IN THE STREETS OF PRIOR'S ASH.
Barely had Maria departed and closed the Rectory gate behind her, when
she encountered a stylish vehicle dashing along at an alarming pace,
with a couple of frantic dogs behind it. It was that "turn-out" you have
heard of, belonging to Mrs. Charlotte Pain. Mrs. Charlotte Pain was in
it, resplendent as the sun, dazzling the admiring eyes of Prior's Ash in
a gown of pink moiré antique, and a head-gear which appeared to be
composed of pink and white feathers and a glittering silver aigrette,
its form altogether not unlike a French gendarme's hat, if you have the
pleasure of being familiar with that awe-imparting article. At the sight
of Maria she pulled the horses up with a jerk: on which ensued some
skirmishing and scattering abroad of dust, the animals, both horses and
dogs, not approving of so summary a check; but Charlotte was resolute,
and her whip effective. She then flung the reins to the groom who sat
beside her, jumped down, and held out her hand to Maria.
Maria accepted it. The revelation gratuitously bestowed on her by
Margery was beating its words upon her memory; and her brow, face and
neck had flushed to a glowing crimson. Some might have flung the offered
hand aside, and picked up their skirts with a jerk, and sailed away with
an air; but Maria was a gentlewoman.
"How well you look!" exclaimed Charlotte, regarding her in some
surprise. "Perhaps you are warm? I say, Mrs. George"--dropping her voice
to a whisper--"whither do you think I am bound?"
"I cannot tell."
"To see Lord Averil. He is back again, and stopping at old Max's. I am
going to badger him out of a promise not to hurt George Godolphin--about
those rubbishing bonds, you know. I won't leave him until I get it."
"Yes," said Maria.
"I will have it. Or--war to the knife, my lord! I should like to see
him, or anybody else, attempt to refuse _me_ anything I stood out for,"
she added, with a triumphant glance, meant for the absent viscount.
"Poor George has nobody here to fight his battles for him, and he can't
return to enter on them in person; so it's well that some friend should
do it. They are saying in the town this morning, that Averil has
returned for the purpose of prosecuting: I mean to cut his prosecuting
claws off."
"It is a mistake," said Maria. "Lord Averil has no intention of
prosecuting."
"How do you know?" bluntly asked Charlotte.
"I have just seen him."
"You don't mean to say you have been over to old Max's?" exclaimed
Charlotte, opening her brilliant black eyes very widely.
"Yes, I have."
"You quiet slyboots! You have never walked there and back?"
"I don't feel very tired. I have been resting with mamma for half an
hour."
"And he's safe--Averil?" eagerly continued Charlotte.
"Quite safe. Remember his long friendship with Thomas Godolphin."
"Oh, my dear, men forget friendship when their pockets are in question,"
was the light remark of Charlotte. "You are _sure_, though, Averil's not
deceiving you? I don't much think he is one to do a dirty trick of that
sort, but I have lived long enough to learn that you must prove a man
before you trust him."
"Lord Averil is not deceiving me," quietly answered Maria. "He has given
me a message for my husband."
"Then there's no necessity for my going to him," said Charlotte. "Let me
drive you home, Mrs. George Godolphin. I am sure you are fatigued. I
never saw any one change countenance as you do. A few minutes ago you
looked vulgarly hot, and now you are pale enough for the grave. Step in.
James, you must change to the back seat."
Step into that formidably high thing, and sit by Mrs. Charlotte Pain's
side, and dash through Prior's Ash! Maria wondered whether the gossips
of Prior's Ash--who, as it seemed, had made so free with gay George's
name--or Margery, would stare the most. She declined the invitation.
"You are afraid," cried Charlotte. "Well, it's a great misfortune, these
timid temperaments: but I suppose they can't be cured. Kate Verrall's
another coward: but she's not as bad as you. Toss me my parasol, James."
James handed his mistress a charming toy of pink moiré antique silk and
point lace, mounted on a handle of carved ivory. Charlotte put it up
before her face, and turned to accompany Maria.
Maria put her parasol up before _her_ face, thankful that it might serve
to shield it, if only partially, from the curious eyes of Prior's Ash.
Remembering the compliments that Prior's Ash had been kind enough to
pass on her "blind simplicity," she would not exactly have chosen her
present companion to walk through the streets with. Dame Bond, with her
unsteady steps and her snuffy black gown, would have been preferable of
the two.
"But," thought Maria in her generosity, striving to thrust that other
unpleasant feeling down deep into her heart, and to lose sight of it,
"it is really kind of Mrs. Pain to be seen thus publicly with me. Other
ladies would be ashamed of me now, I suppose."
They stepped on. Maria with her parasol so close to her face that there
was danger of her running against people; Charlotte turning herself from
side to side, flirting the costly little pink toy as one flirts a fan,
bowing and scraping to all she met. The dogs snarled and barked behind
her; the carriage pranced and curvetted by their side; the unhappy
James, his hands full with the horses, which refused to recognize any
mastership except that of Mrs. Charlotte Pain. Altogether, it was a more
conspicuous progress than Maria would have chosen. Thus they arrived at
the Bank, and Maria held out her hand to Charlotte. She _could_ not be
otherwise than courteous, no matter to whom.
"I am coming in," said Charlotte bluntly. "Take care what you are about
with the horses, James."
Maria led the way to the dining-room. All was as it used to be in that
charming room; furniture, pictures, elegant trifles for show or for use;
all was the same: except--that those things belonged now not to Maria
and her husband, but were noted down as the property of others. Soon,
soon to be put up for sale! Charlotte's rich moiré antique came to an
anchor on a sofa, and she untied the string of the gendarme hat, and
pushed it back on her head.
"I am going to leave Prior's Ash."
"To leave Prior's Ash!" repeated Maria. "When?"
"Within a week of this. Lady Godolphin's coming back to the Folly."
"But--Lady Godolphin cannot come back to it without giving you due
notice to quit?" debated Maria.
"It's all arranged," said Charlotte, opening her mouth with a loud yawn.
"Lady Godolphin wrote to Verrall, and the arrangements have been agreed
upon amicably. Lady Godolphin foregoes a certain portion of rent, and we
go out immediately. I am very glad, do you know. I had made my mind up
not to stay. As to the Verralls, it may be said that they virtually took
leave of the Folly long ago. Uncommonly glad I shall be to leave it,"
repeated Charlotte with emphasis.
"Why?"
"Who'd care to stay at Prior's Ash, after all this bother? You and
George will be leaving it for London, you know--and I hope it won't be
long first. You must make me useful up there, Mrs. George. I'll----"
"Who told you we were going to leave for London?" interrupted Maria in
astonishment.
"Nobody told me. But of course you will. Do you suppose George Godolphin
will care to stop amongst this set? Not he. He'd see Prior's Ash go
promenading first. What tie has he here, now Ashlydyat's gone? Verrall
talks of buying a hunting-box in Leicestershire."
"Does he?" replied Maria mechanically, her thoughts buried elsewhere.
"Buying or hiring one. _I_ should hire; and then there's no bother if
you want to make a flitting. But Verrall is one who takes nobody's
counsel but his own. What a worry it will be!" added Charlotte, after a
pause.
Maria raised her eyes. She did not understand the remark.
"Packing up the things at the Folly," exclaimed Charlotte. "We begin
to-morrow morning. I must be at the head of it, for it's of no use
trusting that sort of work entirely to servants. Bon jour, petite
coquette! Et les poupées?"
The diversion was caused by the flying entrance of Miss Meta. The young
lady was not yet particularly well up in the Gallic language, and only
half understood. She went straight up to Mrs. Pain, threw her soft sweet
eyes right into that lady's flashing black ones, rested her pretty arms
upon the moiré antique, and spoke out with her accustomed boldness.
"Where are the dogs now?"
"Chained down in the pit-hole," responded Mrs. Pain.
"Margery says there is no pit-hole, and the dogs were not chained down,"
asserted Meta.
"Margery's nothing but an old woman. Don't you believe her. If she tells
stories again, we'll chain her down with the dogs."
"Two of the dogs are outside," said Meta.
"Not the same dogs, child," returned Mrs. Pain with cool equanimity.
"They are street dogs, those are."
"They are with the carriage," persisted Meta. "They are barking round
it."
"Are they barking? They can see Margery's face at the nursery window,
and are frightened at it. Dogs always bark at ugly old women's faces.
You tell Margery so."
"Margery's not ugly."
"You innocent little simpleton! She's ugly enough to frighten the
crows."
How long the colloquy might have continued it is hard to say: certainly
Meta would not be the one to give in: but it was interrupted by Margery
herself. A note had just been delivered at the house for Mrs. George
Godolphin, and Margery, who probably was glad of an excuse for entering,
brought it in. She never looked at all towards Mrs. Pain; she came
straight up to her mistress, apparently ignoring Charlotte's presence,
but you should have seen the expression of her face. The coronet on the
seal imparted a suspicion to Maria that it came from Lord Averil, and
her heart sank within her. Could he be withdrawing his promise of
clemency?
"Who brought this?" she asked in a subdued tone.
"A servant on horseback, ma'am."
Charlotte had started up, catching at her feathers, for Pierce was at
the dining-room door now, saying that the horses were alarmingly
restive. "Good afternoon, Mrs. George Godolphin," she called out
unceremoniously, as she hastened away. "I'll come and spend a quiet hour
with you before I leave for town. Adieu, petite diablesse! I'd have you
up to-morrow for a farewell visit, but that I'm afraid you might get
nailed down with the furniture in some of the packing-cases."
Away she went. Meta was hastening after her, but was caught up by
Margery with an angry sob--as if she had been saving her from some
imminent danger. Maria opened the letter with trembling fingers.
"MY DEAR MRS. GODOLPHIN,
"It has occurred to me since I parted from you, that you may wish
to have the subject of our conversation confirmed in writing. I
hereby assure you that I shall take no legal proceedings whatever
against your husband on account of my lost bonds, and you may tell
him from me that he need not, on that score, remain away from
Prior's Ash.
"I hope you have reached home without too much fatigue.
"Believe me, ever sincerely yours,
"AVERIL."
"How kind he is!" came involuntarily from Maria's lips.
The words were drowned in a noise outside. Charlotte had contrived to
ascend to her seat in spite of the prancing horses. She stood up in the
high carriage, as George Godolphin had once done at the same door, and
by dint of strength and skill, subdued them to control. Turning their
fiery heads, scattering the assembled multitude right and left, nodding
pleasantly to the applause vouchsafed her, Mrs. Charlotte Pain and the
turn-out disappeared with a clatter, amidst the rolling of wheels, the
barking of dogs, and the intense admiration of the gaping populace.
On this same evening, Miss Godolphin sat at a window facing the west in
their home at Ashlydyat. Soon to be their home no more. Her cheek rested
pensively on her fingers, as she thought--oh, with what bitterness!--of
the grievous past. She had been universally ridiculed for giving heed to
the superstitious traditions attaching to the house, and yet how
strangely they appeared to be working themselves out. It had
begun--Janet seemed to think the ruin had begun--with the departure of
her father, Sir George, from Ashlydyat: and the tradition went that when
the head of the Godolphins should voluntarily abandon Ashlydyat, the
ruin would follow.
_Had Sir George's departure brought on the ruin--been the first link in
the chain that led to it?_ Janet was debating the question in her mind.
That she was prone to indulging superstitious fancies to a degree many
would pronounce ridiculously absurd cannot be denied: but in striving to
solve that particular problem she was relinquishing the by-paths of the
supernatural for the broad road of common sense. From the facts that
were being brought to light by the bankruptcy, turning up by degrees one
after another, it was easy to see that George Godolphin had been seduced
into a hornet's nest, and so been eased of his money. Whether the
process had been summary or slow--whether he had walked into it head
foremost in blind simplicity--or whether he had only succumbed to it
under the most refined Machiavellian craft, it was of no consequence to
inquire. It is of no consequence to us. He had fallen into the hands of
a company of swindlers, who ensnared their victims and transacted their
business under the semblance of bill-discounting: and they had brought
George to what he was.
Head and chief of this apparently reputable firm was Verrall: and
Verrall, there was not a doubt, had been chief agent in George
Godolphin's undoing. But for Sir George Godolphin's quitting Ashlydyat
and putting it up in the market to let, Verrall might never have come
near Prior's Ash; never have met Mr. George Godolphin. In that case the
chances are that Mr. George would have been a flourishing banker still.
Gay he would have been; needlessly extravagant; scattering his wild oats
by the bushel--but not a man come to ruin and to beggary.
Janet Godolphin was right: it _was_ the quitting Ashlydyat by her
father, and the consequent tenancy of Mr. Verrall, which had been the
first link in the chain, terminating in George's disgrace, in their
ruin.
She sat there, losing herself in regret after regret. "If my father had
not left it!--if he had never married Mrs. Campbell!--if my own dear
mother had not died!"--she lost herself, I say, in these regrets, bitter
as they were vain.
How many of these useless regrets might embitter the lives of us all!
How many do embitter them! If I had only done so-and-so!--if I had only
taken the left turning when I took the right!--if I had only known what
that man was from the first, and shunned his acquaintance!--if I had
only chosen that path in life instead of this one!--if I had, in short,
only done precisely the opposite to what I did do! Vain, vain
repinings!--vain, useless, profitless repinings! The only plan is to
keep them as far as possible from our hearts. If we could foresee the
end of a thing from its beginning,--if we could buy a stock of
experience at the outset of life,--if we could, in point of fact, become
endowed with the light of Divine wisdom, what different men and women
the world would contain!
But we cannot. We cannot undo the past. It is ours with all its folly,
its short-sightedness, perhaps its guilt. Though we stretch out our
yearning and pitiful hands to Heaven in their movement of agony--though
we wail aloud our bitter cry, Lord, pardon me--heal me--help me!--though
we beat on our remorseful bosom and lacerate its flesh in bitter
repentance, we cannot undo the past. We cannot undo it. The past remains
to us unaltered; and must remain so for ever.
Janet left the room. Thomas, who had been seated opposite to her, was
buried in thought, when Bexley appeared, showing in Lord Averil.
He hastened forward to prevent Thomas Godolphin's rising. Laying one
hand upon his shoulder and the other on his hands, he pressed him down
and would not let him rise.
"How am I to thank you?" were the first words spoken by Thomas--in
reference to the clemency shown to his brother, as promised that day to
Maria.
"Hush!" said Lord Averil. "My dear friend, you are allowing these things
to affect you more than they ought. I see the greatest change in you,
even in this short time."
The rays of the declining sun were falling on the face of Thomas
Godolphin, lighting up its fading vitality. The cheeks were thinner, the
weak hair seemed scantier, the truthful grey eyes had acquired an
habitual expression of pain. Lord Averil leaned over him and noted it
all.
"Sit down," said Thomas, drawing a chair nearer to him.
Lord Averil accepted the invitation, but did not release the hand. "I
understand you have been doubting me," he said. "You might have known me
better. We have been friends a long time."
Thomas Godolphin only answered by a pressure of the hand he held. Old
and familiar friends though they were, understanding each other's hearts
almost, as these close friends should do, it was yet a most painful
point to Thomas Godolphin. On the one side there was his brother's
crime: on the other there was the loss of that large sum to Lord Averil.
Thomas had to do perpetual battle with pain now: but there were moments
when the conflict was nearer and sharper than at others. This was one of
them.
They subsided into conversation: its theme, as was natural, the
bankruptcy and its attendant details. Lord Averil found that Thomas was
blaming himself.
"Why should you?" he asked impulsively. "Is it not enough that the world
should do so, without yourself indorsing it?"
A faint smile crossed Thomas Godolphin's face at the thoughtless
admission spoken so openly: but he knew, none better, how great a share
of blame was dealt out to him. "It is due," he observed to Lord Averil.
"I ought not to have reposed trust so implicit in George. Things could
not have come to this pass if I had not done so."
"If we cannot place implicit trust in a brother, in whom can we place
it?"
"True. But in my position as trustee to others, I ought not to have
_trusted_ that things were going on right. I ought to have _known_ that
they were so."
They went on to the future. Thomas spoke of the selling up of all
things, of their turning out of Ashlydyat. "Is that decree irrevocable?"
Lord Averil interrupted. "Must Ashlydyat be sold?"
Thomas was surprised at the question. It was so superfluous a one. "It
will be sold very shortly," he said, "to the highest bidder. Any
stranger who bids most will get Ashlydyat. I hope," he added, with a
half start, as if the possibility occurred to him then for the first
time, "that the man Verrall will not become a bidder for it--and get it!
Lady Godolphin turns him out of the Folly."
"Never fear," said Lord Averil. "He will only be too glad to relieve
Prior's Ash of his presence. Thomas, can nothing be done to the man?
Your brother may have been a willing tool in his hands, but broad
whispers are going about that it is Verrall who has reaped the harvest.
Can no legal cognizance be taken of it?"
Thomas shook his head. "We may suspect a great deal--in fact, it is more
than suspicion--but we can prove nothing. The man will rise triumphantly
from it all, and carry his head higher than ever. I hope, I say, that he
will not think of Ashlydyat. They were in it once, you know."
"Why could not Ashlydyat be disposed of privately?--by valuation? It
might be, if the assignees approved."
"Yes, I suppose it might be."
"I wish you would sell it to me," breathed Lord Averil.
"To you!" repeated Thomas Godolphin. "Ay, indeed. Were you to have
Ashlydyat I should the less keenly regret its passing from the
Godolphins."
Lord Averil paused. He appeared to want to say something, but to
hesitate in doubt.
"Would it please you that one of the Godolphins should still inhabit
it?" he asked at length.
"I do not understand you?" replied Thomas. "There is no chance--I had
almost said no possibility--of a Godolphin henceforward inhabiting
Ashlydyat."
"I hope and trust there is," said Lord Averil with emotion. "If
Ashlydyat is ever to be mine, I shall not care for it unless a Godolphin
shares it with me. I speak of your sister Cecilia."
Thomas sat in calmness, waiting for more. Nothing could stir him greatly
now. Lord Averil gave him the outline of the past. Of his love for
Cecilia, and her rejection of him.
"There has been something," he continued, "in her manner of late, which
has renewed hope within me--otherwise I should not say this to you now.
Quite of late; since her rejection of me; I have observed that--that----
I cannot describe it, Thomas," he broke off. "But I have determined to
risk my fate once more. And you--loving Cecil as I do--you thought I
could prosecute George!"
"But I did not know that you loved Cecil."
"I suppose not. It has seemed to me, though, that my love must have been
patent to the world. You would give her to me, would you not?"
"Ay; thankfully," was the warm answer. "The thought of leaving Cecil
unprotected has been one of my cares. Janet and Bessy are older and more
experienced. Let me give you one consolation, Averil: if Cecilia has
rejected you, she has rejected others. Janet has fancied she had some
secret attachment. Can it have been to yourself?"
"If so, why should she have rejected me?"
"In truth I do not know. Cecil has seemed grievously unhappy since these
troubles arose: almost as one who has no further hope in life. George's
peril has told upon her."
"His peril?"
"From you."
Lord Averil bit his lip. "Cecil, above all others--unless it were
yourself--might have known that he was safe."
A silence ensued. Lord Averil resumed: "There is one upon whom I fear
these troubles are telling all too greatly, Thomas. And that is your
brother's wife."
"May God comfort her!" was the involuntary answer that broke from the
lips of Thomas Godolphin.
"Had I been ever so harshly inclined, I think the sight of her to-day
would have disarmed me. No, no: had I never owned friendship for you;
had I never loved Cecil, there is certainly enough evil, cruel,
unavoidable evil, which must fall with this calamity, without my adding
to it."
"When I brought word home this afternoon that you were well disposed
towards George--that he had nothing to fear from you, Cecil burst into
tears."
A glow arose to Lord Averil's face. He looked out on the setting sun in
silence. "Has your brother been sent for?" he presently asked.
"Maria and I have both written for him now. I should think he will come.
What is it, Bexley?"
"A message from Mrs. Pain, sir, about some of the fixtures at Lady
Godolphin's Folly. Mrs. Pain wants to know if you have a list of them.
She forgets which belong to the house, and which don't."
Thomas Godolphin said a word of apology to Lord Averil, and left the
room. In the hall he met Cecil crossing to it. She went in, quite
unconscious who was its inmate. He rose up to welcome her.
A momentary hesitation in her steps: a doubt whether she should not run
away again, and then she recalled her senses and went forward.
She recalled what he had done that day for her brother; she went forward
to thank him. But ere the thanks had well begun, they came to an end,
for Cecil had burst into tears.
How it went on, and what was exactly said or done, neither of them could
remember afterwards. A very few minutes, and Cecil's head was resting
upon his shoulder, all the mistakes of the past cleared up between them.
She might not have confessed to him how long she had loved him--ever
since that long past time when they were together at Mrs. Averil's--but
for her dread lest he should fear that she was only accepting him now
out of gratitude--gratitude for his noble behaviour to her erring
brother. And so she told him the truth: that she had loved him, and only
him, all through.
"Cecil, my darling, what long misery might have been spared me had I
known this!"
Cecil looked down. Perhaps some might also have been spared to her. "It
is not right that you should marry me now," she said.
"Why?"
"On account of this dreadful disgrace. George must have forgotten how it
would fall upon----"
"Hush, Cecil! The disgrace, as I look upon it--as I believe all just
people must look upon it--is confined to himself. It is indeed. Not an
iota of the respect due to Thomas by the world, of the consideration due
to the Miss Godolphins, will be lessened. Rely upon it I am right."
"But Thomas is being reflected upon daily: personally abused."
"By a few inconsiderate creditors, smarting just now under their loss.
That will all pass away. If you could read my heart and see how happy
you have made me, you would know how little cause you have to talk of
'disgrace,' Cecil."
She was happy also, as she rested there against him; too happy.
"Would you like to live at Ashlydyat, Cecil? Thomas would rather we had
it than it should lapse to strangers. I should wish to buy it."
"Oh yes--if it could be."
"I dare say it can be. Of course it can. Ashlydyat must be sold, and I
shall be as welcome a purchaser as any other would be. If it must be put
up to auction, I can be its highest bidder; but I dare say they will be
glad to avoid the expense of an auction, and let me purchase it
privately. I might purchase the furniture also, Cecil; all the old
relics that Sir George set so much store by--that Janet does still."
"If it could be!" she murmured.
"Indeed I think it may be. They will be glad to value it as it stands.
And Cecil, we will drive away all the ghostly superstitions, and that
ominous Shadow----"
Cecil lifted her face, an eager light upon it. "Janet says that the
curse has been worked out with the ruin of the Godolphins. She thinks
that the dark Shadow will never come any more."
"So much the better. We will have the Dark Plain dug up and made into a
children's playground, and a summer-house for them shall be erected on
the very spot which the Shadow has made its own. There may be children
here some time, Cecil."
Cecil's eyelashes were bent on her flushed cheeks. She did not raise
them.
"If you liked--if you liked, Cecil, we might ask Janet and Bessy to
retain their home here," resumed Lord Averil, in thoughtful
consideration. "Ashlydyat is large enough for all."
"Their home is decided upon," said Cecil, shaking her head. "Bessy has
promised to make hers at Lady Godolphin's Folly. Lady Godolphin exacted
her promise to that effect, before she decided to return to it. I was to
have gone to it also. Janet goes to Scotland. I am quite sure that this
place has become too painful for Janet to remain in. She has an annuity,
as perhaps you know; it was money left her by mamma's sister; so that
she is independent, and can live where she pleases; but I am sure she
will go to Scotland, as soon as--as soon as----"
"I understand you, Cecil. As soon as Thomas shall have passed away."
The tears were glistening in her eyes. "Do you not see a great change in
him?"
"A very great one. Cecil, I should like him to give you to me. Will you
waive ceremony, and be mine at once?"
"I will see," murmured Cecil. "When a little of this bustle, this
disgrace shall have passed away. Let it die out first."
A grave expression arose to Lord Averil's face. "It must not be very
long first, Cecil: if you would be mine while your brother is in life."
"I will, I will; it shall be as you wish," she answered, her tears
falling. And before Lord Averil could make any rejoinder, she had
hastily left him, and was standing against the window, stealthily drying
her eyes: for the door had opened to admit Thomas Godolphin.