodolf Pain, sitting there in his embroidered chair, with a
swelling heart, remarked that Charlotte had not vouchsafed the smallest
notice to him. "I wouldn't stop another hour," he murmured to himself,
"only that my going back would put up Verrall: and--and it might not
do."
Very intense was that gentleman's surprise to see, not two minutes
after, Mr. Verrall himself enter the room by the window. Mrs. Verrall
gave a little shriek of astonishment; and the new-comer, throwing his
summer overcoat upon a chair, shook hands with his wife, and gave her a
kiss. Plenty of dust was mingled with his yellow whiskers, and his
moustache.
"I came third-class most of the way," explained Mr. Verrall, as an
apology for the dust. "The first-class carriage was stuffing hot, and
there was no getting a smoke in it. We had a troublesome guard: the
fellow excused himself by saying one of the directors was in the train."
"I have been all this time rubbing my eyes to find out whether they are
deceiving me," cried Rodolf Pain. "Who was to dream of seeing you here
to-day, sir?"
"I should think you expected to see me before, Rodolf," was Mr.
Verrall's answer.
"Well, so I did. But it seemed to be put off so long, that I am
surprised to see you now. Is--is all straight?"
"Quite straight," replied Mr. Verrall; "after an overwhelming amount of
bother. You are going up to-day, Pain."
"And not sorry to hear it, either," cried Rodolf Pain, with emphasis. "I
am sick of having nothing to do. Is Appleby settled?" he added, dropping
his voice.
Mr. Verrall gave a nod; and, drawing Rodolf Pain to a far window, stood
there talking to him for some minutes in an undertone. Mrs. Verrall, who
never concerned herself with matters of business, never would listen to
them, went out on the terrace, a pale pink parasol with its white
fringe, held between her face and the sun. While thus standing, the
distant bells of All Souls', which had been ringing occasional peals
throughout the day, smote faintly upon her ear. She went in again.
"Verrall," said she, "if you come out, you can hear the bells. Do you
know what they are ringing for?"
"What bells? Why should I listen to them?" inquired Mr. Verrall, turning
from Rodolf Pain.
"They are ringing for George Godolphin's wedding. He has been married
to-day."
The information appeared--as Rodolf Pain would have expressed it, had he
given utterance to his sentiments--to strike Mr. Verrall all of a heap.
"George Godolphin married to-day!" he repeated, in profound
astonishment, remembering the weak state George had been in when he had
left Prior's Ash, some weeks before. "Married or buried, do you mean?"
Mrs. Verrall laughed. "Oh, he has got well from his illness: or, nearly
so," she said. "The bells would ring muffled peals, if he were buried,
Verrall, as they did for Sir George."
"And whom has he married?" continued Mr. Verrall, not in the least
getting over his astonishment.
"Maria Hastings."
Mr. Verrall stroked his yellow moustache; a somewhat recent appendage to
his beauty. He was by no means a demonstrative man--except on rare
occasions--and though the tidings evidently made a marked impression on
him, he said nothing. "Is Charlotte at the wedding?" he casually asked.
"No strangers were invited," replied Mrs. Verrall. "Lady Godolphin came
for it, and is staying at Ashlydyat. She has put off her weeds for
to-day, and appears in colours: glad enough, I know, of the excuse for
doing so."
"Where is Charlotte?" resumed Mr. Verrall.
He happened to look at Rodolf Pain as he spoke, and the latter answered,
pointing towards some trees on the right.
"She went down there with her dogs. I'll go and find her."
Mr. Verrall watched him away, and then turned to his wife: speaking,
however, impassively still.
"You say he has married Maria Hastings? How came Charlotte to let him
slip through her fingers?"
"Because she could not help it, I suppose," replied Mrs. Verrall,
shrugging her pretty shoulders. "I never thought Charlotte had any
chance with George Godolphin, Maria Hastings being in the way. Had
Charlotte been first in the field, it might have made all the
difference. He had fallen in love with Maria Hastings before he ever saw
Charlotte."
Mr. Verrall superciliously drew down his lips at the corners. "Don't
talk about a man's 'falling in love,' Kate. Girls fall in love: men know
better. Charlotte has played her cards badly," he added, with some
emphasis.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Verrall. "That Charlotte would play them to
the best of her ability, there's little doubt; but, as I say, she had no
chance from the first. I think George did love Maria Hastings. I'm sure
they have been together enough, he and Charlotte, and they have flirted
enough: but, as to caring for Charlotte, I don't believe George cared
for her any more than he cared for me. They have gone abroad for the
winter: will be away six months or more."
"I am sorry for that," quietly remarked Mr. Verrall. "I was in hopes to
have made some use of Mr. George Godolphin."
"Use?" cried Mrs. Verrall. "What use?"
"Oh, nothing," carelessly replied Mr. Verrall. "A little matter of
business that I was going to propose to him."
"Won't it do when he comes home?"
"I dare say it may," said Mr. Verrall.
Mr. Rodolf Pain had walked to the right, and plunged into the grove of
trees in search of Charlotte. He was not long in finding her. The noise
made by her dogs was sufficient guide to him. In one respect Charlotte
Pain was better off than her sister, Mrs. Verrall: she found more
resources for killing time. Charlotte had no greater taste for books
than Mrs. Verrall had: if she took one up, it was only to fling it down
again: she did not draw, she did not work. For some reasons of her own,
Charlotte kept an ornamental piece of work in hand, which never got
finished. Once in a way, upon rare occasions, it was taken up, and a
couple of stitches done to it; and then, like the book, it was flung
down again. Charlotte played well; nay, brilliantly: but she never
played to amuse herself, or for the love of music--always for display.
The resources which Charlotte possessed above Mrs. Verrall, lay in her
horsemanship and her dogs. Mrs. Verrall could ride, and sometimes did
so; but it was always in a decorous manner. She did not gallop,
helter-skelter, across country as Charlotte did, with half a dozen
cavaliers barely keeping up with her: she took no pleasure in horses for
themselves, and she would as soon have entered a pigsty as a stable.
With all Mrs. Verrall's vanity, and her not over-strong intellect, she
possessed more of the refinement of the gentlewoman than did Charlotte.
Look at Charlotte now: as Rodolf Pain--a cigar, which he had just
lighted, between his lips, and his hands in his pockets--approaches her.
She is standing on a garden bench, with the King Charley in her arms:
the other two dogs she has set on to fight at her feet, their muzzles
lying on the bench beside her. What with the natural tempers of these
two agreeable animals, and what with Charlotte's frequent pastime of
exasperating the one against the other, it had been found necessary to
keep them muzzled to prevent quarrels: but Charlotte delighted in
removing the muzzles, and setting them on, as she had done now.
Charlotte had these resources in addition to any possessed by Mrs.
Verrall. Mrs. Verrall would not, of her own free will, have touched a
dog with her finger: if compelled to do so, it would have been
accomplished in the most gingerly fashion with the extreme tip: and it
was a positive source of annoyance to Mrs. Verrall, often of contention
between them, Charlotte's admitting these dogs to familiar
companionship. Charlotte, when weary from want of pastime, could find it
in the stables, or with her dogs. Many an hour did she thus pass: and,
so far, she had the advantage of Mrs. Verrall. Mrs. Verrall often told
Charlotte that she ought to have been born a man; it cannot be denied
that some of her tastes were more appropriate to a man than to a
gentlewoman.
Rodolf Pain reached the bench. It was a lovely spot, secluded and shaded
by trees; with an opening in front to admit a panoramic view of the
enchanting scenery. But, on the mossy turf between that bench and the
opening, snarled and fought those awful dogs: neither the noise nor the
pastime particularly in accordance with that pleasant spot, so
suggestive of peace. Charlotte looked on approvingly, giving a helping
word to either side which she might deem required it; while the King
Charley barked and struggled in her arms, because he was restrained from
joining in the _mêlée_.
"I am going up at last, Charlotte."
"Up where?" asked Charlotte, without turning her eyes on Rodolf Pain.
"To town. Verralls come back."
Surprise caused her to look at him now. "Verrall back!" she uttered. "He
has come suddenly, then; he was not back five minutes ago. When are you
going up?"
"I will tell you all about it if you'll muzzle those brutes, and so stop
their noise."
"Muzzle them yourself," said Charlotte, kicking the muzzles on to the
grass with her foot.
Mr. Pain accomplished his task, though he did not particularly like it;
neither was it an easy one: the dogs were ferocious at the moment. He
then drove them away, and Charlotte dropped her King Charley that he
might run after them; which he did, barking his short squeaking bark.
Rodolf held out his hand to help Charlotte down from the bench; but
Charlotte chose to remain where she was, and seated herself on one of
its arms. Rodolf Pain took a seat on the bench sideways, so as to face
her, leaning his back against the other arm.
"When do you go?" repeated Charlotte.
"In an hour from this."
"Quick work," remarked Charlotte. "Verrall gives no time for the grass
to grow in anything _he_ has to do with."
"The quick departure is mine," said Mr. Pain. "So that I am in town for
business to-morrow morning, it's all that Verrall cares about. He
suggested that I should go up by a night train."
"_I_ should," cried Charlotte, bluntly.
"No you would not," answered Rodolf Pain in a tone of bitterness. "Were
you treated by any one as you treat me, you'd be glad enough to get
away."
"That's good!" ejaculated Charlotte with a ringing laugh. "I'm sure I
treat you beautifully. Many a one would jump at getting the treatment
from me that I give you; I can tell you that, Mr. Dolf."
Mr. Dolf smoked on in silence; rather savagely for him.
"What have you to complain of?" pursued Charlotte.
"This," said he, sternly. "That you promised to be my wife; that you
have led me on, Heaven knows how long, causing me to believe you meant
what you said, that you would keep your promise; and now you coolly turn
round and jilt me! That bare fact, is quite enough, Charlotte, without
going into another mortifying fact--your slighting behaviour to me
lately."
"Who says I have jilted you--or that I mean to jilt you?" asked
Charlotte.
"Who says it?" retorted Rodolf Pain. "Why--are you not doing so?"
"No. I dare say I shall have you some time."
"I am getting tired of it, Charlotte," said he, in a weary tone of pain.
"I have cared for nothing but you in the world--in the shape of
woman--but I am getting tired; and I have had enough to make me. If you
will fix our wedding now, before I go up, and keep to it, I'll bless you
for it, and make you a fonder husband than George Godolphin would have
made you."
"How dare you mention George Godolphin to me in that way?" cried
Charlotte, with flashing eyes, for the sentence had roused all her ire.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dolf Pain! Has not George
Godolphin--as it turns out--been engaged to Maria Hastings longer than I
have known him, and has now married her? Do you suppose I could have
spent that time with them both, in Scotland, at Lady Godolphin's, and
not have become acquainted with their secret? That must prove what your
senseless jealousy was worth!"
"Charlotte," said he, meekly, "as to George Godolphin, I readily confess
I was mistaken, and I am sorry to have been so stupid. You might have
set me right with a word, but I suppose you preferred to tease me.
However, he is done with now. But, Charlotte, I tell you that altogether
I am getting tired of it. Have me, or not, as you feel you can: but,
played with any longer, I will not be. If you dismiss me now, you
dismiss me for good."
"I have half a mind to say yes," returned Charlotte, in the coolest
tone, as if she were deciding a trifling matter--the choice of a bonnet,
or the route to be pursued in a walk. "But there's one thing holds me
back, Dolf."
"What's that?" asked Dolf, whose cheek had lighted up with eager hope.
Charlotte leaped off the bench and sat down on it, nearer to Dolf, her
accent and face as apparently honest as if fibs were unknown to her.
"And it is the only thing which has held me back all along," she went
on, staring unflinchingly into Dolf's eyes.
"Well, what is it?" cried he.
"The hazard of the step."
"The hazard!" repeated Dolf. "What hazard?"
Charlotte glanced round, as if to convince herself that nothing with
human ears was near, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "You and
Verrall are not upon the safest course----"
"It's as safe as many others," interrupted Dolf Pain.
"Don't bother about others," testily rebuked Charlotte. "Look to itself.
I say that it is hazardous: what little I know of it tells me that. I
have heard a word dropped by you and a word dropped by Verrall, and I
can put two and two together as well as most people. Is there no danger,
no chance," she spoke lower still, and with unmistakable gravity--"that
a crisis might come, which--which would carry you to a place where
nobody stands willingly--the Criminal Bar?"
"Good gracious, no!" cried Rodolf Pain, flinging his cigar away in his
surprise and anger. "What could put that into your head, Charlotte?
The--profession--may not be one of the strictest honour, and it has its
dark sides as well as its light; but there's no danger of such a thing
as you hint at. Where did you pick up the idea?"
"I don't know where. I have caught a word or two, not meant for me; and
now and then I see things reported in the newspapers. You can't deny one
thing, Dolf: that, if any unpleasantness should drop from the skies, it
has been made a matter of arrangement that you should be the sufferer,
not Verrall."
Rodolf's light eyes expanded beyond common. "How did you get to know
that?" he asked.
"Never mind how I got to know it. Is it so?"
"Yes, it is," acknowledged Mr. Pain, who was by nature more truthful
than Charlotte. "But I give you my word of honour, Charlotte, that
there's no danger of our falling into such a pit as you have hinted at.
We should not be such fools. The worst that could happen to me would be
a sojourn, short or long, in some snug place such as this, while Verrall
puts things right. As it has been now, for instance, through this
business of Appleby's."
"You tell me this to satisfy me," said Charlotte.
"I tell it because it is truth--so far as my belief goes, and as far as
I can now foresee."
"Very well. I accept it," returned Charlotte. "But now, Rodolf, mark
what I say. If this worst state of things should come to pass----"
"It won't, I tell you," he interrupted. "It can't."
"Will you listen? I choose to put the matter upon a supposition that it
may do so. If this state of things should come to pass and you fall, I
will never fall with you; and it is only upon that condition that I will
become your wife."
The words puzzled Mr. Pain not a little. "I don't understand you,
Charlotte. As to 'conditions,' you may make any for yourself that you
please--in reason."
"Very well. We will have an understanding with each other, drawn up as
elaborately as if it were a marriage settlement," she said, laughing.
"Yes, Mr. Rodolf, while you have been ill-naturedly accusing me of
designs upon the heart of George Godolphin, I was occupied with
precautions touching my married life with you. You don't deserve me; and
that's a fact. Let go my hand, will you. One of those dogs has got
unmuzzled, I fancy, by the noise, and I must run or there'll be murder
committed."
"Charlotte," he cried, feverishly and eagerly, _not_ letting go her
hand, "when shall it be?"
"As you like," she answered indifferently. "This month, or next month,
or the month after: _I_ don't care."
The tone both mortified and pained him. His brow knit: and Charlotte saw
the impression her words had made. She put on a pretty look of
contrition.
"Mind, Rodolf, it shall be an understood thing beforehand that you don't
attempt to control me in the smallest particular: that I have my own way
in everything."
"You will take care to have that, Charlotte, whether it be an understood
thing beforehand, or not," replied he.
Charlotte laughed as she walked away. A ringing laugh of power, which
the air echoed: of power, at any rate, over the heart and will of Mr.
Rodolf Pain.
CHAPTER XXII.
DANGEROUS AMUSEMENT.
On an April day, sunny and charming, a gentleman with a lady on his arm
was strolling down one of the narrowest and dirtiest streets of Homburg.
A tall man was he, tall and handsome, with a fair Saxon face, and fair
Saxon curls that shimmered like gold in the sunlight. Could it be George
Godolphin--who had gone away from Prior's Ash six months before, nothing
but a shadowy wreck. It was George safe enough; restored to full
strength, to perfect health. Maria, on the contrary, looked thin and
delicate, and her face had lost a good deal of its colour. They had
wintered chiefly at Pau, but had left it a month past. Since then they
had travelled about from place to place, by short stages, taking it
easy, as George called it: staying a day or two in one town, a day or
two in another, turning to the right or left, as inclination led them,
going forward, or backward. So that they were home by the middle of
April, it would be time enough. George had received _carte blanche_ from
Thomas Godolphin to remain out as long as he thought it necessary; and
George was not one to decline the privilege. Play before work had always
been George's motto.
On the previous evening they had arrived at Homburg from Wiesbaden, and
were now taking their survey of the place. Neither liked its appearance
so much as they had done many other places, and they were mutually
agreeing to leave it again that evening, when a turning in the street
brought them in view of another lady and gentleman, arm in arm as they
were.
"English, I am sure," remarked Maria, in a low tone.
"I should think so!" replied George, laughing. "Don't you recognize
them?"
She had recognized them ere George finished speaking. Mr. and Mrs.
Verrall! It took about ten minutes to ask and answer questions. "How
strange that we should not have met before!" Mrs. Verrall cried. "We
have been here a fortnight. But perhaps you have only just come?"
"Only last night," said George.
"My wife turned ill for a foreign tour, so I indulged her," explained
Mr. Verrall. "We have been away a month now."
"And a fortnight of it at Homburg!" exclaimed George in surprise. "What
attraction can you find here? Maria and I were just saying that we would
leave it to-night."
"It's as good as any other of these German places, for all I see,"
carelessly remarked Mr. Verrall. "How well you are looking!" he added to
George.
"I cannot pay you the same compliment," Mrs. Verrall said to Maria.
"What have you done with your roses?"
Maria's "roses" came vividly into her cheeks at the question. "I am not
in strong health just now," was all she answered.
George smiled. "There's nothing seriously the matter, Mrs. Verrall,"
said he. "Maria will find her roses again after a while. Charlotte
has--I was going to say, changed her name," broke off George; "but in
her case that would be a wrong figure of speech. She is married, we
hear."
"Long ago," said Mrs. Verrall. "Charlotte's quite an old married woman
by this time. It took place--let me see!--last November. They live in
London."
"Mr. Pain is her cousin, is he not?"
"Yes. It was an old engagement," continued Mrs. Verrall, looking at
George. "Many a time, when she and you were flirting together, I had to
call her to account, and remind her of Mr. Pain."
George could not remember that Mrs. Verrall had ever done such a thing
in his presence: and she had been rather remarkable for not interfering:
for leaving him and Charlotte to go their own way. But he did not say
so.
They turned and continued their walk together. George--he had lost none
of his gallantry--taking his place by the side of Mrs. Verrall.
In passing a spot where there was a partial obstruction, some confusion
occurred. A house was under repair, and earth and stones lay half-way
across the street, barely giving room for any vehicle to pass. Just as
they were opposite this, a lumbering coach, containing a gay party with
white bows in their caps--probably a christening--came rattling up at a
sharp pace. George Godolphin, taking Mrs. Verrall's hand, piloted her to
safety. Maria was not so fortunate. Mr. Verrall was a little behind her
or before her: at any rate, he was not adroit enough to assist her at
the right moment; and Maria, seeing no escape between the coach and the
_débris_, jumped upon the latter. The stones moved under her feet, and
she slipped off again to the other side. It did not hurt her much, but
it shook her greatly. George, who was looking back at the time, had
sprung back and caught her before Mr. Verrall well saw what had
occurred.
"My darling, how did it happen? Are you hurt? Verrall, could you not
have taken better care?" he reiterated, his face flushed with emotion
and alarm.
Maria leaned heavily upon him, and drew a long breath before she could
speak. "I am not hurt, George."
"Are you sure?" he anxiously cried.
Maria smiled reassuringly. "It is nothing indeed. It has only shaken me.
See! I am quite free from the stones. I must have been careless, I
think."
George turned to look at the stones. Quite a heap of them, two or three
feet from the ground. She had alighted on her feet; not quite falling;
but slipping with the lower part of her back against the stones. Mrs.
Verrall shook the dust from her dress, and Mr. Verrall apologized for
his inattention.
George took her upon his arm, with an air that seemed to intimate he
should not trust her to any one again, and they went back to their
hotel, Mrs. Verrall saying she should call upon them in half an hour's
time.
Maria was looking pale; quite white. George, in much concern, untied her
bonnet-strings. "Maria, I fear you _are_ hurt!"
"Indeed I am not--as I believe," she answered. "Why do you think so?"
"Because you are not looking well."
"I was startled at the time; frightened. I shall get over it directly,
George."
"I think you had better see a doctor. I suppose there's a decent one to
be found in the town."
"Oh no!" returned Maria, with much emphasis, in her surprise. "See a
doctor because I slipped down a little? Why, George, that would be
foolish! I have often jumped from a higher height than that. Do you
remember the old wall at the Rectory? We children were for ever jumping
from it."
"That was one time, and this is another, Mrs. George Godolphin," said
he, significantly.
Maria laughed. "Only fancy the absurdity, George! Were a doctor called
in, his first question would be, 'Where are you hurt, madame?' 'Not
anywhere, monsieur,' would be my reply. 'Then what do you want with me?'
he would say, and how foolish I should look!"
George laughed too, and resigned the point. "You are the better judge,
of course, Maria. Margery," he continued--for Margery, at that moment,
entered the room--"your mistress has had a fall."
"A fall!" uttered Margery, in her abrupt way, as she turned to regard
Maria.
"It could not be called a fall, Margery," said Maria, slightingly. "I
slipped off some earth and stones. I did not quite fall."
"Are you hurt, ma'am?"
"It did not hurt me at all. It only shook me."
"Nasty things, those slips are sometimes!" resumed Margery. "I have
known pretty good illnesses grow out of 'em."
George did not like the remark. He deemed it thoughtless of Margery to
make it in the presence of his wife, under the circumstances. "You must
croak, or it would not be you, Margery," said he, in a vexed tone.
It a little put up Margery. "I can tell you what, Master George," cried
she; "your own mother was in her bed for eight weeks, through nothing on
earth but slipping down two stairs. I say those shakes are ticklish
things--when one is not in a condition to bear them. Ma'am, you must
just take my advice, and lie down on that sofa, and not get off it for
the rest of the day. There's not a doctor in the land as knows anything,
but would say the same."
Margery was peremptory; George joined her in being peremptory also; and
Maria, with much laughter and protestation, was fain to let them place
her on the sofa. "Just as if I were ill, or delicate!" she grumbled.
"And pray, ma'am, what do you call yourself but delicate? You are not
one of the strong ones," cried Margery, as she left the room for a
shawl.
George drew his wife's face to his in an impulse of affection, and
kissed it. "Don't pay any attention to Margery's croaking, my dearest,"
he fondly said. "But she is quite right in recommending you to lie
still. It will rest you."
"I am afraid I shall go to sleep, if I am condemned to lie here," said
Maria.
"The best thing you can do," returned George. "Catch me trusting you to
any one's care again!"
In a short time Mrs. Verrall came in, and told George that her husband
was waiting for him outside. George went out, and Mrs. Verrall sat down
by Maria.
"It is Margery's doings, Margery's and George's," said Maria, as if she
would apologize for being found on the sofa, covered up like an invalid.
"They made me lie down."
"Are you happy?" Mrs. Verrall somewhat abruptly asked.
"Happy?" repeated Maria, at a loss to understand the exact meaning of
the words.
"Happy with George Godolphin. Are you and he happy with each other?"
A soft blush overspread Maria's face; a light of love shone in her eyes.
"Oh, so happy!" she murmured. "Mrs. Verrall, I wonder sometimes whether
any one in the world is as happy as I am!"
"Because it struck me that you were changed; you look ill."
"Oh, that!" returned Maria, with a rosier blush still. "Can't you guess
the cause of that, Mrs. Verrall? As George told you, I shall, I hope,
look well again, after a time."
Mrs. Verrall shrugged her shoulders with indifference. She had never
lost her bloom from any such cause.
Maria found--or Margery did for her--that the fall had shaken her more
than was expedient. After all, a medical man had to be called in.
Illness supervened. It was not a very serious illness, and not at all
dangerous; but it had the effect of detaining them at Homburg. Maria lay
in bed, and George spent most of his time with the Verralls.
With Mr. Verrall chiefly. Especially in an evening. George would go out,
sometimes before dinner, sometimes after it, and come home so late that
he did not venture into Maria's room to say good night to her. Since her
illness he had occupied an adjoining chamber. It did Maria no good: she
would grow flushed, excited, heated: and when George did come in, he
would look flushed and excited also.
"But, George, where do you stay so late?"
"Only with Verrall."
"You look so hot. I am sure you are feverish."
"The rooms were very hot. We have been watching them play. Good night,
darling. I wish you were well!"
_Watching_ them play! It is your first deceit to your wife, George
Godolphin; and, rely upon it, no good will come of it. Mr. Verrall had
introduced George to the dangerous gaming-tables; had contrived to imbue
him with a liking for the insidious vice. Did he do so with--as our law
terms express it--malice aforethought? Let the response lie with Mr.
Verrall.
On the very first evening that they were together, the day of the slight
accident to Maria, Mr. Verrall asked George to dine with him; and he
afterwards took him to the tables. George did not play that evening; but
he grew excited, watching others play. Heavy stakes were lost and won;
evil passions were called forth; avarice, hatred, despair. Mr. Verrall
played for a small sum; and won. "It whiles away an hour or two," he
carelessly remarked to George, as they were leaving. "And one can take
care of one's self."
"All can't take care of themselves, apparently," answered George
Godolphin. "Did you observe that haggard-looking Englishman, leaning
against the wall and biting his nails when his money had gone? The
expression of that man's face will haunt me for a week to come. Those
are the men who commit suicide."
Mr. Verrall smiled, half-mockingly. "Suicide! Not they," he answered.
"The man will be there to-morrow evening, refeathered."
"I never felt more pity for any one in my life," continued George.
"There was despair in his face, if I ever saw despair. I could have
found in my heart to go up and offer him my purse; only I knew it would
be staked the next moment at the table."
"You did not know him, then?"
"No."
Mr. Verrall mentioned the man's name, and George felt momentarily
surprised. He was a noted baronet's eldest son.
The next evening came round. Maria was confined to her bed then, and
George was a gentleman at large. A gentleman at large to be pounced upon
by Mr. Verrall. He came--Verrall--and carried George off again to
dinner.
"Let us take a stroll," he said, later in the evening.
Their stroll took them towards the scene of the night before, Mr.
Verrall's being the moving _will_. "Shall we see who's there?" he said,
with great apparent indifference.
George answered as indifferently: but there was an undercurrent of
meaning in his tone, wonderful for careless George Godolphin. "Better
keep out of temptation."
Mr. Verrall laughed till the tears came into his eyes: he said George
made him laugh. "Come along," cried he, mockingly. "I'll take care of
you."
That night George played. A little. "As well put a gold piece down," Mr.
Verrall whispered to him; "I shall." George staked more than one gold
piece; and won. A fortnight had gone over since then, and George
Godolphin had become imbued with the fearful passion of gambling. At any
rate, imbued with it temporarily: it is to be hoped that he will leave
it behind him when he leaves Homburg.
Just look at him, as he stands over that green cloth, with a flushed
face and eager eyes! He is of finer form, of loftier stature than most
of those who are crowding round the tables; his features betray higher
intellect, greater refinement; but the same passions are just now
distorting them. Mr. Verrall is by his side, cool, calm, impassive:
somehow, that man, Verrall, always wins. If he did not, he would not
lose his coolness: he would only leave the tables.
"_Rouge_," called George.
It was _noir_. George flung his last money on the board, and moved away.
Mr. Verrall followed him. "Tired already?"
Mr. George let slip a furious word. "The luck has been against me all
along; almost from the first night I played here. I am cleaned out
again."
"I can let you have----"
"Thank you!" hastily interrupted George. "You are very accommodating,
Verrall, but it seems we may go on at the same thing for ever: I losing,
and you finding me money. How much is it that I owe you altogether?"
"A bagatelle. Never mind that."
"A _bagatelle_!" repeated George. "It's well money is so valueless to
you: _I_ don't call it one. And I have never been a man given to looking
at money before spending it."
"You can pay me when and how you like. This year, next year, the year
after: I shan't sue you for it," laughed Mr. Verrall. "There! go and
redeem your luck."
He held out a heavy roll of notes to George. The latter's eager fingers
clutched them: but, even as they were within his grasp, better thoughts
came to him. He pushed them back again.
"I am too deeply in your debt already, Verrall."
"As you please," returned Mr. Verrall, with indifference. "There the
notes are, lying idle. As to what you have had, if it's so dreadful a
burden on your conscience, you can give me interest for it. You can let
the principal lie, I say, though it be for ten years to come. One
half-hour's play with these notes may redeem all you have lost."
He left the notes lying by George Godolphin--by hesitating George--with
the fierce passion to use them that was burning within him. Mr. Verrall
could not have taken a more efficient way of inducing him to play again,
than to affect this easy indifference, and to leave the money under his
eyes, touching his fingers, fevering his brain. George took up the
notes.
"You are sure you will let me pay you interest, Verrall?"
"Of course I will."
And George walked off to the gaming-table.
He went home later that night than he had gone at all, wiping the
perspiration from his brow, lifting his face to the quiet stars, and
gasping to catch a breath of air. Mr. Verrall found it rather cool, than
not; shrugged his shoulders, and said he could do with an overcoat; but
George felt stifled. The roll had _gone_; and more to it had gone; and
George Godolphin was Mr. Verrall's debtor to a heavy amount.
"Thank goodness the day has already dawned!" involuntarily broke from
George.
Mr. Verrall looked at him for an explanation. He did not understand what
particular cause for thankfulness there should be in that.
"We shall get away from the place to-day," said George. "If I stopped in
it I should come to the dogs."
"Nothing of the sort," cried Mr. Verrall. "Luck is safe to turn some
time. It's like the tide, it has its time for flowing in, and its time
for flowing out; once let it turn, and it comes rushing in all one way.
But, what do you mean about going? Your wife is not well enough to
travel yet."
"Yes she is," was George's answer. "Quite well enough."
"Of course you know best. I think you should consider----"
"Verrall, I should consider my wife's health and safety before any
earthly thing," interrupted George. "We might have started to-day, had
we liked: I speak of the day that has gone: the doctor said yesterday
that she was well enough to travel."
"I was not aware of that. I shall remain here a week longer."
"And I shall be away before to-morrow night."
"Not you," cried Mr. Verrall.
"I shall: if I keep in the mind I am in now."
Mr. Verrall smiled. He knew George was not famous for keeping his
resolutions. In the morning, when his smarting should be over, he would
stay on, fast enough. They wished each other good night, and George
turned into his hotel.
To his great surprise, Margery met him on the stairs. "Are you walking
the house as the ghosts do?" cried he, with a renewal of his
good-humour. Nothing pleased George better than to give old Margery a
joking or a teasing word. "Why are you not in bed?"
"There's enough ghosts in the world, it's my belief, without my
personating them, sir," was Margery's answer. "I'm not in bed yet,
because my mistress is not in bed."
"Your mistress not in bed!" repeated George. "But that is very wrong."
"So it is," said Margery. "But it has been of no use my telling her so.
She took it into her head to sit up for you; and sit up she has. Not
there, sir"--for he was turning to their sitting-room--"she is lying
back in the big chair in her bedroom."
George entered. Maria, white and wan and tired, was lying back, as
Margery expressed it, in the large easy-chair. She was too fatigued, too
exhausted to get up: she only held out her hand to her husband.
"My darling, you know this is wrong," he gently said, bending over her.
"Good heavens, Maria! how ill and tired you look!"
"I should not have slept had I gone to bed," she said. "George, tell me
where you have been: where it is that you go in an evening?"
A misgiving crossed George Godolphin's mind--that she already knew
where. She looked painfully distressed, and there was a peculiar
significance in her tone, but she spoke with timid deprecation. His
conscience told him that the amusement he had been recently pursuing
would not show out well in the broad light of day. An unmarried man may
send himself to ruin if it pleases him to do it; but not one who has
assumed the responsibilities of George Godolphin. Ruin, however, had not
yet come to George Godolphin, or fear of ruin. The worst that had
happened was, that he had contracted a debt to Mr. Verrall, which he did
not at present see his way clear to paying. He could not refund so large
a sum out of the bank without the question being put by his partners,
Where does it go to? Mr. Verrall had relieved him of the embarrassment
by suggesting interest. A very easy settling of the question it appeared
to the careless mind of George Godolphin: and he felt obliged to Mr.
Verrall.
"Maria!" he exclaimed, "what are you thinking of? What is the matter?"
Maria changed her position. She let her head glide from the chair on to
his sheltering arm. "Mrs. Verrall frightened me, George. Will you be
angry with me if I tell you? She came in this evening, and she said you
and Mr. Verrall were losing all your money at the gaming-table."
George Godolphin's face grew hot and angry, worse than it had been in
the gambling-room, and mentally he gave Mrs. Verrall an exceedingly
uncomplimentary word. "What possessed her to say that?" he exclaimed.
And in truth he wondered what could have possessed her. Verrall, at any
rate, was not losing his money. "Were you so foolish as to believe it,
Maria?"
"Only a little of it, George. Pray forgive me! I am weak just now, you
know, and things startle me. I have heard dreadful tales of these
foreign gaming-places: and I knew how much you had been out at night
since we came here. It is not so, is it, George?"
George made a show of laughing at her anxiety. "I and Verrall have
strolled into the places and watched the play," said he. "We have staked
a few coins ourselves--not to be looked upon as two churls who put their
British noses into everything and then won't pay for the privilege. I
lost what I staked, with a good grace; but as to Verrall, I don't
believe he is a halfpenny out of pocket. Mrs. Verrall must have been
quarrelling with her husband, and so thought she'd say something to
spite him. And my wife must take it for gospel, and begin to fret
herself into a fever!"
Maria drew a long, relieved breath. The address was candid, the manner
was playful and tender: and she possessed the most implicit faith in her
husband. Maria had doubted almost the whole world before she could have
doubted George Godolphin. She drew his face down to hers, once more
whispering that he was to forgive her for being so silly.
"My dearest, I have been thinking that we may as well go on to-morrow.
To-day, that is: I won't tell you the time, if you don't know it; but
it's morning."
She knew the time quite well. No anxious wife ever sat up for a husband
yet, but knew it. In her impatience to be away--for she was most
desirous of being at home again--she could take note of the one sentence
only. "Oh, George, yes! Let us go!"
"Will you promise to get a good night's rest first, and not attempt to
be out of bed before eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, then?"
"George, I will promise you anything," she said, with a radiant face.
"Only say we shall start for home to-morrow."
"Yes, we will."
And, somewhat to Mr. Verrall's surprise, they did start. That gentleman
made no attempt to detain them. "But it is shabby of you both to go off
like this, and leave us among these foreigners, like Babes in the wood,"
said he, when Maria was already in the carriage, and George was about to
step into it.
"There is nothing to prevent you leaving too, is there, Mr. Verrall?"
asked Maria, leaning forward. "And what did you and Mrs. Verrall do
before we came? You had been 'Babes in the wood' a fortnight then."
"Fairly put, young lady," returned Mr. Verrall. "I must congratulate you
on one thing, Mrs. George Godolphin: that, in spite of your recent
indisposition, you are looking more yourself to-day than I have yet seen
you."
"That is because I am going home," said Maria.
And home they reached in safety. The land journey, the pleasant sea
crossing--for the day and the waters were alike calm--and then the land
again, all grew into things of the past, and they were once more at
Prior's Ash. As they drove to the Bank from the railway station, Maria
looked up at the house when it came into sight, a thrill of joy running
through her heart. "What a happy home it will be for me!" was her glad
thought.
"What would Thomas and old Crosse say, if they knew I had dipped into it
so deeply at Homburg?" was the involuntary thought which flashed across
George Godolphin.
Quite a levee had assembled to meet them. Mrs. Hastings and Grace,
Bessie and Cecil Godolphin, Thomas Godolphin and Mr. Crosse. Maria threw
off her bonnet and shawl, and stood amidst them all in her dark silk
travelling dress. There was no mistaking that she was intensely happy:
her eye was radiant, her colour softly bright, her fair young face
without a cloud. And now walked in the Rector of All Souls', having
escaped (nothing loth) from a stormy vestry meeting, to see Maria.
"I have brought her home safely, you see, sir," George said to Mr.
Hastings, leading Maria up to him.
"And yourself also," was the Rector's reply. "You are worth two of the
shaky man who went away."
"I told you I should be, sir, if you allowed Maria to go with me," cried
gallant George. "I do not fancy we are either of us the worse for our
sojourn abroad."
"I don't think either of you look as though you were," said the Rector.
"Maria is thin. I suppose you are not sorry to come home, Miss Maria?"
"So glad!" she said. "I began to think it very, very long, not to see
you all. But, papa, I am not Miss Maria now."
"You saucy child!" exclaimed Mr. Hastings. But the Rector had the laugh
against him. Mrs. Hastings drew Maria aside.
"My dear, you have been ill, George wrote me word. How did it happen? We
were sorry to hear it."
"Yes, we were sorry too," replied Maria, her eyelashes resting on her
hot cheek. "It could not be helped."
"But how did it happen?"
"It was my own fault; not _intentionally_, you know, mamma. It occurred
the day after we reached Homburg. I and George were out walking and we
met the Verralls. We turned with them, and then I had not hold of
George's arm. Something was amiss in the street, a great heap of stones
and earth and rubbish; and, to avoid a carriage that came by, I stepped
upon it. And, somehow I slipped off. I did not appear to have hurt
myself: but I suppose it shook me."
"You met the Verralls at Homburg?" cried Mrs. Hastings, in surprise.
"Yes. Did George not mention it when he wrote? They are at Homburg
still. Unless they have now left it."
"George never puts a superfluous word into his letters," said Mrs.
Hastings, with a smile. "He says just what he has to say, and no more.
He mentioned that you were not well, and therefore some little delay
might take place in the return home; but he said nothing of the
Verralls."
Maria laughed. "George never writes a long letter----"
"Who's that, taking George's name in vain?" cried George, looking round.
"It is I, George. You never told mamma, when you wrote, that the
Verralls were with us at Homburg."
"I'm sure I don't remember whether I did or not," said George.
"The Verralls are in Wales," observed Mr. Hastings.
"Then they have travelled to it pretty quickly," observed George. "When
I and Maria quitted Homburg we left them in it. They had been there a
month."
Not one present but looked up with surprise. "The impression in Prior's
Ash is, that they are in Wales," observed Thomas Godolphin. "It is the
answer given by the servants to all callers at Lady Godolphin's Folly."
"They are certainly at Homburg; whatever the servants may say,"
persisted George. "The servants are labouring under a mistake."
"It is a curious mistake for the servants to make, though," observed the
Rector, in a dry, caustic tone.
"I think the Verralls are curious people altogether," said Bessy
Godolphin.
"I don't know but they are," assented George. "But Verrall is a
thoroughly good-hearted man, and I shall always speak up for him."
That evening George and his wife dined alone. George was standing over
the fire after dinner, when Maria came and stood near him. He put out
his arm and drew her to his side.
"It seems so strange, George--being in this house with you, all alone,"
she whispered.
"Stranger than being my wife, Maria?"
"Oh, but I have got used to that." And George Godolphin laughed: she
spoke so simply and naturally.
"You will get used in time to this being your home, my darling."
* * * * *
PART THE SECOND.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
SIXTY POUNDS TO OLD JEKYL.
Standing on the covered terrace outside the dining-room at the Bank, in
all the warm beauty of the late and lovely spring morning, surrounded by
the perfume of flowers, the green lawn stretching out before her, the
pleasant sitting-room behind her, its large window open and its
paintings on the walls conspicuous, was Maria Godolphin. She wore a
morning dress, simple and pretty as of yore, and her fair face had lost
none of its beauty, scarcely any of its youth. Looking at her you would
not think that a month had elapsed since she came there, to her home,
after her marriage; and yet the time, since then, would not be counted
by months, but by years. Six years and a half, it is, since her marriage
took place, and the little girl, whom Maria is holding by the hand, is
five years old. Just now Maria's face is all animation. She is talking
to the child, and talking also to Jonathan and David Jekyl: but if you
saw her at an unoccupied moment, her face in repose, you might detect an
expression of settled sadness in it. It arose from the loss of her
children. Three had died in succession, one after another; and this one,
the eldest, was the only child remaining to her. A wondrously pretty
little girl, her bare legs peeping between her frilled drawers and her
white socks; with the soft brown eyes of her mother, and the golden
Saxon curls of her father. With her mother's eyes the child had
inherited her mother's gentle temperament: and Margery--who had found in
her heart to leave Ashlydyat and become nurse to George's children--was
wont to say that she never had to do with so sweet-tempered a child. She
had been named Maria; but the name, for home use, had been corrupted
into Meta: not to interfere with Maria's. She held her mother's hand,
and, by dint of stretching up on her toes, could just bring her eyes
above the marble top of the terrace balustrade.
"Donatan, why don't you get that big ting, to-day?"
Jonathan looked up, a broad smile on his face. He delighted in little
children. He liked to hear them call him "Donatan:" and the little lady
before him was as backward in the sound of the "th," as if she had been
French. "She means the scythe, ma'am," said Jonathan.
"I know she does," said Maria. "The grass does not want mowing to-day,
Meta. David, do you not think those rose-trees are very backward?"
David gave his usual grunt. "I should wonder if they were for'ard. There
ain't no rose-trees for miles round but what is back'ard, except them as
have been nursed. With the cutting spring we've had, how are the
rose-trees to get on, I'd like to know?"
Jonathan looked round, his face quite sunshine compared with David's:
his words also. "They'll come on famous now, ma'am, with this lovely
weather. Ten days of it, and we shall have them all out in bloom. Little
miss shall have a rare posy then, and I'll cut off the thorns first."
"A big one, mind, Donatan," responded the young lady, beginning to dance
about in anticipation. The child had an especial liking for roses, which
Jonathan remembered. She inherited her mother's great love for flowers.
"David, how is your wife?" asked Maria.
"I've not heard that there's anything the matter with her," was David's
phlegmatic answer, without lifting his face from the bed. He and
Jonathan were both engaged almost at the same spot: David, it must be
confessed, getting through more work than Jonathan.
They had kept that garden in order for Mr. Crosse, when the Bank was his
residence. Also for Thomas Godolphin and his sisters, the little time
they had lived there: and afterwards for George. George had now a full
complement of servants--rather more than a complement, indeed--and one
of them might well have attended to that small garden. Janet had
suggested as much: but easy George continued to employ the Jekyls. It
was not often that the two attended together; as they were doing to-day.
"David," returned Maria, in answer to his remark, "I am sure you must
know that your wife is often ailing. She is anything but strong. Only
she is always merry and in good spirits, and so people think her better
than she is. She is quite a contrast to you, David," Maria added, with a
smile. "You don't talk and laugh much."
"Talking and laughing don't get on with a man's work, as ever I heerd
on," returned David.
"Is it true that your father slipped yesterday, and sprained his ankle?"
continued Maria. "I heard that he did."
"True enough," growled David.
"'Twas all along of his good fortune, ma'am," said sunny Jonathan. "He
was so elated with it that he slipped down Gaffer Thorpe's steps, where
he was going to tell the news, and fell upon his ankle. The damage ain't
of much account. But that's old father all over! Prime him up with a
piece of good fortune, and he is all cock-a-hoop about it."
"What is the good fortune?" asked Maria.
"It's that money come to him at last, ma'am, what he had waited for so
long. I'm sure we had all given it up for lost; and father stewed and
fretted over it, wondering always what was going to become of him in
his old age. 'Tain't so very much, neither."
"Sixty pound is sixty pound," grunted David.
"Well, so it is," acquiesced Jonathan. "And father looks to it to make
him more comfortable than he could be from his profits; his honey, and
his garden, and that. He was like a child last night, ma'am, planning
what he'd do with it. I told him he had better take care not to lose
it."
"Let him bring it to the Bank," said Maria. "Tell him I say so,
Jonathan. It will be safe here. He might be paid interest for it."
"I will, ma'am."
Maria spoke the words in good faith. Her mind had conjured up a vision
of old Jekyl keeping his sixty pounds in his house, at the foot of some
old stocking: and she thought how easily he might be robbed of it. "Yes,
Jonathan, tell him to bring it here: don't let him keep it at home, to
lose it."
Maria had another auditor, of whose presence she was unconscious. It was
her mother. Mrs. Hastings had been admitted by a servant, and came
through the room to the terrace unheard by Maria. The little girl's
ears--like all children's--were quick, and she turned, and broke into a
joyous cry of "Grandma!" Maria looked round.
"On, mamma! I did not know you were here. Are you quite well?" hastily
added Maria, fancying that her mother looked dispirited.
"We have had news from Reginald this morning, and the news is not good,"
was the reply. "He has been getting into some disagreeable scrape over
there, and it has taken a hundred pounds or two to clear him. Of course
they came upon us for it."
Maria's countenance fell. "Reginald is very unlucky. He seems always to
be getting into scrapes."
"He always is," said Mrs. Hastings. "We thought he could not get into
mischief at sea: but it appears that he does. The ship was at Calcutta
still, but they were expecting daily to sail for home."
"What is it that he has been doing?" asked Maria.
"I do not quite understand," replied Mrs. Hastings. "I saw his letter,
but that was not very explanatory. What it chiefly contained were
expressions of contrition, and promises of amendment. The captain wrote
to your papa: and that letter he would not give me to read. Your papa's
motive was a good one, no doubt,--to save me vexation. But, my dear, he
forgets that uncertainty causes the imagination to conjure up fears,
worse, probably, than the reality."
"As Reginald grows older, he will grow steadier," remarked Maria. "And,
mamma, whatever it may be, your grieving over it will not mend it."
"True," replied Mrs. Hastings. "But," she added, with a sad smile, "when
your children shall be as old as mine, Maria, you will have learnt how
impossible it is to a mother not to grieve. Have you forgotten the old
saying? 'When our children are young they tread upon our toes; but when
they are older they tread upon our hearts.'"
Little Miss Meta was treading upon her toes, just then. The child's tiny
shoes were dancing upon grandmamma's in her eagerness to get close to
her; to tell her that Donatan was going to give her a great big handful
of roses, as soon as they were out, with the thorns cut off.
"Come to me, Meta," said Maria. She saw that her mamma was not in a mood
to be troubled with children, and she drew the child on to her own knee.
"Mamma, I am going for a drive presently," she continued. "Would it not
do you good to accompany me?"
"I don't know that I could spare the time this morning," said Mrs.
Hastings. "Are you going far?"
"I can go far or not, as you please," replied Maria. "We have a new
carriage, and George told me at breakfast that I had better try it, and
see how I liked it."
"A new carriage!" replied Mrs. Hastings, her accent betraying surprise.
"Had you not enough carriages already, Maria?"
"In truth, I think we had, mamma. This new one is one that George took a
fancy to when he was in London last week; and he bought it."
"Child--though of course it is no business of mine--you surely did not
want it. What sort of carriage is it?"
"It is a large one: a sort of barouche. It will do you good to go out
with me. I will order it at once, if you will do so, mamma."
Mrs. Hastings did not immediately reply. She appeared to have fallen
into thought. Presently she raised her head and looked at Maria.
"My dear, I have long thought of mentioning to you a certain subject;
and I think I will do so now. Strictly speaking, it is, as I say, no
business of mine, but I cannot help being anxious for your interests."
Maria felt somewhat alarmed. It appeared a formidable preamble.
"I and your papa sometimes talk it over, one with another. And we
say"--Mrs. Hastings smiled, as if to disarm her words of their serious
import--"that we wish we could put old heads upon young shoulders. Upon
yours and your husband's."
"But why?--in what way?" cried Maria.
"My dear, if you and he had old heads, you would, I think, see how very
wrong it is--I speak the word only in your interests, Maria--to maintain
so great and expensive an establishment. It must cost you and George,
here, far more than it costs them at Ashlydyat."
"Yes, I suppose it does," said Maria.
"We do not know what your husband's income is----"
"I do not know, either," spoke Maria, for Mrs. Hastings had paused and
looked at her, almost as though she would give opportunity for the
information to be supplied. "George never speaks to me upon money
matters or business affairs."
"Well, whatever it is," resumed Mrs. Hastings, "we should judge that he
must be living up to every farthing of it. How much better it would be
if you were to live more moderately, and put something by!"
"I dare say it would," acquiesced Maria. "To tell you the truth, mamma,
there are times when I fall into a thoughtful mood, and feel half
frightened at our expenditure. But then again I reflect that George
knows his own affairs and his own resources far better than I do. The
expense is of his instituting: not of mine."
"George is proverbially careless," significantly spoke Mrs. Hastings.
"But, mamma, if at the end of one year, he found his expenses heavier
than they ought to be, he would naturally retrench them the next. His
not doing it proves that he can afford it."
"I am not saying, or thinking, that he cannot afford it, Maria, in one
sense; I do not suppose he outruns his income. But you might live at
half your present expense and be quite as comfortable, perhaps more so.
Servants, carriages, horses, dress, dinner-parties!--I know you must
spend enormously."
"Well, so we do," replied Maria. "But, mamma, you are perhaps unaware
that George has an equal share with Thomas. He has indeed. When Mr.
Crosse retired, Thomas told George it should be so for the future."
"Did he? There are not many like Thomas Godolphin. Still, Maria,
whatever may be your income, I maintain my argument, that you keep up
unnecessary style and extravagance. Remember, my dear, that you had no
marriage settlement. And, the more you save, the better for your
children. You may have many yet."
"I think I will talk to George about it," mused Maria.
Of course the past seven years had not been without their changes. Mr.
Crosse had retired from the Bank, and Thomas Godolphin, in his
generosity, immediately constituted his brother an equal partner. He had
not been so previously. Neither had it been contemplated by Sir George
in his lifetime that it was so to be, yet awhile. The state maintained
at Ashlydyat took more to keep it up than the quiet way in which it was
supposed George would live at the Bank, and Thomas was _the_
representative Godolphin. But Thomas Godolphin was incapable of any
conduct bordering in the remotest degree upon covetousness or meanness:
they were the sons of one father; and though there was the difference in
their ages, and he was chief of the Godolphins, he made George's share
equal to his own.
It was well perhaps that he did so. Otherwise George might have plunged
into shoals and quicksands. He appeared to have no idea of living
quietly; had he possessed the purse of Fortunatus, which was always full
of gold, we are told, he could not have been much more careless of
money. Rumour went, too, that all Mr. George's wild oats (bushels of
which, you may remember to have heard, Prior's Ash gave him credit for)
were not yet sown; and wild oats run away with a great deal of money.
Perhaps the only person in all Prior's Ash who believed George Godolphin
to be a saint, or next door to one, was Maria. Best that she should
think so! But, extravagant as George was, a suspicion that he lived
beyond his income, was never glanced at. Sober people, such as the
Rector of All Souls' and Mrs. Hastings, would say in private what a pity
it was that George did not think of saving for his family. Ample as the
income, present and future, arising from the Bank might be, it could not
be undesirable to know that a nest-egg was accumulating. Thomas might
have suggested this to George: gossips surmised that he did so, and that
George let the suggestion go for nothing. They were wrong. Whatever
lectures Janet may have seen well to give him, Thomas gave him none.
Thomas was not one to interfere, or play the mentor: and Thomas had a
strong silent conviction within him, that ere very long George would
come into Ashlydyat. The conviction was born of his suspected state of
health. He might be wrong: but he believed he was not. Ashlydyat
George's; the double income from the Bank George's--where was the need
to tell him to save now?
The Reverend Mr. Hastings had had some trouble with his boys: insomuch
as that they had turned their faces against the career he had marked out
for them. Isaac, the eldest, destined for the Church, had declined to
qualify himself for it when he came to years of discretion. After some
uncertainty, and what Mr. Hastings called "knocking about"--which meant
that he was doing nothing when he ought to have been at work: and that
state of affairs lasted for a year or two--Isaac won Maria over to his
side. Maria, in her turn, won over George: and Isaac was admitted into
the Bank. He held a good post in it now: the brother of Mrs. George
Godolphin was not left to rise by chance or priority. A handsome young
man of three and twenty was he; steady; and displaying an aptitude for
business beyond his years. Many a one deemed that Isaac Hastings, in a
worldly point of view, had done well in quitting the uncertain prospects
offered by the Church, for a clerkship in the house of Godolphin. He
might rise some time to be a partner in it. Reginald had also declined
the career marked out for him. Some government appointment had been
promised him: in fact, had been given him: but Reginald would hear of
nothing but the sea. It angered Mr. Hastings much. One of the last men,
was he, to force a boy into the Church; nay, to allow a boy to enter it,
unless he showed a special liking for it; therefore Isaac had, on that
score, got off pretty freely; but he was not one of the last men to
force a boy to work, who displayed a taste for idleness. Reginald argued
that he should lead a far more idle life in a government office, than he
should have a chance of doing if he went to sea. He was right, so far.
Mrs. Hastings had a special horror of the sea. Mothers, as a general
rule, have. She set her face--and Mr. Hastings had also set his--against
Reginald's sea visions; which, truth to say, had commenced with his
earliest years.
However, Reginald and inclination proved too strong for opposition. The
government post had to be declined with thanks; and to sea he went. Not
into the navy: the boy had become too old for it: but into the merchant
service. A good service, the firm he entered: but an expensive one. The
premium was high; the outfit was large; the yearly sum that went in
expenses while he was what is called a midshipman was considerable. But
he quitted that service in a pique, and had since been trying different
ships on his own account. Altogether, Mr. Hastings had trouble with him.
Harry was keeping his first term at College. He had chosen the Church of
his own free will: and was qualifying for it. Grace was married. And
Rose was growing up to be as pretty as Maria.
"Maria," said Mrs. Hastings, "if I am to go out with you to-day, why
should we not call upon Mrs. Averil? I have wanted to see her for some
time."
"I will call with pleasure," was Maria's answer. "As well take a long
drive as a short one. Then we should start at once."
She rang the bell as she spoke. To order the carriage, and for Margery
to come for Miss Meta. The latter, who had played the trick before,
suddenly broke from Margery, and dashed into the Bank parlour. She had
learned to open the door.
George by good luck happened to be alone. He affected great anger, and
Margery also scolded sharply. George had been sitting at a table,
bending over account books, his spirit weary, his brow knit. His assumed
anger was wasted: for he caught up the child the next moment and covered
her face with kisses. Then he carried her into the dining-room to Maria.
"What am I to do with this naughty child, mamma? She came bursting in
upon me like a great fierce lion. I must buy a real lion and keep him in
the closet, and let him loose if she does it again. Meta won't like to
be eaten up."
Meta laughed confidentially. "Papa won't let a lion eat Meta."
"You saucy child!" But George's punishment consisted only of more
kisses.
"Is Meta going with you?" asked George, when Maria told him of the
contemplated visit to Mrs. Averil.
Meta interposed. "Yes, she should go," she said.
"If I take Meta, I must take you also, Margery," observed Maria. "I
cannot have the trouble of her in the carriage."
"_I_ shan't hinder time," was Margery's response. "My bonnet and shawl's
soon put on, ma'am. Come along, child. I'll dress you at once."
She went off with Meta, waiting for no further permission. George
stepped out on the terrace, to see what Jonathan and David were about.
Maria took the opportunity to tell him of the sixty pounds which had
come to old Jekyl, and that she had advised its being brought to the
Bank to be taken care of.
"What money is it? Where does it come from?" inquired George of the men.
"It's the money, sir, as was left to father this three years ago, from
that dead uncle of ourn," returned Jonathan. "But the lawyers, sir, they
couldn't agree, and it was never paid over. Now there has been a trial
over it, something about the will; and father has had notice that it's
ready for him, all the sixty pound."
"We will take care of it for him, and pay him interest, tell him, if he
chooses to leave it here," said George.
"I'll tell him, sure enough, sir. He's safe to bring it."
The carriage was at the door in due course, and they were ready. A
handsome carriage; acknowledged to be so by even Mrs. Hastings. George
came out to hand them in. Miss Meta, a pretty little dressed-up fairy;
Margery, plain and old-fashioned; Mrs. Hastings, quiet and ladylike;
Maria, beautiful. Her hand lingered in her husband's.
"I wish you were coming, George," she bent from the carriage to whisper.
"I am too busy to-day, my dearest."
Although nearly seven years a wife, the world still contained no idol
for Maria like George Godolphin. She loved, respected, reverenced him.
Nothing, as yet, had shaken her faith in her husband. The little tales,
making free with Mr. George's name, which would now and then be flying
about Prior's Ash, had never reached the ears of Maria.
They had a seven-mile drive. The Honourable Mrs. Averil, who was growing
in years, and had become an invalid, was delighted to see them. She kept
them for two or three hours, and wanted to keep them for the day. It was
late in the afternoon when they returned to Prior's Ash.
They met a cavalcade on entering the town. A riding-party, consisting of
several ladies and one or two gentlemen, followed by some grooms.
Somewhat apart from the rest, midway between the party and the grooms,
rode two abreast, laughing, animated, upon the best of terms with each
other. The lady sat her horse unusually well. She was slightly larger,
but not a whit less handsome, than on the day you first saw her at the
meet of the hounds: Charlotte Pain. He, gay George--for it was no
other--was riding carelessly, half turning on his horse, his fair curls
bending towards Charlotte.
"Papa! papa!" shrieked out Meta, joyously.
George turned hastily, but the carriage had then passed. So occupied had
he been in making himself agreeable that he had positively not seen it.
Charlotte had. Charlotte had bowed. Bowed to Maria with a look of cool
assurance of triumph--as much as to say, You are sitting alone, and your
husband is with me. At least, it might have worn that appearance to one
given to flights of fancy, which Maria was not; and she returned the bow
with a pleasant smile. She caught George's eye when he turned, and a
flush of pleasure lighted her face. George nodded to her cordially, and
raised his hat, sending back a smile at the idea of his not having seen
her.
"It was papa, was it not, darling!" said Maria, gleefully, bending over
to her little girl.
But Maria did not notice that Margery's head had given itself a peculiar
toss at sight of George's companion; or that a severe expression had
crossed the face of Mrs. Hastings. An expression which she instantly
smoothed away, lest Maria should see it.
The fact was, that gossiping Prior's Ash had for some time coupled
together the names of George Godolphin and Charlotte Pain in its usual
free manner. No need, one would think, for Mrs. Hastings or Margery to
give heed to such tattle: for they knew well what the stories of Prior's
Ash were worth.