A REVELATION.
The dinner-table was spacious, consequently the absence of one was
conspicuous. Mr. Verrall's chair was still left for him: he would come
yet, George said. No clergyman was present, and Thomas Godolphin said
grace. He sat at the foot of the table, opposite to his brother.
"We are thirteen!" exclaimed Sir John Pevans, a young baronet, who had
been reared a milksop, and feared consumption for himself. "I don't much
like it. It is the ominous number, you know."
Some of them laughed. "What is that peculiar superstition?" asked
Colonel Max. "I have never been able to understand it."
"The superstition, is that if thirteen sit down to dinner, one of them
is sure to die before the year is out," replied young Pevans, speaking
with great seriousness.
"Why is thirteen not as good a number to sit down as any other?" cried
Colonel Max, humouring the baronet. "As good as fourteen, for instance?"
"It's the odd number, I suppose."
"_The_ odd number. It's no more the odd number, Pevans, than any other
number's odd. What do you say to eleven?--what do you say to fifteen?"
"I can't explain it," returned Sir John. "I only know that the
superstition exists, and that I have noticed, in more instances than
one, that it has been borne out. Three or four parties who have sat down
thirteen to dinner, have lost one of them before the year has come
round. You laugh at me, of course; I have been laughed at before: but
suppose you notice it now? We are thirteen of us: see if we are all
alive by the end of the year."
Thomas Godolphin, in his inmost heart, thought it not unlikely that one
of them, at any rate, would not be there. Several faces were broad with
amusement: the most serious of them was Lord Averil's.
"_You_ don't believe in it, Averil!" muttered Colonel Max in surprise,
as he gazed at him.
"I!" was the answer. "Certainly not. Why should you ask it?"
"You look so grave over it."
"I never like to joke, though it be only by a smile, on the subject of
death," replied Lord Averil. "I once received a lesson upon the point,
and it will serve me my life."
"Will your lordship tell us what it was!" interposed Sir John, who had
been introduced to Lord Averil to-day for the first time.
"I cannot do so now," replied Lord Averil. "The subject is not suited to
a merry party," he frankly added. "But it would not help to bear out
your superstition, Sir John: you are possibly thinking that it might do
so."
"If I have sat down once thirteen, I have sat down fifty times," cried
Colonel Max, "and we all lived the year out and many a year on to it.
You are a sociable fellow to invite out to dinner, Pevans! I fancy Mr.
George Godolphin must be thinking so."
Mr. George Godolphin appeared to be thinking of something that rendered
him somewhat distrait. In point of fact, his duties as host were
considerably broken by listening to the door. Above the conversation his
ear was strained, hoping for the knock that should announce Mr. Verrall.
It was of course strange that he neither appeared nor sent an excuse.
But no knock seemed to come: and George could only rally his powers, and
forget Mr. Verrall.
It was a _recherché_ repast. George Godolphin's state dinners always
were so. No trouble or expense was spared for them. Luxuries, in season
and out of season, would be there. The turtle would seem richer at his
table than at any other, the venison more delicate; the Moselle of
fuller flavour, the sparkling hermitage of rarest vintage.
The evening passed on. Some of the gentlemen were solacing themselves
with a cup of coffee, when the butler slipped a note into his master's
hand. "The man waits for an answer, sir," he whispered. And George
glided out of the room, and opened the note.
"DEAR GODOLPHIN,
"I am ill and lonely, and have halted here midway in my journey
for a night's rest before going on again, which I must do at six
in the morning. Come in for half an hour--there's a good fellow!
I don't know when we may meet again. The regiment embarks
to-morrow; and can't embark without me. Come at once, or I shall
be gone to bed.
"G. ST. AUBYN."
One burning, almost irrepressible desire had hung over George all the
evening--that he could run up to Verrall's and learn the cause of his
absence. Mr. Verrall's absence in itself would not in the least have
troubled George; but he had a most urgent reason for wishing to see him:
hence his anxiety. To leave his guests to themselves would have been
scarcely the thing to do: but this note appeared to afford just the
excuse wanted. At any rate, George determined to make it an excuse. The
note was dated from the principal inn of the place.
"One of the waiters brought this, I suppose, Pierce?" he said to the
butler.
"Yes, sir."
"My compliments, and I will be with Captain St. Aubyn directly."
George went into the room again, and drew his brother aside.
"Thomas, you'll be host for me for half an hour," he whispered. "St.
Aubyn has just sent me an urgent summons to go and see him at the Bell.
He was passing through Prior's Ash, and is forced to halt and lie up:
he's very ill. I'll soon be back again."
Away he went. Thomas felt unusually well that evening, and exerted
himself for his brother. Once out of the house, George hesitated. Should
he dash up to Lady Godolphin's Folly first, and ease his mind, or should
he go first to the Bell? The Bell was very near, but in the opposite
direction to Ashlydyat. He turned first to the Bell, and was soon in the
presence of Captain St. Aubyn, an old friend, now bound for Malta.
"I am sorry to have sent for you," exclaimed Captain St. Aubyn, holding
out his hand to George. "I hear you have friends this evening."
"It is just the kindest thing you could have done," impulsively answered
George. "I would have given a five-pound note out of my pocket for a
plea to absent myself; and your letter came and afforded it."
What more he chose to explain was between themselves: it was not much:
and in five minutes George was on his way to Lady Godolphin's Folly. On
he strode, his eager feet scarcely touching the ground. He lifted his
hat and bared his brow, hot with anxiety, to the night air. It was a
very light night, the moon high: and, as George pushed on through the
dark grove of the Folly, he saw Charlotte Pain emerging from the same at
a little distance, a dark shawl, or mantle, thrown completely over her
head and figure, apparently for the purpose of disguise or concealment.
Her face was turned for a moment towards the moonlight, and there was no
mistaking the features of Charlotte Pain. Then she crouched down, and
sped along under the friendly cover of the trees. George hastened to
overtake her.
But when he got up with her, as he thought, there was no Charlotte
there. There was no any one. Where had she crept to? How had she
disappeared? She must have plunged into the trees again. But George was
in too much haste then to see Mr. Verrall, to puzzle himself about
Charlotte. He crossed to the terrace, and rang the bell.
Were the servants making merry? He had to ring again. A tolerable peal
this time. Its echoes might have been heard at Ashlydyat.
"Is Mr. Verrall at home?"
"No, sir. Mrs. Pain is."
"Mrs. Pain is not," thought George to himself. But he followed the man
to the drawing-room.
To his indescribable astonishment, there sat Charlotte, at work. She was
in evening dress, her gown and hair interlaced with jewels. Calmly and
quietly sat she, very quietly for her, her King Charley reposing upon a
chair at her side, fast asleep. It was next to impossible to fancy, or
believe, that she could have been outside a minute or two ago, racing in
and out of the trees, as if dodging some one, perhaps himself. And yet,
had it been necessary, George thought he could have sworn that the face
he saw was the face of Charlotte. So bewildered did he feel, as to be
diverted for a moment from the business which had brought him there.
"You may well be surprised!" cried Charlotte, looking at him; and George
noticed as she spoke that there was some peculiar expression in her face
not usual to it. "To see me at work is one of the world's wonders. A
crochet mat took my fancy to-day in a shop, and I bought it, thinking I
would make one like it. Instead of making one, I have managed to unravel
the other."
She pointed to the ground as she spoke. There, half covered by her
dress, lay a heap of crinkled cotton; no doubt the unravelled mat.
Charlotte was plying her needle again with assiduity, her eyes studying
the instructions at her elbow.
"How very quickly you must have come in!" exclaimed George.
"Come in from where?" asked Charlotte.
"As I went up to the door, I saw you stooping near the grove on the
left, something dark over your head."
"You dreamt it," said Charlotte. "I have not been out."
"But I certainly did see you," repeated George. "I could not be
mistaken. You--were I fanciful, Charlotte, I should say you were in
mischief, and wanted to escape observation. You were stooping under the
shade of the trees and running along quickly."
Charlotte lifted her face and looked at him with wondering eyes. "Are
you joking, or are you in earnest?" asked she.
"I never was more in earnest in my life. I could have staked my
existence upon its being you."
"Then I assure you I have not stirred out of this room since I came into
it from dinner. What possessed me to try this senseless work, I cannot
tell," she added, flinging it across the floor in a momentary accession
of temper. "It has given me a headache, and they brought me some tea."
"You are looking very poorly," remarked George.
"Am I? I don't often have such a headache as this. The pain is here,
over my left temple. Bathe it for me, will you, George?"
A handkerchief and some eau-de-Cologne were lying on the table beside
her. George gallantly undertook the office: but he could not get over
his wonder. "I'll tell you what, Charlotte. If it was not yourself, it
must have been your----"
"It must have been my old blind black dog," interrupted Charlotte. "He
has a habit of creeping about the trees at night. There! I am sure
that's near enough. I don't believe it was anything or any one."
"Your double, I was going to say," persisted George. "I never saw your
face if I did not think I saw it then. It proves how mistaken we may be.
Where's Verrall? A pretty trick he played me this evening."
"What trick?" repeated Charlotte. "Verrall's gone to London."
"Gone to London!" shouted George, his tone one of painful dismay. "It
cannot be."
"It _is_," said Charlotte. "When I came in from our ride I found Verrall
going off by train. He had received a telegraphic message, which took
him away."
"Why did he not call upon me? He knew--he knew--the necessity there was
for me to see him. He ought to have come to me."
"I suppose he was in a hurry to catch the train," said Charlotte.
"Why did he not send?"
"He did send. I heard him send a verbal message by one of the servants,
to the effect that he was summoned unexpectedly to London, and could
not, therefore, attend your dinner. How early you have broken up!"
"We have not broken up. I left my guests to see after Verrall. No
message was brought to me."
"Then I will inquire," began Charlotte, rising. George gently pushed her
back.
"It is of little consequence," he said. "It might have saved me some
suspense; but I am glad I got dinner over without knowing it. I _must_
see Verrall."
Charlotte carried her point, and rang the bell. "If you are glad,
George, it is no extenuation for the negligence of the servants. They
may be forgetting some message of more importance, if they are left
unreproved now."
But forgotten the message had not been. The servant, it appeared, had
misunderstood his master, and carried the message to Ashlydyat, instead
of to the Bank.
"How very stupid he must have been!" remarked Charlotte to George, when
the explanation was given. "I think some people have only half their
share of brains."
"Charlotte, I must see Verrall. I received a letter this evening from
London which I ought to have had yesterday, and it has driven me to my
wits' end."
"About the old business?" questioned Charlotte.
"Just so. Look here."
He took the letter from his pocket: the letter brought back to him by
Isaac Hastings, and which he had assured Maria had not contained bad
news: opened it, and handed it to Charlotte for her perusal. Better,
possibly, for Mr. George Godolphin that he had made a bosom friend of
his wife than of Charlotte Pain! Better for gentlemen in general, it may
be, that they should tell their secrets to their wives than to their
wives' would-be rivals--however comprehensive the fascinations of these
latter ladies may be. George, however, had made his own bed, as we all
do; and George would have to lie upon it.
"What am I to do, Charlotte?"
Charlotte sat bending over the note, and pressing her forehead. Her look
was one of perplexity; perplexity great as George's.
"It is a dangerous position," she said at length. "If not averted----"
She came to a dead pause, and their eyes met.
"Ay!" he repeated--"if not averted! Nothing would remain for me but----"
"Hush, George," said she, laying her hand upon his lips, and then
letting it fall upon his fingers, where it remained.
There they sat, it is hard to say how long, their heads together,
talking earnestly. Charlotte was in his full confidence. Whatever may
have been the nature, the depth of his perplexities, she fathomed them.
At length George sprang up with a start.
"I am forgetting everything. I forgot those people were still at home,
waiting for me. Charlotte, I must go."
She rose, put her arm within his, and took a step with him, as if she
would herself let him out. Perhaps she was in the habit of letting him
out.
"Not there! not that way!" she abruptly said, for George was turning to
unclose the shutters of the window. "Come into the next room, and I'll
open that."
The next room was in darkness. They opened the window, and stood yet a
minute within the room, talking anxiously still. Then he left her, and
went forth.
He intended to take the lonely road homewards, as being the nearer; that
dark, narrow road you may remember to have heard of, where the ash-trees
met overhead, and, as report went, a ghost was in the habit of taking
walking exercise by night. George had no thought for ghosts just then:
he had a "ghost" within him, frightful enough to scare away a whole lane
full of the others. Nevertheless, George Godolphin did take a step
backward with a start, when, just within the Ash-tree Walk, after
passing the turnstile, there came a dismal groan from some dark figure
seated on a broken bench.
It was all dark together there. The ash-trees hid the moon; George had
just emerged from where her beams shone bright and open; and not at
first did he distinguish who was sitting there. But his eyes grew
accustomed to the obscurity.
"Thomas!" he cried, in consternation. "Is it you?"
For answer, Thomas Godolphin caught hold of his brother, bent forward,
and laid his forehead upon George's arm, another deep groan breaking
from him.
That George Godolphin would rather have been waylaid by a real ghost,
than by his brother at that particular time and place, was certain.
Better that the whole world should detect any undue anxiety for Mr.
Verrall's companionship just then, than that Thomas Godolphin should do
so. At least, George thought so: but conscience makes cowards of us all.
Nevertheless, he gave his earnest sympathy to his brother.
"Lean on me, Thomas. Let me support you. How have you been taken ill?"
Another minute, and the paroxysm was past. Thomas wiped the dew from his
brow, and George sat down on the narrow bench beside him.
"How came you to be here alone, Thomas? Where is your carriage?"
"I ordered the carriage early, and it came just as you had gone out,"
explained Thomas. "Feeling well, I sent it away as I had to wait, saying
I would walk home. The pain overtook me just as I reached this spot, and
but for the bench I should have fallen. But, George, what brings _you_
here?" was the next very natural question. "You told me you were going
to the Bell?"
"So I was; so I did," said George, speaking volubly. "St. Aubyn I found
very poorly; I told him he would be best in bed, and came away. It was a
nice night; I felt inclined for a run, so I came up here to ask Verrall
what had kept him from dinner. He was sent for to London, it seems, and
the stupid servant took his apology to Ashlydyat, instead of to the
Bank."
Thomas Godolphin might well have rejoined, "If Verrall is away, where
have you stopped?" But he made no remark.
"Have they all gone?" asked George, alluding to his guests.
"They have all gone. I made it right with them respecting your absence.
My being there was almost the same thing: they appeared to regard it so.
George, I believe I must have your arm as far as the house. See what an
old man I am getting."
"Will you not rest longer? I am in no hurry, as they have left. What can
this pain be, that seems to be attacking you of late?"
"Has it never occurred to you what it may be?" quietly rejoined Thomas.
"No," replied George. But he noticed that Thomas's tone was, peculiar,
and he began to run over in his own mind all the pharmacopoeia of
ailments that flesh is heir to. "It cannot be rheumatism, Thomas?"
"It is something worse than rheumatism," said Thomas, in his serene,
ever-thoughtful way. "A short time, George, and you will be master of
Ashlydyat."
George's heart seemed to stand still, and then bound onwards in a
tumult. The words struck upon every chord of feeling he
possessed--struck from more causes than one.
"What do you mean, Thomas? What do you fear may be the matter with you?"
"Do you remember what killed our mother?"
There was a painful pause. "Oh, Thomas!"
"It is so," said Thomas, quietly.
"I hope you are mistaken! I _hope_ you are mistaken!" reiterated George.
"Have you had advice? You must have advice."
"I have had it. Snow confirms my own suspicions. I desired the truth."
"Who's Snow?" returned George, disparagingly. "Go up to London, Thomas;
consult the best man there. Or telegraph for one of them to come down to
you."
"For the satisfaction of you all, I may do so," he replied. "But it
cannot benefit me, George."
"Good Heavens, what a dreadful thing!" returned George, with feeling.
"What a blow to fall upon you!"
"You would regard it so, were it to fall upon you; and naturally. You
are young, joyous; you have your wife and child. I have none of these
attributes: and--if I had them all, we are in the hands of One who knows
what is best for us."
George Godolphin did not feel very joyous just then: had not felt
particularly joyous for a long time. Somehow, his own inward care was
more palpable to him than this news, sad though it was, imparted by his
brother. He lifted his right hand to his temples and kept it there.
Thomas suffered his right hand to fall upon George's left, which rested
on his knee. A more holy contact than that imparted by Mrs. Charlotte
Pain's.
"Don't grieve, George. I am more than resigned. I think of it as a happy
change. This world, taken at its best, is full of care: if we seem free
from it one year, it only falls upon us more unsparingly the next. It is
wisely ordered: were earth made too pleasant for us, we might be wishing
that it could be permanently our home."
Heaven knew that George had enough care upon him. _He_ knew it. But he
was not weary of the world. Few do weary of it, whatever may be their
care, until they have learned to look for a better.
"In the days gone by, I have felt tempted to wonder why Ethel should
have been taken," resumed Thomas Godolphin. "I see now how merciful was
the fiat, George. I have been more thoughtful, more observant, perhaps,
than many are; and I have learnt to see, to know, how marvellously all
these fiats are fraught with mercy; full of gloom as they may seem to
us. It would have been a bitter trial to me to leave her here
unprotected; in deep sorrow; perhaps with young children. I scarcely
think I could have been reconciled to go; and I know what her grief
would have been. All's for the best."
Most rare was it for undemonstrative Thomas Godolphin thus to express
his hidden sentiments. George never knew him to do so before. Time and
place were peculiarly fitted for it: the still, light night, telling of
peace; the dark trees around, the blue sky overhead. In these paroxysms
of disease, Thomas felt brought almost face to face with death.
"It will be a blow to Janet!" exclaimed George, the thought striking
him.
"She will feel it as one."
"Thomas! can _nothing_ be done for you?" was the impulsive rejoinder,
spoken in all hearty good-feeling.
"Could it be done for my mother, George?"
"I know. But, since then, science has made strides. Diseases, once
deemed incurable, yield now to skill and enlightenment. I wish you would
go to London!"
"There are some few diseases which bring death with them, in spite of
human skill: will bring it to the end of time," rejoined Thomas
Godolphin. "This is one of them."
"Well, Thomas, you have given me my pill for to-night: and for a great
many more nights, and days too. I _wish_ I had not heard it! But that,
you will say, is a wish savouring only of selfishness. It is a dreadful
affliction for you! Thomas, I must say it--a dreadful affliction."
"The disease, or the ending, do you mean?" Thomas asked, with a smile.
"Both. But I spoke more particularly of the disease. That in itself is a
lingering death, and nothing less."
"A lingering death is the most favoured death--as I regard it: a sudden
death the most unhappy. See what time is given me to 'set my house in
order,'" he added, the sober, pleasant smile deepening. "I must not fail
to do it well, must I?"
"And the pain, Thomas; that will be lingering, too."
"I must bear it."
He rose as he spoke, and put his arm within his brother's. George seemed
to him then the same powerful protector that he, Thomas, must have
seemed to Sir George in that midnight walk at Broomhead. He stood a
minute or two, as if gathering strength, and then walked forward,
leaning heavily on George. It was the pain, the excessive agony that so
unnerved him: a little while, and he would seem in the possession of his
usual strength again.
"Ay, George, it will soon be yours. I shall not long keep you out of
Ashlydyat. I cannot quite tell how you will manage alone at the Bank
when I am gone," he continued, in a more business tone. "I think of it a
great deal. Sometimes I fancy it might be better if you took a staid,
sober partner; one middle aged. A thorough man of business. Great
confidence has been accorded me, you know, George. I suppose people like
my steady habits."
"They like you for your integrity," returned George, the words seeming
to break from him impulsively. "I shall manage very well, I dare say,
when the time comes. I suppose I must settle down to steadiness also; to
be more as you have been. I can," he continued, as if in soliloquy. "I
can, and I will."
"And, George, you will be a good master," continued Thomas. "Be a kind,
considerate master to all who shall then be dependent on you. I have
tried to be so: and, now that the end has come, it is, I assure you, a
pleasant consciousness to possess--to look back upon. I have a few, very
few, poor pensioners who may have been a little the better for me: those
I shall take care of, and Janet will sometimes see them. But some of the
servants lapse to you with Ashlydyat: I speak of them. Make them
comfortable. Most of them are already in years: take care of them when
they shall be too old to work."
"Oh, I'll do that," said George. "I expect Janet----"
George's words died away. They had rounded the ash-trees, and were
fronting the Dark Plain. White enough looked the plain that night; but
dark was the Shadow on it. Yes, it was there! The dark, portentous,
terrific Shadow of Ashlydyat!
They stood still. Perhaps their hearts stood still. Who can know? A man
would rather confess to an unholy deed, than acknowledge his belief in a
ghostly superstition.
"How dark it is to-night!" broke from George.
In truth, it had never been darker, never more intensely distinct. If,
as the popular belief went, the evil to overtake the Godolphins was
foreshadowed to be greater or less, according to the darker or lighter
hue of the Shadow, then never did such ill fall on the Godolphins, as
was to fall now.
"It is black, not dark," replied Thomas, in answer to George's remark.
"I never saw it so black as it is now. Last night it was comparatively
light."
George turned his gaze quickly upwards to the moon, searching in the
aspect of that luminary a solution to the darker shade of to-night.
"There's no difference!" he cried aloud. "The moon was as bright as
this, last night, but not brighter. I don't think it could be brighter.
You say the Shadow was there last night, Thomas?"
"Yes. But not so dark as now."
"But, Thomas! you were ill last night; you could not see it."
"I came as far as the turnstile here with Lord Averil. He called at
Ashlydyat after leaving Lady Godolphin's Folly. I was better then, and
strolled out of the house with him."
"Did he see the Shadow?"
"I don't know. It was there; but not very distinct. He did not appear to
see it. We were passing quickly, and talking about my illness."
"Did you give Averil any hint of what your illness may be?" asked George
hastily.
"Not an indication of it. Janet, Snow, and you, are my only confidants
as yet. Bexley is partially so. Were that Shadow to be seen by Prior's
Ash, and the fact of my illness transpired, people would say that it was
a forewarning of my end," he continued, with a grave smile, as he and
George turned to pursue their road to Ashlydyat.
They reached the porch in silence. George shook hands with his brother.
"Don't attempt to come to business to-morrow," he said. "I will come up
in the evening, and see you."
"Won't you come in now, George?"
"Not now. Good night, Thomas. I heartily wish you better."
George turned and retraced his steps, past the ash-trees, past the Dark
Plain. Intensely black the Shadow certainly looked: darker even than
when he had passed it just before--at least so it appeared to George's
eyes. He halted a moment, quite struck with the sombre hue. "Thomas said
it appeared light last night," he half muttered: "and for _him_ death
cannot be much of an evil. Superstitious Janet, daft Margery, would both
say that the evil affects me: that I am to bring it!" he added, with a
smile of mockery at the words. "Angry enough it certainly looks!"
It did look angry. But George vouchsafed it no further attention. He had
too much on his mind to give heed to shadows, even though it were the
ominous Shadow of Ashlydyat. George, as he had said to Charlotte Pain,
was very nearly at his wits' end. One of his minor perplexities was, how
he should get to London. He had urgent necessity for proceeding in
search of Mr. Verrall, and equally urgent was it that the expedition
should be kept from Thomas Godolphin. What excuse could he invent for
his absence?
Rapidly arranging his plans, he proceeded again to the Bell Inn, held a
few minutes' confidential conversation with Captain St. Aubyn, waking
that gentleman out of his first sleep for it--not that he by any means
enlightened _him_ as to any trouble that might be running riot in his
brain--and then went home. Maria came forward to meet him.
"How is poor Captain St. Aubyn, George? Very ill?"
"Very. How did you know anything about it, Maria?"
"Thomas told me you had been sent for. Thomas came to my sitting-room
before he left, after the rest had gone. You have stayed a good while
with him."
"Ay. What should you say if I were to go back and stop the night with
him?" asked George, half jokingly.
"Is he so ill as that?"
"And also to accompany him a stage or two on his journey to-morrow
morning? He starts at six, and is about as fit to travel as an invalid
just out of bed after a month's illness."
"Do you really mean that you are going to do all that, George?" she
inquired, in surprise.
George nodded. "I do not fancy Thomas will be here to-morrow, Maria. Ask
to speak to Isaac when he comes in the morning. Tell him that I shall be
home some time in the afternoon, but I have gone out of town a few miles
with a sick friend. He can say so if I am particularly inquired for."
George went to his room. Maria followed him. He was changing his coat
and waistcoat, and threw an overcoat upon his arm. Then he looked at his
watch.
"What is the time?" asked Maria.
"Twenty minutes past eleven. Good night, my darling."
She fondly held his face down to hers while he kissed her, giving
him--as George had once saucily told her she would--kiss for kiss. There
was no shame in it now; only love. "Oh, George, my dearest, mind you
come back safe and well to me!" she murmured, tears filling her eyes.
"Don't I always come back safe and well to you, you foolish child? Take
care of yourself, Maria."
Maria's hand rested lingeringly in his. Could she have divined that Mr.
George's tender adieux sometimes strayed elsewhere!--that his
confidences were given, but not to her! George went out, and the hall
door closed upon him.
It was well Maria did not watch him away! Well for her astonishment.
Instead of going to the Bell Inn, he turned short round to the left, and
took the by-way which led to the railway station, gaining it in time to
catch the express train, which passed through Prior's Ash at midnight
for London.