"You need not wait," returned Janet. "I am at home now, as may be said.

Don't stay, George: I would rather you did not: your wife must be

expecting you."

Glad enough to be released, George went his way, and Janet sat on,

alone. With that Shadow before her--though no longer a dark one--it was

impossible but that her reflections should turn to the unhappy past: and

she lost herself in perplexity.

A great deal of this story, The Shadow of Ashlydyat, is a perfectly true

one; it is but the recital of a drama in real life. And the superstition

that encompasses it? ten thousand inquisitive tongues will ask. Yes, and

the superstition. There are things, as I have just said, which can

neither be explained nor accounted for: they are marvels, mysteries, and

so they must remain. Many a family has its supernatural skeleton,

religiously believed in; many a house has its one dread corner which has

never been fully unclosed to the light of day. Say what men will to the

contrary, there is a tendency in the human mind to tread upon the

confines of superstition. We cannot shut our eyes to things that occur

within our view, although we may be, and always shall be, utterly unable

to explain them; what they are, what they spring from, why they come. If

I were to tell you that I believed there are such things as omens,

warnings, which come to us--though seldom are they sufficiently marked

at the time to be attended to--I should be called a visionary

day-dreamer. I am nothing of the sort. I have my share of plain common

sense. I pass my time in working, not in dreaming. I never had the

gratification of seeing a ghost yet, and I wish I was as sure of the

fruition of my dearest hopes, as I am that I never shall see one. I have

not been taken into favour by the spirits, have never been promoted to

so much as half a message from them--and never expect to be. But some

curious incidents have forced themselves on my life's experience,

causing me to echo as a question the assertion of the Prince of

Denmark--Are there not more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt

of in our philosophy?

Janet Godolphin rose with a deep sigh and her weight of care. She kept

her head turned to the Shadow until she had passed from its view, and

then continued her way to the house, murmuring: "It's but a small

misfortune; the Shadow is scarcely darker than the moonlight itself."

Thomas was in his arm-chair, bending forward towards the fire, as she

entered. His face would have been utterly colourless, save for the

bluish tinge which had settled there, a tinge distinguishable even in

the red blaze. Janet, keen-sighted as Margery, thought the hue had grown

more ominous since she quitted him in the afternoon.

"Have you come back alone?" asked Thomas, turning towards her.

"George accompanied me as far as the ash-trees: I met him. Bessy is

staying on for an hour with Lady Godolphin."

"It's a fine night," he observed.

"It is," replied Janet. "Thomas," dropping her voice, "the Shadow is

abroad."

"Ah!"

The response was spoken in no tone of dread, or dismay; but calmly,

pleasantly, with a smile upon his lips.

"It has changed its tone," continued Janet, "and may be called grey now

instead of black. I thought it had left us for good, Thomas. I suppose

it had to come once more."

"If it cared to keep up its character for consistency," he said, his

voice jesting. "If it has been the advance herald of the death of other

Godolphins, why should it not herald in mine?"

"I did not expect to hear you joke about the Shadow," observed Janet,

after a pause of vexation.

"Nay, there's no harm in it. I have never understood it, you know,

Janet; none of us have; so little have we understood, that we have not

known whether to believe or disbelieve. A short while, Janet, and things

may be made plainer to me."

"How are you feeling to-night?" somewhat abruptly asked Janet, looking

askance at his face.

"Never better of late days. It seems as if ease both of mind and body

had come to me. I think," he added, after a few moments' reflection,

"that what George tells me of a prospect opening for him, has imparted

this sense of ease. I have thought of him a great deal, Janet; of his

wife and child; of what would become of him and of them. He may live yet

to be a comfort to his family; to repair to others some of the injury he

has caused. Oh, Janet! I am ready to go."

Janet turned her eyes from the fire, that the rising tears might not be

seen. "The Shadow was very light, Thomas," she repeated. "Whatever it

may herald forth, will not be much of a misfortune."

"A misfortune!--to be taken to my rest!--to the good God who has so

loved and kept me here! No, Janet. A few minutes before you came in, I

fell into a doze, and I dreamt that I saw Jesus Christ standing there by

the window, waiting for me. He had His hand stretched out to me with a

smile. So vivid had been the impression, that when I awoke I thought it

was reality, and was hastening towards the window before I recollected

myself."

Janet rang the bell for lights to be brought in. Thomas, his elbow

resting on the arm of his chair, bent his head upon his hand, and became

lost in imagination in the glories that might so soon open to him.

Bright forms were flitting around a wondrous throne, golden harps in

their hands; and in one of them, her harp idle, her radiant face turned

as if watching for one who might be coming, he seemed to recognize

Ethel.

George Godolphin meanwhile had gone home, and was sitting with his wife

and child. The room was bright with light and fire, and George's spirits

were bright in accordance with it. He had been enlarging upon the

prospect offered to him, describing a life in India in vivid colours;

had drawn some imaginative pen-and-ink sketches of Miss Meta on a

camel's back; in a gorgeous palanquin; in an open terrace gallery, being

fanned by about fifty slaves: the young lady herself looking on at the

pictures in a high state of excitement, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks

flushed. Maria seemed to partake of the general hilarity. Whether she

was really better, or the unexpected return of her husband had infused

into her artificial strength, unwonted excitement, certain it is that

she was not looking very ill that night: her cheeks had borrowed some of

Meta's colour, and her lips were parted with a smile. The child's

chatter never ceased; it was papa this, papa the other, incessantly.

Margery felt rather cross, and when she came in to add some dainty to

the substantial tea she had prepared for her master, told him she hoped

he would not be for carrying Miss Meta out to the wretched foreign

places that were only good for convicts. India and Botany Bay ranked

precisely alike in Margery's estimation.

But tea was done with and removed, and the evening went on, and Margery

came again to escort Miss Meta to bed. Miss Meta was not in a hurry to

be escorted. Her nimble feet were flying everywhere: from papa at the

table, to mamma who sat on the sofa near the fire: from mamma to

Margery, standing silent and grim, scarcely deigning to look at the

pen-and-ink sketches that Meta exhibited to her.

"I don't see no sense in 'em, for my part," slightingly spoke Margery,

regarding with dubious eyes one somewhat indistinct representation held

up to her. "Those things bain't like Christian animals. An elephant,

d'ye call it? Which is its head and which is its tail?"

Meta whisked off to her papa, elephant in hand. "Papa, which is its

head, and which is its tail?"

"That's its tail," said George. "You'll know its head from its tail when

you come to ride one, Margery," cried he, throwing his laughing glance

at the woman.

"Me ride an elephant! me mount one o' them animals!" was the indignant

response. "I should like to see myself at it! It might be just as well,

sir, if you didn't talk about them to the child: I shall have her

starting out of her sleep screaming to-night, fancying that a score of

them's eating her up."

George laughed. Meta's busy brain was at work; very busy, very

blithesome just then.

"Papa, do we have swings in India?"

"Lots of them," responded George.

"Do they go up to the trees? Are they as good as the one Mrs. Pain made

for me at the Folly?"

"Ten times better than that," said George slightingly. "That was a muff

of a swing, compared with what the others will be."

Meta considered. "You didn't see it, papa. It went up--up--oh, ever so

high."

"Did it?" said George. "We'll send the others higher."

"Who'll swing me?" continued Meta. "Mrs. Pain? She used to swing me

before. Will she go to India with us?"

"Not she," said George. "What should she go for? Look here. Here's Meta

on an elephant, and Margery on another, in attendance behind."

He had been mischievously sketching it off: Meta sitting at her ease on

the elephant, her dainty little legs astride, boy fashion, was rather a

pretty sight: but poor Margery grasping the animal's head, her face one

picture of horror in her fear of falling, and some half-dozen natives

propping her up on either side, was only a ludicrous one.

Margery looked daggers, but nothing could exceed Meta's delight. "Draw

mamma upon one, papa; make her elephant alongside mine."

"Draw mamma upon one?" repeated George. "I think we'll have mamma in a

palanquin; the elephants shall be reserved for you and Margery."

"Is she coming to bed to-night, or isn't she?" demanded Margery, in

uncommonly sharp tones, speaking for the benefit of the company

generally, not to any one in particular.

Meta paid little attention; George appeared to pay less. In taking his

knife from his waistcoat-pocket to cut the pencil, preparatory to

"drawing mamma and the palanquin," he happened to bring forth a ring.

Those quick little eyes saw it: they saw most things. "That's Uncle

Thomas's!" cried the child.

In his somewhat hasty attempt to return it to his pocket, George let the

ring fall to the ground, and it rolled towards Margery. She picked it

up, wonderingly--almost fearfully. She had believed that Mr. Godolphin

would not part with his signet-ring during life: the ring which he had

offered to the bankruptcy commissioners, and they, with every token of

respect, had returned to him.

"Oh, sir! Surely he is not dead?"

"Dead!" echoed George, looking at her in surprise. "I left him better

than usual, Margery, when I came away."

Margery said no more. Meta was not so scrupulous. "Uncle Thomas always

has that on his finger: he seals his letters with it. Why have you

brought it away, papa?"

"He does not want it to seal letters with any longer, Meta," George

answered, speaking gravely now, and stroking her golden curls. "I shall

use it in future for sealing mine."

"Who'll wear it?" asked Meta. "You, or Uncle Thomas?"

"I shall--some time. But it is quite time Meta was in bed; and Margery

looks as if she thought so. There! just a few of mamma's grapes, and

away to dream of elephants."

Some fine white grapes were heaped on a plate upon the table; they were

what George had brought from London for his wife. He broke some off for

Meta, and that spoiled young damsel climbed on his knee, while she ate

them, chattering incessantly.

"Will there be parrots in India? Red ones?"

"Plenty. Red and green and blue and yellow," returned George, who was

rather magnificent in his promises. "There'll be monkeys as well--as

Margery's fond of them."

Margery flung off in a temper. But the words had brought a recollection

to Meta. She bustled up on her knees, neglecting her grapes, gazing at

her papa in consternation.

"Uncle Reginald was to bring me home some monkeys and some parrots and a

Chinese dog that won't bite. How shall I have them, papa, if I have gone

to Cal--what is it?" She spoke better than she did, and could sound the

"th" now; but the name of the place was difficult to be remembered.

"Calcutta. We'll write word to Regy's ship to come round there and leave

them," replied ready George.

It satisfied the child. She finished her grapes, and then George took

her in his arms to Maria to be kissed, and afterwards put her down

outside the door to offended Margery, after kissing lovingly her pretty

lips and her golden curls.

His manner had changed when he returned. He stood by the fire, near

Maria, grave and earnest, and began talking more seriously to her on

this new project than he had done in the presence of his child.

"I think I should do wrong were I to refuse it: do not you, Maria? It is

an offer that is not often met with."

"Yes, I think you would do wrong to refuse it. It is far better than

anything I had hoped for."

"And can you be ready to start by New Year's Day?"

"I--I could be ready, of course," she answered. "But I--I--don't know

whether----"

She came to a final stop. George looked at her in surprise: in addition

to her hesitation, he detected considerable emotion.

She stood up by him and leaned her arm on the mantel-piece. She strove

to speak quietly, to choke down the rebellious rising in her throat: her

breath went and came, her bosom heaved. "George, I am not sure whether I

shall be able to undertake the voyage. I am not sure that I shall live

to go out."

Did his heart beat a shade quicker? He looked at her more in surprise

still than in any other feeling. He had not in the least realized this

faint suggestion of the future.

"My darling, what do you mean?"

He passed his arm round her waist, and drew her to him. Maria let her

head fall upon his shoulder, and the tears began to trickle down her

wasted cheeks.

"I cannot get strong, George. I grow weaker instead of stronger; and I

begin to think I shall never be well again. I begin to know I shall

never be well again!" she added, amending the words. "I have thought it

for some time."

"How do you feel?" he asked, breaking the silence that had ensued. "Are

you in any pain?"

"I have had a pain in my throat ever since the--ever since the summer:

and I have a constant inward pain here"--touching her chest. "Mr. Snow

says both arise from the same cause--nervousness! but I don't know."

"Maria," he said, his voice quite trembling with its tenderness, "shall

I tell you what it is? The worry of the past summer has had a bad effect

upon you, and brought you into this weak state. Mr. Snow is right: it is

nervousness: and you must have change of scene ere you can recover. Is

he attending you?"

"He calls every other day or so, and he sends me medicine of different

kinds; tonics, I fancy. I wish I could get strong! I might--perhaps--get

a little better, that is, I might feel a trifle better, if I were not

always so entirely alone. I wish," she more timidly added, "that you

could be more with me than you are."

"You cannot wish it as heartily as I," returned George. "A little while,

my darling, and things will be bright again. I have been earnestly and

constantly seeking for something to do in London; I was obliged to be

there. Now that I have this place given me, I must be there still,

chiefly, until we sail, making my preparations. You can come to me if

you like, until we do go," he added, "if you would rather be there than

here. I can change my bachelor lodgings, and get a place large enough

for you and Meta."

She felt that she was not equal to the removal, and she felt that if she

really were to leave Europe she must remain this short intervening time

near her father and mother. But--even as she thought it--the conviction

came upon her, firm and strong, that she never should leave it; should

not live to leave it. George's voice, eager and hopeful, interrupted.

"We shall begin life anew in India, Maria: with the old country we shall

leave old sores behind us. As to Margery--I don't know what's to be done

about her. It would half break her heart to drag her to a new land, and

quite break it to carry off Meta from her. Perhaps we had better not

attempt to influence her either way, but let the decision rest entirely

with her."

"She will never face the live elephants," said Maria, her lips smiling

at the joke, as she endeavoured to be gay and hopeful as George was. But

the effort entirely failed. A vision came over her of George there

_alone_; herself in the cold grave, whither she believed she was surely

hastening; Meta--ay--what of Meta?

"Oh, George! if I might but get strong! if I might but live to go with

you!" she cried in a wail of agony.

"Hush, hush! Maria, hush! I must not scold you: but indeed it is not

right to give way to these low spirits. That of itself will keep you

back. Shall I take you to town with me when I return to-morrow, just for

a week's change? I know it would partially bring you round, and we would

make shift in my rooms for the time. Margery will take care of Meta

here."

She knew how worse than useless was the thought of attempting it; she

saw that George could not be brought to understand her excessive

weakness. A faint hope came across her that, now that the uncertainty of

his future prospects was removed, she might grow better. That

uncertainty had been distressing her sick heart for months.

She subdued her emotion and sat down in the chair quietly, saying that

she was not strong enough to go up with him this time: it would be a

change in one sense for her, she added, thinking of the new life; and

then she began to talk of other things.

"Did you see Reginald before he sailed?"

"Not immediately before it, I think."

"You are aware that he has gone as a common seaman?"

"Yes. By the way, there's no knowing what I may be able to do for Regy

out there, and for Isaac too, perhaps. Once I am in a good position I

shall be able to assist them--and I'll do it. Regy hates the sea: I'll

get him something more to his taste in Calcutta."

Maria's face flushed with hope, and she clasped her nervous hands

together. "If you could, George! how thankful I should be! I think of

poor Regy and his hard life night and day."

"Which is not good for you by any means, young lady. I wish you'd get

out of that habit of thinking and fretting about others. It has been

just poor Thomas's fault."

She answered by a faint smile. "Has Thomas given you his ring?" she

asked.

"He gave it me this afternoon," replied George, taking it from his

pocket. It was a ring with a bright green stone, on which was engraved

the arms of the Godolphins. Sir George had worn it always, and it came

to Thomas at his death: now it had come to George.

"You do not wear it, George."

"Not yet. I cannot bear to put it on my finger while Thomas lives. In

point of fact, I have no right to do so--at least to use the signet: it

belongs exclusively to the head of the Godolphins."

"Do you see Mrs. Pain often?" Maria presently said, with apparent

indifference. But George little knew the fluttering emotion that had

been working within, or the effort it had taken to subdue that emotion

ere the question could be put.

"I see her sometimes; not often. She gets me to ride with her in the

Park now and then."

"Does she continue to reside with the Verralls?"

"I suppose so. I have not heard her mention anything about it."

"George, I have wondered where Mrs. Pain's money comes from," Maria

resumed in a dreamy tone. "It was said in the old days, you know, that

the report of her having thirty thousand pounds was false; that she had

nothing."

"I don't believe she had a penny," returned George. "As to her income, I

fancy it is drawn from Verrall. Mrs. Pain's husband was connected in

some business way with Verrall, and I suppose she still benefits by it.

I know nothing whatever, but I have thought it must be so. Listen!"

George raised his hand as he abruptly spoke, for a distinct sound had

broken upon his ear. Springing to the window he threw it open. The

death-bell of All Souls' was booming out over Prior's Ash.

Before a word was spoken by him or by his wife; before George could

still the emotion that was thumping at his heart, Margery came in with a

scared face. In her flurry, her sudden grief, she addressed him as she

had been accustomed to address him in his boyhood.

"Do you hear it, Master George? That's the passing-bell! It is for

_him_. There's nobody else within ten miles they would trouble to have

the bell tolled for at nigh ten o'clock at night. The Master of

Ashlydyat's gone."

She sat down on a chair, regardless of the presence of her master and

mistress, and, flinging her apron up to her face, burst into a storm of

sobs.

A voice in the passage aroused her, for she recognized it as Bexley's.

George opened the room door, and the old man came in.

"It is all over, sir," he said, his manner strangely still, his voice

unnaturally calm and low, as is sometimes the case where emotion is

striven to be suppressed. "Miss Janet bade me come to you with the

tidings."

George's bearing was suspiciously quiet too. "It is very sudden,

Bexley," he presently rejoined.

Maria had risen and stood with one hand leaning on the table, her eyes

strained on Bexley, her white face turned to him. Margery never moved.

"Very sudden, sir: and yet my mistress did not seem unprepared for it.

He took his tea with her, and was so cheerful and well over it that I

declare I began to hope he had taken a fresh turn. Soon afterwards Miss

Bessy came back, and I heard her laughing in the room as she told them

some story that had been related to her by Lady Godolphin. Presently my

mistress called me in, to give me directions about a little matter she

wanted done to-morrow, and while she was speaking to me, Miss Bessy

cried out. We turned round and saw her leaning over my master. He had

slipped back in his chair powerless, and I hastened to raise and support

him. Death was in his face, sir; there was no mistaking it; but he was

quite conscious, quite sensible, and smiled at us. 'I must say farewell

to you,' he said, and Miss Bessy burst into a fit of sobs; but my

mistress kneeled down quietly before him, and took his hands in hers,

and said, 'Thomas, is the moment come?' 'Yes, it is come,' he answered,

and he tried to look round at Miss Bessy, who stood a little behind his

chair. 'Don't grieve,' he said; 'I am going on first' but she only

sobbed the more. 'Good-bye, my dear ones,' he continued; 'good-bye,

Bexley. I shall wait for you all, as I know I am being waited for.

Fear?' he went on, for Miss Bessy sobbed out something that sounded like

the word: 'fear, when I am going to God!--when Jesus----'"

Bexley fairly broke down with a great burst, and the tears were rolling

silently over Maria's cheeks. George wheeled round to the window and

stood there with his back to them. Presently Bexley mastered himself and

resumed: Margery had come forward then and taken her apron from her

eyes.

"It was the last word he spoke--'Jesus.' His voice ceased, his hands

fell, and the eyelids dropped. There was no struggle; nothing but a long

gentle breath; and he died with the smile upon his lips."

"He had cause to smile," interjected Margery, the words coming from her

brokenly. "If ever a man has gone to his rest in heaven, it is Mr.

Godolphin. He had more than his share of sorrow in this world, and God

has taken him to a better."

Every feeling in George's heart echoed to the words, every pulse beat in

wild sorrow for the death of his good brother,--every sting that remorse

could bring pricked him with the consciousness of his own share in it.

He thrust his burning face beyond the window into the cool night; he

raised his eyes to the blue canopy of heaven, serene and fair in the

moonlight, almost as if he saw in imagination the redeemed soul winging

its flight thither. He pressed his hands upon his throbbing breast to

still its emotion; but for the greatest exercise of self-control he

would have burst into sobs, as Bexley had done; and it may be that

he--he, careless George Godolphin--breathed forth a yearning cry to

heaven to be pardoned his share of the past. If Thomas, in his changed

condition, could look down upon him, now, with his loving eyes, his

ever-forgiving spirit, he would know how bitter and genuine, how full of

anguish were these regrets!

George leaned his head on the side of the window to subdue his emotion,

to gather the outward calmness that man likes not to have ruffled before

the world; he listened to the strokes of the passing-bell ringing out so

sharply in the still night air: and every separate stroke was laden with

its weight of pain.

CHAPTER IV.

GATHERED TO HIS FATHERS.

You might have taken it to be Sunday in Prior's Ash--except that Sundays

in ordinary did not look so gloomy. The shops were closed, a drizzling

rain fell, and the heavy bell of All Souls' was booming out at solemn

intervals. It was tolling for the funeral of Thomas Godolphin. Morning

and night, from eight o'clock to nine, had it so tolled since his death;

but on this, the last day, it did not cease with nine o'clock, but

tolled on, and would so toll until he should be in his last home. People

had closed their shutters with one accord as the clock struck ten; some

indeed had never opened them at all: if they had not paid him due

respect always in life, they paid it to him in death. Ah, it was only

for a time, in the first brunt of the shock, that Prior's Ash mistook

Thomas Godolphin. He had gone to his long home; to his last

resting-place: he had gone to the merciful God to whom (it may surely be

said!) he had belonged in life; and Prior's Ash mourned for him.

You will deem this a sad story; perhaps bring a reproach upon me for

recording it. That bell has tolled out all too often in its history; and

this is not the first funeral you have seen at All Souls'. If I wrote

only according to my own experiences of life, my stories would be always

sad ones. Life wears different aspects for us, and its cares and its

joys are unequally allotted out. At least they so appear to be. One

glances up heavily from the burdens heaped upon him, and sees others

without care basking in the sunshine. But I often wonder whether those

who seem so gay, whose path seems to be cast on the broad, sunny road of

pleasure,--whether they have not a skeleton in _their_ closet. I look, I

say, and wonder, marvelling what the reality may be. Nothing but gaiety,

nothing but lightness, nothing, to all appearance, but freedom from

care. Is it really so? Perhaps; with some--a very few. Is it well for

those few? The broad road of pleasure, down which so many seem to

travel, is not the safest road to a longer home, or the best preparation

for it. Oh, if we could only see the truth when the burden upon us is

heavy and long!--could only read how good it is!

But we never can. We are but mortal; born with a mortal's keen

susceptibility to care and pain. We preach to others, that these things

are sent for their benefit; we complaisantly say so to ourselves when

not actually suffering; but when the fiery trial is upon us, then we

groan out in our sore anguish that it is greater than we can bear.

There is no doubt that, with the many, suffering predominates in life,

and if we would paint life as it is, that suffering must form a

comprehensive view in the picture. Reverses, sickness, death--they seem

to follow some people as surely as the shadow follows the sun at

noontide. It is probable; nay, it is certain, that minds are so

constituted as to receive them differently. Witness, as a case in point,

the contrast between Thomas Godolphin and his brother George. Thomas,

looking back, could say that nearly the whole course of his life had

been marked by sorrow. Some of its sources have been mentioned here; not

all. There was the melancholy death of Ethel; there was the long-felt

disease which marked him for its early prey; there was the dreadful

crash, the disgrace, which nearly broke his heart. It is to those who

feel them keenly that sorrows chiefly come.

And George? Look at him. Gay, light, careless, handsome George. What

sorrows had marked _his_ path? None. He had revelled in the world's

favour, he had made a wife of the woman he loved, he had altogether

floated gaily down the sunniest part of the stream of life. The worry

which his folly had brought upon himself, and which ended in his own

ruin and in the ruin of so many others, _he_ had not felt. No, he had

scarcely felt it: and once let him turn his back on England and enter

upon new scenes, he will barely remember it.

All Souls' clock struck eleven, and the beadle came out of the church

and threw wide the gates. It was very punctual, for there came the

hearse in sight; punctual as he who was borne within it had in life

always liked to be. Prior's Ash peeped through the chinks of its

shutters, behind its blinds and its curtains, to see the sight, as it

came slowly winding along the street to the sound of the solemn bell.

Through the mist of blinding tears, which rolled down many a face, did

Prior's Ash look out. They might have attended him to the grave,

following unobtrusively, but that it was known to be the wish of the

family that such demonstration should not be made: so they contented

themselves with shutting up their houses, and observing the day as one

of mourning. "Bury me in the plainest and simplest manner possible," had

been Thomas Godolphin's directions when the end was drawing near. Under

the circumstances, it was only seemly to do so; but so antagonistic were

pomp and show of all kinds to the tastes of Thomas Godolphin, in all

things that related to himself, that it is more than probable the same

orders would have been given had he died as his forefathers had

died--the Master of Ashlydyat, the wealthy chief of the Godolphins.

So a hearse and a mourning-coach were all that had been commanded to

Ashlydyat. What means, then, this pageantry of carriages that follow?

Fine carriages, gay with colours as they file past, one by one, the eyes

of Prior's Ash strained on them, some with coronets on their panels, all

with closed blinds, a long line of them. Lady Godolphin's is first,

taking its place next the mourning-coach. They have come from various

parts of the county, near and distant, to show their owners' homage to

that good man who had earned their deepest respect during life.

Willingly, willingly would those owners have attended and mourned him in

person, but for the same reason which kept away the more humble

inhabitants of Prior's Ash. Slowly the procession gained the churchyard,

and the hearse and the mourning-coach stopped: the rest of the carriages

filed off and turned their horses' heads to face the churchyard, and

waited still and quiet while the hearse was emptied. Out of the

mourning-coach stepped two mourners only: George Godolphin and the

Viscount Averil.

The Rector of All Souls' stood at the gate in his surplice, book in

hand. He turned, reciting the commencement of the service for the burial

of the dead: "I am the resurrection and the life." While they were in

the church, the graveyard filled; by ones, by twos, by threes, they came

stealing in, regardless of the weather, to see the last of the Master of

Ashlydyat: and the beadle was lenient to-day.

The Rector of All Souls' took his place at the head of the grave and

read the service, as the coffin was lowered. George stood next to him;

close to George, Lord Averil; and the other mourners were clustered

beyond. Their faces were bent: the drizzling rain beat upon their bare

heads. How did George feel as he stood there, between the two men whom

he had so wronged? The Rector glanced at him once, and saw that he had

difficulty in suppressing his emotion.

"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."

So hushed was the silence, that every word, as it fell solemnly from the

lips of the minister, might be heard in all parts of the churchyard. If

ever that verse could apply to frail humanity, with its unceasing

struggle after holiness and its unceasing failure _here_, it most surely

applied to him over whom it was being spoken. George Godolphin's head

was bowed, his face hidden in his handkerchief; the rain pattered down

on his golden hair. He had gone to his grave so early! Bend forward, as

so many of those spectators are doing, and read the inscription on the

plate. There is a little earth on the coffin, but the plate is visible.

"Thomas Godolphin of Ashlydyat: aged forty-five years."

Only forty-five years! A period at which some men think they are only

beginning life. So early a grave!--and George had helped to send him to

it!

It was over: and the spectators began to draw unobtrusively away,

silently and decently. In the general crowd and bustle, for every one

seemed to be on the move, George turned suddenly to the Rector and held

out his hand. "Will you shake hands with me, Mr. Hastings?"

There was a perceptible hesitation on the Rector's part, not in the

least sought to be disguised, ere he responded to it, and then he put

his own hand into the one held out. It was the first time they had met

since the crash. "I cannot do otherwise over the dead body of your

brother," was the answer. "But neither can I be a hypocrite, George

Godolphin, and say that I forgive you, for it would not be true. The

result of the injury you did me presses daily and hourly upon us in a

hundred ways, and my mind as yet has refused to be brought into that

charitable frame necessary to entire forgiveness. This is not altogether

the fault of my will. I wish to forgive you for your wife's sake and for

my own; I pray night and morning that I may be enabled heartily to

forgive you before I die. I would not be your enemy; I wish you well,

and there's my hand in token of it: but to pronounce forgiveness is not

yet in my power. Will you call in and see Mrs. Hastings?"

"I have not time to-day. I must go back to London this evening, but I

shall be down again very shortly and will see her then. It was a

peaceful ending."

George was gazing down dreamily at the coffin as he spoke the last

words. The Rector looked at him.

"A peaceful ending! Yes. It could not be anything else with _him_."

"No, no," murmured George. "Not anything else with him."

"May God in His mercy send us all as happy a one, when our time shall

come!"

As the words left the Rector's lips, the heavy bell boomed out again,

giving notice to Prior's Ash that the last rites were over: that the

world had closed for ever on Thomas Godolphin.

"Oh, George! _can't_ you stay with me?"

The words broke from Maria with a wail of anguish as she rose to bid her

husband good-bye. He was hastening away to catch the evening train. It

seemed that she had not liked to prefer the request before, had put it

off to the last moment. In point of fact, she had seen very little of

George all day. After the funeral he had returned in the coach with Lord

Averil to Ashlydyat, and only came home late in the afternoon.

Lord and Lady Averil, recalled so suddenly from their wedding tour, had

reached Ashlydyat the previous night, and would not leave it again.

Janet was to depart from it in a few days; Bessy would be on the morrow

with Lady Godolphin.

George would not believe that his wife was in any sort of danger. He had

been to Mr. Snow, begged him to take all possible care of her, and asked

whether there were really any grounds for alarm. Mr. Snow answered him

that he could not say for certain: she was, no doubt, very weak and

poorly, but he saw no reason why she should not get out of it; and as

for himself, he _was_ taking of her all the care he could take. The

reply satisfied George, and he became full of the projects and details

of his departure, entering into them so warmly with her that Maria

caught the spirit of enterprise, and was beguiled into a belief that she

might yet go also.

He had come home from the funeral bearing a parcel wrapped in paper for

Meta. It had been found amidst Thomas Godolphin's things, directed to

the child. George lifted Meta on to his knee--very grave, very subdued

was his face to-day--and opened it. It proved to be a Bible, and on the

fly-leaf in his own hand was written, "Uncle Thomas's last and best gift

to Meta," and it was dated the day he died. Lower down were the words,

"My ways are ways of pleasantness, and all my paths are peace."

And the evening had gone on, and it grew time for George to leave. It

was as he bent to kiss his wife that she had burst out with that wailing

cry. "Oh, George! can't you stay with me?"

"My darling, I must go. I shall soon be down again."

"Only a little while! A little longer!"

The tone in its anguish quite distressed him. "I would stay if it were

possible: but it is not so. I came down for a day only, you know, Maria,

and I have remained more than a week. It will not be so very long before

we sail, and I shall have my hands full with the preparations for our

voyage."

"I have been so much alone," she sobbed hysterically. "I get thinking

and thinking: it does not give me a chance to recover. George, you have

been always away from me since the trouble came."

"I could not help it. Maria, I could not bear Prior's Ash; I _could_ not

stop in it," he cried with a burst of genuine truth. "But for you and

Thomas, I should never have set my foot in the place again, once I was

quit of it. Now, however, I am compelled to be in London; there are

fifty things to see to. Keep up your courage, my darling! A little

while, and we shall be together and happy as we used to be."

"Sir," said Margery, putting her head in the door, "do you want to catch

the nine train?"

"All right," answered George.

"It may be all right if you run for it, it won't be all right else,"

grunted Margery.

He flew off, catching up his hand-portmanteau as he went, and waving his

adieu to Meta. That young damsel, accustomed to be made a great deal of,

could not understand so summary and slight a leave-taking, and she stood

quite still in her consternation, staring after her papa: or rather at

the door he had gone out of. Margery was right, and George found that he

must indeed hasten if he would save the train. Maria, with a storm of

hysterical sobs, grievous to witness, caught Meta in her arms, sat down

on the sofa, and sobbed over the child, as she strained her to her

bosom.

Meta was used to her mamma's grief now, and she lay quite still, her

shoes and white socks peeping out beyond the black frock; nay, a

considerable view of the straight little legs peeping out as well. Maria

bent her head until her aching forehead rested on the fair plump neck.

"Mamma! Mamma, dear! Mamma's crying for poor Uncle Thomas!"

"No," said Maria in the bitterness of her heart. "If we were but where

Uncle Thomas is, we should be happy. I cry for us who are left, Meta!"

"Hey-day! and what on earth's the meaning of this? Do you think this is

the way to get strong, Mrs. George Godolphin?"

They had not heard him come in. Meta, always ready for visitors,

scuffled off her mamma's lap gleefully, and Mr. Snow drew a chair in

front of Maria and watched her trying to dry away her tears. He moved a

little to the right, that the light of the lamp which was behind him

might fall upon her face.

"Now just you have the goodness to tell me what it is that's the

matter."

"I--I am low-spirited, I think," said Maria, her voice subdued and weak

now.

"Low-spirited!" echoed Mr. Snow. "Then I'd get high-spirited, if I were

you. I wish there never had been such a thing as spirits invented, for

my part! A nice excuse it is for you ladies to sigh away half your time

instead of being rational and merry, as you ought to be. A woman of your

sense ought to be above it, Mrs. George Godolphin."

"Mr. Snow," interrupted a troublesome little voice, "papa's gone back to

London. He went without saying good-bye to Meta!"

"Ah! Miss Meta had been naughty, I expect."

Meta shook her head very decisively in the negative, but Mr. Snow had

turned to Maria.

"And so you were crying after that roving husband of yours! I guessed as

much. He nearly ran over me at the gate. 'Step in and see my wife, will

you, Snow?' said he. 'She wants tonics, or something.' You don't want

tonics half as much as you want common sense, Mrs. George Godolphin."

"I am so weak," was her feeble excuse. "A little thing upsets me now."

"Well, and what can you expect? If I sat over my surgery fire all day

stewing and fretting, a pretty doctor I should soon become for my

patients! I wonder you----"

"Have you looked at my new black frock, Mr. Snow?"

She was a young lady who would be attended to, let who would go without

attention. She had lifted up her white pinafore and stood in front of

him, waiting for the frock to be admired.

"Very smart indeed!" replied Mr. Snow.

"It's not smart," spoke Meta resentfully. "My smart frocks are put away

in the drawers. It is for Uncle Thomas, Mr. Snow! Mr. Snow, Uncle Thomas

is in heaven now."

"Ay, child, that he is. And it's time that Miss Meta Godolphin was in

bed."

That same night Mr. Snow was called up to Mrs. George Godolphin.--Let us

call her so to the end; but she is Mrs. Godolphin now. Margery was

sleeping quietly, the child in a little bed by her side, when she was

aroused by some one standing over her. It was her mistress in her

night-dress. Up started the woman, wide awake instantly, crying out to

know what was the matter.

"Margery, I shan't be in time. The ship's waiting to sail, and none of

my things are ready. I can't go without my things."

Margery, experienced in illness of many kinds, saw what it was. Her

mistress had suddenly awakened from some vivid dream, and in her weak

state was unable to shake off the delusion. In fact, that species of

half-consciousness, half-delirium was upon her, which is apt in the

night-time to attack some patients labouring under long-continued and

excessive weakness.

She had come up exactly as she got out of bed. No slippers on her feet,

nothing upon her shoulders. As Margery threw a warm woollen shawl over

those shoulders, she felt the ominous damp of the night-dress. A pair of

list-shoes of her own were at the bedside, and she hastily put them upon

her mistress's feet.

"There'll be no time, Margery; there'll be no time to get the things

ready: they never could be bought and made, you know. Oh, Margery! the

ship must not go without me! What will be done?"

"I'll telegraph up to that ship to-morrow morning, and get him to put

off starting for a week or two," cried Margery, nodding her head with

authority. "Never you trouble yourself, ma'am; it will be all right. You

shall go to sleep again comfortably, and we'll see about the things with

morning light."

Margery talked as she conveyed her mistress back to bed, and remained

talking after she was in it. A stock of this should be got in, a stock

of the other: as for linen, it could all be bought ready made--and the

best way too, now calico was so cheap. Somewhat surprised that she heard

no answer, no further expressed fear, Margery looked close at her

mistress by the night-lamp, wondering whether she had gone to sleep

again. She had not gone to sleep. She was lying still, cold, white,

without sense or motion; and Margery, collected Margery, very nearly

screamed.

Maria had fainted away. Margery did not understand it at all, or why she

should have fainted when she ought to have gone to sleep. Margery liked

it as little as she understood it; and she ran upstairs to their

landlady, Mrs. James, and got her to despatch her son for Mr. Snow.

But that was only the beginning. Night after night would these attacks

of semi-delirium come upon her, though in the day she seemed pretty

well. Mr. Snow came and came, and drew an ominous face and doubled the

tonics and changed them, and talked and joked and scolded. But it all

seemed unavailing: she certainly did not get better. Weary, weary hours!

weary, weary days! as she lay there alone, struggling with her malady.

And yet no malady, either, that Mr. Snow could discover; nothing but a

weakness which he only half believed in.

Janet and Bessy Godolphin were one day sitting with Mrs. George. The

time had come for Janet to quit Ashlydyat, and she was paying her

farewell visit to Maria. Maria was at the window at work when they

arrived; at work with her weak and fevered hands. No very poetical

employment, that on which she was engaged, but one which has to be done

in most families nevertheless--stocking-darning. She was darning socks

for Miss Meta. Miss Meta, her sleeves and white pinafore tied up with

black ribbon, her golden curls somewhat in disorder, for the young lady

had rebelliously broken from Margery and taken a race round the garden

in the blowing wintry wind, her smooth cheeks fresh and rosy, was now

roasting her face in front of the fire, her doll and a whole collection

of dolls' clothes lying around her on the hearth-rug.

Bessy had come, not so much to accompany Janet, as for a special

purpose--to deliver a message from Lady Godolphin. My lady, deeming

possibly that her displeasure had lasted long enough, graciously charged

Bessy with an invitation to Maria--to spend a day or two at the Folly

ere her departure for Calcutta.

Maria gave a sort of sobbing sigh. "She is very kind. Tell Lady

Godolphin how kind I think it of her, Bessy, but that I am not strong

enough to go from home now."

Bessy looked at her. "But, Maria, if you are not strong enough to go out

on a short visit, how shall you be strong enough to undertake a three or

four months' voyage?"

Maria paused ere she answered the question. She was gazing out straight

before her, as if seeing something at a distance--something in the

future. "I think of it and of its uncertainty a great deal," she

presently said. "If I can only get away: if I can only keep up

sufficiently to get away, I can lie down always in my berth. And if I do

die before I reach India, George will be with me."

"Child!" almost sharply interrupted Janet, "what are you saying?"

She seemed scarcely to hear the interruption. She sat, gazing still, her

white and trembling hands lying clasped on her black dress, and she

resumed, as if pursuing the train of thought.

"My great dread is, lest I should not keep up to get to London, to be

taken on board; lest George should, after all, be obliged to sail

without me. It is always on my mind, Janet; it makes me dream constantly

that the ship has gone and I am left behind. I wish I did not have those

dreams."

"Come to Lady Godolphin's Folly, Maria," persuasively spoke Bessy. "It

will be the very best thing to cheat you of those fears. They all arise

from weakness."

"I have no doubt they do. I had a pleasant dream one night," she added

with some animation. "I thought we had arrived in safety, and I and

George and Meta were sitting under a tree whose leaves were larger than

an umbrella. It was very hot, but these leaves shaded us, and I seemed

to be well, for we were all laughing merrily together. It _may_ come

true, you know, Janet."

"Yes," assented Janet. "Are you preparing much for the voyage?"

"Not yet. Clothes can be had so quickly now. George talked it over with

me when he was down, and we decided to send a list to the outfitter's,

just before we sailed, so that the things might not come down here, but

be packed in London."

"And Margery?" asked Janet.

"I do not know what she means to do," answered Maria, shaking her head.

"She protests ten times a day that she will not go; but I see she is

carefully mending up all her cotton gowns, and one day I heard her say

to Meta that she supposed nothing but cotton was bearable out there.

What I should do without Margery on the voyage I don't like to think

about. George told her to consider of it, and give us her decision when

he next came down. And you, Janet? When shall you be back again at

Prior's Ash?"

"I do not suppose I shall ever come back to it," was Janet's answer.

"Its reminiscences will not be so pleasing to me that I should seek to

renew my acquaintance with it."

"Bexley attends you, I hear."

"Yes. My aunt's old servant has got beyond his work--he has been

forty-two years in the family, Maria--and Bexley will replace him."

When Janet rose to leave, she bent over Maria and slipped four

sovereigns into her hand. "It is for yourself, my dear," she whispered.

"Oh, thank you! But indeed I have enough, Janet. George left me five

pounds when he was at home, and it is not half gone. You don't know what

a little keeps us. I eat next to nothing, and Margery, I think, lives

chiefly upon porridge: there's only Meta."

"But you ought to eat, child!"

"I can't eat," said Maria. "I have never lost that pain in my throat."

"What pain?" asked Janet.

"I do not know. It came on with the trouble. I feel--I feel always ill

within myself, Janet. I seem to be always shivering inwardly; and the

pain in the throat is sometimes better, sometimes worse, but it never

quite goes away."

Janet looked at her searchingly. She heard the meek, resigned tone, she

saw the white, wan face, the attenuate hands, the chest rising with

every passing emotion, the mournful look in the sweet eyes; and for the

first time a suspicion that another life would shortly have to go, took

possession of Miss Godolphin.

"What is George at, that he is not here to see after you?" she asked in

a strangely severe accent.

"He cannot bear Prior's Ash, Janet," whispered Maria. "But for me and

Thomas, he never would have come back to it. And I suppose he is busy in

London: there must be many arrangements to make."

Janet stooped and gravely kissed her; kissed her twice. "Take care of

yourself, my dear, and do all you can to keep your mind tranquil and to

get up your strength. You shall hear from me before your departure."

Margery stood in the little hall. Miss Bessy Godolphin was in the

garden, in full chase after that rebellious damsel, Meta, who had made a

second escape through the opened door, passing angry Margery and the

outstretched hand that would have made a prisoner of her, with a laugh

of defiance. Miss Godolphin stopped to address Margery.

"Shall you go to India or not, Margery?"

"I'm just almost torn in two about it, ma'am," was the answer, delivered

confidentially. "Without me, that child would never reach the other side

alive: she'd be clambering up the sides o' the ship and get drownded ten

times over before they got there. Look at her now! And who'd take care

of her over there, among those native beasts--those elephants and black

people? If I thought she'd ever come to be waited on by a black woman

with woolly hair, I should be fit to smother her before she went out. I

shall see, Miss Janet."

"Margery, your mistress appears to want the greatest care."

"She has wanted that a long while," was Margery's composed answer.

"She ought to have everything strengthening. Wine and other necessaries

required by the sick."

"I suppose she ought," said Margery. "But she won't take them, Miss

Janet; she says she can't eat and drink. And for the matter of that, we

have nothing of that sort for her to take. There were more good things

consumed in the Bank in a day than we should see in a month now."

"Where's your master?" repeated Janet in an accent not less sharp than

the one she had used for the same question to Maria.

"He?" cried wrathful Margery, for the subject was sure to put her out

uncommonly, in the strong opinion she was pleased to hold touching her

master's short-comings. "I suppose he's riding about with his choice

friend, Madam Pain. Folks talk of their horses being seen abreast pretty

often."

There was no opportunity for further colloquy. Bessy came in, carrying

the laughing truant; and Margery, with a tart word to the young lady,

attended the Miss Godolphins down the garden path to throw open the gate

for them. In her poor way, in her solitary self, Margery strove to make

up for the state they had been accustomed to, when the ladies called

from Ashlydyat.

Maria, lying motionless on the sofa, where on being left alone she had

thrown herself in weariness, heard Margery's gratuitous remark about

Mrs. Pain, through the unlatched door, and a contraction arose to her

brow. In her hand lay the four sovereigns left there by Janet. She

looked at them musingly, and then murmured, "I can afford to give her

half." When Margery returned indoors, she called her in, and sent her

for Mrs. Bond.

A little while, and Mrs. Bond, on her meekest and civilest behaviour,

stood before Maria, her thin shawl and wretched old gown drawn tightly

round her, to protect her from the winter's cold. Maria put two

sovereigns into her hand.

"It is the first instalment of my debt to you, Mrs. Bond. If I live, I

will pay it you all, but it will be by degrees. And perhaps that is the

best way that you could receive it. I wish I could have given you some

before."

Mrs. Bond burst into tears. Not the crocodile's tears that she was

somewhat in the habit of favouring the world with when not quite

herself, but real, genuine tears of gratitude. She had given up all hope

of the ten pounds, did not expect to see a penny of it; and the joy

overcame her. Her conscience pricked her a little also, for she

remembered sundry hard words she had at one time liberally regaled her

neighbours' ears with, touching Mrs. George Godolphin. In her grateful

repentance she could have knelt at Maria's feet: hunger and other ills

of poverty had tended to subdue her spirit.

"May the good Lord bless and repay you, ma'am!--and send you a safe

journey to the far-off place where I hear you be going!"

"Yes, I shall go, if I am well enough," replied Maria. "It is from

thence that I shall send you home some money from time to time if I can

do so. Have you been well, lately?"

"As well as pretty nigh clamming will let me be, ma'am. Things has gone

hard with me: many a day I've not had as much as a crust to eat. But

this 'll set me up again, and, ma'am, I'll never cease to pray for you."

"Don't spend it in--in--you know, Mrs. Bond," Maria ventured timidly to

advise, in a lowered voice.

Mrs. Bond shook her head and turned up her eyes by way of expressing a

very powerful negative. Probably she did not feel altogether comfortable

on the subject, for she hastened to quit it.

"Have you heard the news about old Jekyl, ma'am?"

"No. What news?"

"He's dead. He went off at one o'clock this a'ternoon. He fretted

continual after his money, folks says, and it wore him to a skeleton. He

couldn't abear to be living upon his sons; and Jonathan don't earn

enough for himself now, and the old 'un felt it."

Some one else was feeling it. Fretting continually after his

money!--that money which might never have been placed in the Bank but

for her! Miss Meta came flying in, went straight up to the visitor, and

leaned her pretty arm upon the snuffy black gown.

"When shall I come and see the parrot?"

"The parrot! Lawks bless the child! I haven't got the parrot now, I

haven't had him this many a day. I couldn't let _him_ clam," she

continued, turning to Maria. "I was clamming myself, ma'am, and I sold

him, cage and all, just as he stood."

"Where is he?" asked Meta, looking disappointed.

"He's where he went," lucidly explained Mrs. Bond. "It were the lady up

at t'other end o' the town, beyond the parson's, what bought him, ma'am.

Leastways her daughter did: sister to her what was once to have married

Mr. Godolphin. It's a white house."

"Lady Sarah Grame's," said Maria. "Did she buy the parrot?"

"Miss did: that cross-looking daughter of her'n. She see him as she was

going by my door one day, ma'am, and she stopped and looked at him, and

asked me what I'd sell him for. Well, on the spur o' the moment I said

five shilling; for I'd not a halfpenny in the place to buy him food, and

for days and days he had had only what the neighbours brought him; but

it warn't half his worth. And miss was all wild to buy him, but her

mother wasn't. She didn't want screeching birds in her house, she said,

and they had a desperate quarrel in my kitchen before they went away.

Didn't she call her mother names! She's a vixen that daughter, if ever

there were one. But she got her will, for an hour or two after that, a

young woman come down for the parrot with the five shilling in her hand.

And there's where he is."

"I shall have twenty parrots when I go to India," struck in Meta.

"What a sight of food they'll eat!" ejaculated Mrs. Bond. "That there

one o' mine eats his fill now. I made bold one day to go up and ask

after him, and the two young women in the kitchen took me to the room to

see him, the ladies being out, and he had his tin stuffed full o' seed.

He knowed me again, he did, and screeched out to be heerd a mile off.

The young women said that what with his screeching and the two ladies

quarrelling, the house weren't bearable sometimes."

Meta's large eyes were open in wondering speculation. "Why do they

quarrel?" she asked.

"'Cause it's their natur'," returned Mrs. Bond. "The one what had the

sweet natur' was took, and the two fretful ones was left. Them young

women said that miss a'most drove my lady mad with her temper, and they

expect nothing less but there'd be blows some day. A fine disgraceful

thing to say of born ladies, ain't it, ma'am?"

Maria, in her delicacy of feeling, would not endorse the remark of Dame

Bond. But the state of things at Lady Sarah Grame's was perfectly well

known at Prior's Ash. Sarah Anne Grame had become her mother's bane, as

Mr. Snow had once said she would be. A very terrible bane; to herself,

to her mother, to all about her. And the "screeching" parrot had only

added a little more noise to an already too noisy house.

Mrs. Bond curtsied herself out. She met Margery in the passage, and

stopped to whisper.

"I say! how ill she do look!"

"Who looks ill?" was the ungracious demand.

Mrs. Bond nodded towards the parlour door. "The missis. Her face looks

more as if it had death writ in it, than voyage-going."

"Perhaps you'll walk on your way, Dame Bond, and keep your opinions till

they're asked for," was the tart reply of Margery.

But, in point of fact, the words had darted into the faithful servant's

heart, piercing it as a poisoned arrow. It seemed so great a

confirmation of her own fears.

CHAPTER V.

COMMOTION AT ASHLYDYAT.

A few more days went on, and they wrought a further change in Mrs.

George Godolphin. She grew weaker and weaker: she grew--it was apparent

now to Mr Snow as it was to Margery--nearer and nearer to that vault in

the churchyard of All Souls'. There could no longer be any indecision or

uncertainty as to her taking the voyage; the probabilities were, that

before the ship was ready to sail, all sailing in this world for Maria

would be over. And rumours, faint, doubtful, very much discredited

rumours of this state of things, began to circulate in Prior's Ash.

Discredited because people were so unprepared for it. Mrs. George

Godolphin had been delicate since the birth of her baby, as was known to

every one, but not a soul, relatives, friends, or strangers, had felt a

suspicion of danger. On the contrary, it was supposed that she was about

to depart on that Indian voyage: and ill-natured spirits tossed their

heads and said it was fine to be Mrs. George Godolphin, to be set up

again and go out to lead a grand life in India, after ruining half

Prior's Ash. How she was misjudged! how many more unhappy wives have

been, and will be again, misjudged by the world!

One dreary afternoon, as dusk was coming on, Margery, not stopping, or

perhaps not caring, to put anything upon herself, but having hastily

wrapped up Miss Meta, went quickly down the garden path, leading that

excitable and chattering demoiselle by the hand. Curious news had

reached the ears of Margery. Their landlady's son had come in,

describing the town as being in strange commotion, in consequence of

something which had happened at Ashlydyat. Rumour set it down as nothing

less than murder; and, according to the boy's account, all Prior's Ash

was flocking up to the place to see and to hear.

Margery turned wrathful at the news. Murder at Ashlydyat! The young

gentleman was too big to be boxed or shaken for saying it, but he

persisted in his story, and Margery in her curiosity went out to see

with her own eyes. "The people are running past the top of this road in

crowds," he said to her.

For some days past, workmen had been employed digging up the Dark Plain

by the orders of Lord Averil. As he had told Cecil weeks before, his

intention was to completely renew it; to do away entirely with its past

character and send its superstition to the winds. The archway was being

taken down, the gorse-bushes were being uprooted, the whole surface, in

fact, was being dug up. He intended to build an extensive summer-house

where the archway had been, and to make the plain a flower-garden, a

playground for children when they should be born to Ashlydyat: and it

appeared that in digging that afternoon under the archway, the men had

come upon a human skeleton, or rather upon the bones of what had once

been a skeleton. This was the whole foundation for the rumour and the

"murder."

As Margery stood, about to turn home again, vexed for having been

brought out in the cold for nothing more, and intending to give a few

complimentary thanks for it to the young man who had been the means of

sending her, she was accosted by Mr. Crosse, who had latterly been laid

up in his house with gout. Not the slightest notice had he taken of

George Godolphin and his wife since his return home, though he had been

often with Thomas.

"How d'ye do, Margery?" he said, taking up Meta at the same time to kiss

her. "Are you going to Ashlydyat with the rest?"

"Not I, the simpletons!" was Margery's free rejoinder. "There's my poor

mistress alone in the house."

"Is she ill?" asked Mr. Crosse.

"Ill!" returned Margery, not at all pleased at the question. "Yes, sir,

she is ill. I thought everybody knew that."

"When does she start for India?"

"She don't start at all. She'll be starting soon for a place a little

bit nearer. Here! you run on and open the gate," added Margery, whisking

Meta from Mr. Crosse's hand and sending her down the lane out of

hearing. "She'll soon be where Mr. Thomas Godolphin is, sir, instead of

being marched off in a ship to India," continued the woman, turning to

Mr. Crosse confidentially.

He felt greatly shocked. In his own mind, he, as many others, had

associated Maria with her husband, in regard to the summer's work, in a

lofty, scornful sort of way: but it did shock him to hear that she was

in fear of death. It is most wonderful how our feelings towards others

soften when we find that they and their shortcomings are about to be

taken from us to a more merciful Judge.

"But what is the matter with her, Margery?" Mr. Crosse asked; for it

happened that he had not heard the ominous rumours that were beginning

to circulate in Prior's Ash.

"_I_ don't know what's the matter with her," returned Margery. "I don't

believe old Snow knows, either. I suppose the worry and misfortunes have

been too much for her; as they were for somebody else. Mr. Godolphin is

in his grave, and now she's going to hers."

Mr. Crosse walked mechanically by the side of Margery down the lane. It

was not his road, and perhaps he was unconscious that he took it; he

walked by her side, listening.

"He'll have to go by himself now--and me to have been getting up all my

cotton gowns for the start! Serve him right! for ever thinking of taking

out that dear little lamb amid elephants and savages!"

Mr. Crosse was perfectly aware that Margery alluded to her master--his

own _bête noire_ since the explosion. But he did not choose to descant

upon his gracelessness to Margery. "Can nothing be done for Mrs. George

Godolphin?" he asked.

"I expect not, sir. There's nothing the matter with her that can be laid

hold of," resentfully spoke Margery; "no malady to treat. Snow says he

can't do anything, and he brought Dr. Beale in the other day: and it

seems he can't do nothing, either."

Meta had reached the gate, flung it open in obedience to orders, and now

came running back. Mr. Crosse took her hand and went on with her. Was he

purposing to pay a visit to George Godolphin's wife? It seemed so.

It was quite dusk when they entered. Maria was lying on the sofa, with a

warm woollen wrapper drawn over her. There was no light in the room

except that given out by the fire, but its blaze fell directly on her

face. Mr. Crosse stood and looked at it, shocked at its ravages; at the

tale it told. All kinds of unpleasant pricks were sending their darts

through his conscience. He had been holding himself aloof in his assumed

superiority, his haughty condemnation, while she had been going to the

grave with her breaking heart.

Had she wanted things that money could procure? had she wanted _food_?

Mr. Crosse actually began to ask himself the question, as the wan aspect

of the white face grew and grew upon him: and in the moment he quite

loathed the thought of his well-stored coffers. He remembered what a

good, loving gentlewoman this wife of George Godolphin's had always

been, this dutiful daughter of All Souls' pastor: and for the first time

Mr. Crosse began to separate her from her husband's misdoings, to awaken

to the conviction that the burden and sorrow laid upon her had been

enough to bear, without the world meting out its harsh measure of blame

by way of increase.

He sat down quite humbly, saying "hush" to Meta. Maria had dropped into

one of those delirious sleeps: they came on more frequently now, and

would visit her at the twilight hour of the evening as well as at night:

and the noise of their entrance had failed to arouse her. Margery,

however, came bustling in.

"It's Mr. Crosse, ma'am."

Maria, a faint hectic of surprise coming into her cheeks, sat up and let

him take her hand. "I am glad to have the opportunity of seeing you once

again," she said.

"Why did you not send and tell me how ill you were?" burst forth Mr.

Crosse, forgetting how exceedingly ill such a procedure would have

accorded with his own line of holding aloof in condemning superiority.

She shook her head. "I might, had things been as they used to be. But

people do not care to come near me now."

"I am going in the ship, Mr. Crosse. I am going to ride upon an elephant

and to have parrots."

He laid his hand kindly upon the chattering child: but he turned to

Maria, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What shall you do with her?

Shall you send her out without you?"

The question struck upon the one chord of her heart that for the last

day or two, since her own hopeless state grew more palpable, had been

strung to the utmost tension. What was to become of Meta--of the

cherished child whom she must leave behind her? Her face grew moist, her

bosom heaved, and she suddenly pressed her hands upon it as if they

could still its wild and painful beating. Mr. Crosse, blaming himself

for asking it, blaming himself for many other things, took her hands

within his, and said he would come and see her in the morning: she

seemed so fatigued then.

But, low as the question had been put, Miss Meta heard it; heard it and

understood its purport. She entwined her pretty arms within her mamma's

dress as Mr. Crosse went out, and raised her wondering eyes.

"What did he mean? You are coming too, mamma!"

She drew the little upturned face close to hers, she laid her white

cheek upon the golden hair. The very excess of pain that was rending her

aching heart caused her to speak with unnatural stillness. Not that she

could speak at first: a minute or two had to be given to mastering her

emotion.

"I am afraid not, Meta. I think God is going to take me."

The child made no reply. Her earnest eyes were kept wide open with the

same wondering stare. "What will papa do?" she presently asked.

Maria hastily passed her hand across her brow, as if that recalled

another phase of the pain. Meta's little heart began to swell, and the

tears burst forth.

"Don't go, mamma! Don't go away from papa and Meta! I shall be afraid of

the elephants without you."

She pressed the child closer and closer to her beating heart. Oh the

pain, the pain!--the pain of the parting that was so soon to come!

They were interrupted by a noise at the gate. A carriage had bowled down

the lane and drawn up at it, almost with the commotion that used to

attend the dashing visits to the Bank of Mrs. Charlotte Pain. A more

sober equipage this, however, with its mourning appointments, although

it bore a coronet on its panels. The footman opened the door, and one

lady stepped out of it.

"It is Aunt Cecil," called out Meta.

She rubbed the tears from her pretty cheeks, her grief forgotten,

child-like, in the new excitement, and flew out to meet Lady Averil.

Maria, trying to look her best, rose from the sofa and tottered forward

to receive her. Meta was pounced upon by Margery and carried off to have

her tumbled hair smoothed; and Lady Averil came in alone.

She threw back her crape veil to kiss Maria. She had come down from

Ashlydyat on purpose to tell her the news of the bones being found:

there could be little doubt that they were those of the ill-fated

Richard de Commins, which had been so fruitlessly searched for: and Lady

Averil was full of excitement. Perhaps it was natural that she should be

so, being a Godolphin.

"It is most strange that they should be found just now," she cried; "at

the very time that the Dark Plain is being done away with. You know,

Maria, the tradition always ran that so long as the bones remained

unfound, the Dark Plain would retain the appearance of a graveyard. Is

it not a singular coincidence--that they should be discovered just at

the moment that the Plain is being dug up? Were Janet here, she would

say how startlingly all the old superstition is being worked out."

"I think one thing especially strange--that they should not have been

found before," observed Maria. "Have they not been searched for often?"

"I believe so," replied Cecil. "But they were found under the archway;

immediately beneath it: and I fancy they had always been searched for in

the Dark Plain. When papa had the gorse-bushes rooted up they were

looked for then in all parts of the Dark Plain, but not under the

archway."

"How came Lord Averil to think of looking under the archway?" asked

Maria.

"He did not think of it. They have been found unexpectedly, without

being searched for. The archway is taken down, and the men were digging

the foundation for the new summer-house, when they came upon them. The

grounds of Ashlydyat have been like a fair all the afternoon with people

coming up to see and hear," added Cecil. "Lord Averil is going to

consult Mr. Hastings about giving them Christian burial."

"It does seem strange," murmured Maria. "Have you written to tell

Janet?"

"No, I shall write to her to-morrow. I hastened down to you. Bessy came

over from the Folly, but Lady Godolphin would not come. She said she had

heard enough in her life of the superstition of Ashlydyat. She never

liked it, you know, Maria; never believed in it."

"Yes, I know," Maria answered. "It used to anger her when it was spoken

of. As it angered papa."

"As George used to pretend that it angered him. I think it was only

pretence, though. Poor Thomas, never. If he did not openly accord it

belief, he never ridiculed it. How are your preparations getting on

Maria?"

Maria was crossing the room with feeble steps to stir the fire into a

blaze. As the light burst forth, she turned her face to Lady Averil with

a sort of apology.

"I do not know what Margery is about that she does not bring in the

lamp. I am receiving you very badly, Cecil."

Cecil smiled. "I think our topic, the Ashlydyat superstition, is better

discussed in such light as this, than in the full glare of lamp-light."

But as Lady Averil spoke she was looking earnestly at Maria. The blaze

had lighted up her wan face, and Cecil was struck aghast at its aspect.

_Was_ it real?--or was it only the effect of the firelight? Lady Averil

had not heard of the ominous fears that were ripening, and hoped it was

the latter.

"Maria! are you looking worse this evening? Or is the light deceiving

me?"

"I dare say I am looking worse. I am worse. I am very ill, Cecil."

"You do not look fit to embark on this voyage."

Maria simply shook her head. She was sitting now in an old-fashioned

arm-chair, one white hand lying on her black dress, the other supporting

her chin, while the firelight played on her wasted features.

"Would the little change to Ashlydyat benefit you, Maria? If so, if it

would help to give you strength for your voyage, come to us at once. Now

don't refuse! It will give us so much pleasure. You do not know how Lord

Averil loves and respects you. I think there is no one he respects as he

respects you. Let me take you home with me now."

Maria's eyelashes were wet as she turned them on her. "Thank you, Cecil,

for your kindness: and Lord Averil--will you tell him so for me--I am

always thanking in my heart. I wish I could go home with you; I wish I

could go with any prospect of it doing me good; but that is over. I

shall soon be in a narrower home than this."

Lady Averil's heart stood still and then bounded on again. "No, no!

Surely you are mistaken! It cannot be."

"I have suspected it long, Cecil! but since the last day or two it has

become certainty, and even Mr. Snow acknowledges it. About this time

yesterday, he was sitting here in the twilight, and I bade him not

conceal the truth from me. I told him that I knew it, and did not shrink

from it; and therefore it was the height of folly for him to pretend

ignorance to me."

"Oh, Maria! And have you no regret at leaving us? I should think it a

dreadful thing if I were going to die."

"I have been battling with my regrets a long while," said Maria, bending

her head and speaking in low, subdued tones. "Leaving Meta is the worst.

I know not who will take her, who will protect her: she cannot go with

George, without--without a mother!"

"Give her to me," feverishly broke from the lips of Lady Averil. "You

don't know how dearly I have ever loved that child Maria, she shall

never know the want of the good mother she has lost, as far as I can

supply your place, if you will let her come to me. It is well that the

only child of the Godolphins--and she is the only one--should be reared

at Ashlydyat."

Of all the world, Maria could best have wished Lady Averil to have Meta:

and perhaps there had been moments when in her troubled imagination she

had hoped it would be so. But she could not close her eyes to its

improbabilities.

"You will be having children of your own, Cecil. And there's Lord Averil

to be considered!"

"Lord Averil is more than indulgent to me. I believe if I wished to

adopt half a dozen children, he would only smile and tell me to prepare

a nursery for them. I am quite sure he would like to have Meta."

"Then--if he will--oh, Cecil, I should die with less regret."

"Yes, yes, that is settled. He shall call and tell you so.

But--Maria--is your own state so certain? Can nothing be done for

you?--nothing be tried?"

"Nothing, as I believe. Mr. Snow cannot find out what is the matter with

me. The trouble has been breaking my heart, Cecil: I know of nothing

else. And since I grew alarmed about my own state, there has been the

thought of Meta. Many a time have I been tempted to wish that I could

have her with me in my coffin."

"Aunt Cecil! Aunt Cecil! How many summer-houses are there to be, Aunt

Cecil?"

You need not ask whose interrupting voice it was. Lady Averil lifted the

child to her knee, and asked whether she would come and pay her a long,

long visit at Ashlydyat. Meta replied by inquiring into the prospect of

swings and dolls' houses, and Cecil plunged into promises as

munificently as George could have done.

"Should George not be with you?" she whispered, as she bent over Maria

before leaving.

"Yes, I am beginning to think he ought to be now. I intend to write to

him to-night; but I did not like to disturb him in his preparations. It

will be a blow to him."

"What! does he not know of it?"

"Not yet. He thinks I am getting ready to go out. I _wish_ I could have

done so!"

No, not until the unhappy fact was placed beyond all doubt, would Maria

disturb her husband. And she did it gently at last. "I have been

unwilling to alarm you, George, and I would not do so now, but that I

believe it is all too certain. Will you come down and see what you think

of me? Even Mr. Snow fears there is no hope for me now. Oh, if I could

but have gone with you! have gone with you to be your ever-loving wife

still in that new land!"

Lord Averil came in while she was addressing the letter. Greatly

shocked, greatly grieved at what his wife told him, he rose from his

dinner-table and walked down. Her husband excepted, there was no one

whom Maria would have been so pleased to see as Lord Averil. He had not

come so much to tell her that he heartily concurred in his wife's offer

with regard to the child, though he did say it--say that she should be

done by entirely as though she were his own, and his honest honourable

nature shone out of his eyes as he spoke it--as to see whether nothing

could be done for herself, to entreat her to have further advice called

in.

"Dr. Beale has been here twice," was her answer. "He says there is no

hope."

Lord Averil held her hand in his, as he had taken it in greeting; his

grave eyes of sympathy were bent with deep concern on her face.

"Cecil thinks the trouble has been too much for you," he whispered. "Is

it so?"

A streak of hectic came into her cheek. "Yes, I suppose it is that. Turn

to which side I would, there was no comfort, no hope. Throughout it all,

I never had a friend, save you, Lord Averil: and you know, and God

knows, what you did for us. I have not recompensed you: I don't see how

I could have recompensed you had I lived: but when I am gone, you will

be happy in knowing that you took the greatest weight from one who was

stricken by the world."

"You have been writing to George?" he observed, seeing the letter on the

table. "But it will not go to-night: it is too late."

"It can go up by to-morrow's day mail, and he will receive it in the

evening. Perhaps you will post it for me as you walk home: it will save

Margery's going out."

Lord Averil put the letter into his pocket. He stood looking at her as

she lay a little back in her easy-chair, his arm resting on the

mantelpiece, curious thoughts passing through his mind. Could he do

nothing for her?--to avert the fate that was threatening her? He, rich

in wealth, happy now in the world's favour; she, going to the grave in

sorrow, it might be in privation--_what_ could he do to help her?

There are moments when we speak out of our true heart, when the

conventionality that surrounds the best of us is thrown aside, all

deceit, all form forgotten. Lord Averil was a good and true man, but

never better, never truer than now, when he took a step forward and bent

to Maria.

"Let me have the satisfaction of doing something for you; let me try to

save you!" he implored in low earnest tones. "If that may not be, let me

help to lighten your remaining hours. How can I best do it?"

She held out her hand to him: she looked up at him, the gratitude she

could not speak shining from her sweet eyes. "Indeed there is nothing

now, Lord Averil. I wish I could thank you as you deserve for the past."

He held her hand for some time, but she seemed weak, exhausted, and he

said good night. Margery attended him to the outer gate, in spite of his

desire that she should not do so, for the night air was cold and seemed

to threaten snow.

"Your mistress is very ill, Margery," he gravely said. "She seems to be

in danger."

"I'm afraid she is, my lord. Up to the last day or two I thought she

might take a turn and get over it; but since then she has grown worse

with every hour. Some folks can battle out things, and some folks can't;

she's one of the last sort, and she has been tried in all ways."

Lord Averil dropped the letter into the post-office, looking

mechanically at its superscription, George Godolphin, Esquire. But that

he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, he might have seen by the very

writing how weak she was, for it was scarcely recognizable as hers.

Very, very ill she looked, as if the end were growing ominously near;

and Lord Averil did not altogether like the tardy summons which the

letter would convey. A night and a day yet before George could receive

it. A moment's communing with himself, and then he took the path to the

telegraph office, and sent off a message:

"Viscount Averil to George Godolphin, Esquire.

"Your wife is very ill. Come down by first train."

The snow came early. It was nothing like Christmas yet, and here was the

ground covered with it. The skies had seemed to threaten it the previous

night, but people were not prepared to find everything wearing a white

aspect when they rose in the morning.

The Reverend Mr. Hastings was ill. A neglected cold was telling so

greatly upon him that his daughter Rose had at length sent for Mr. Snow.

Mrs. Hastings was away for a day or two, on a visit to some friends at a

distance.

Mr. Hastings sat over the fire, dreamily watching David Jekyl, awaiting

the visit of Mr. Snow, and thinking his own thoughts. David was busy in

the garden. He had a bit of crape on his old felt hat for his

recently-interred father. The crape led the Rector's thoughts to the old

man, and thence to the deprivation brought to the old man's years, the

loss to the sons, through George Godolphin. How many more, besides poor

old Jekyl, had George Godolphin ruined! himself, that reverend divine,

amongst the rest!

"A good thing when the country shall be rid of him!" spoke the Rector in

his bitterness. "I would give all the comfort left in my life that

Maria, for her own sake, had not linked her fate with his! But that

can't be remedied now. I hope he will make her happier there, in her new

home, than he has made her here!"

By which words you will gather that Mr. Hastings had no suspicion of the

change in his daughter's state. It was so. Lord and Lady Averil were not

alone in learning the tidings suddenly; at, as it may be said, the

eleventh hour. Maria had not sent word to the Rectory that she was

worse. She knew that her mother was absent, that her father was ill,

that Rose was occupied; and that the change from bad to worse had come

upon herself so imperceptibly, that she saw not its real danger--as was

proved by her not writing to her husband. The Rector, as he sits there,

has his mind full of Maria's voyage, and its discomfort: of her changed

life in India: and he is saying to himself that he shall get out in the

afternoon and call to see her.

The room faced the side of the house, but as Mr. Hastings sat he could

catch a glimpse of the garden gate, and presently saw the well-known gig

stop at it, and the surgeon descend.

"Well, and who's ill now?" cried Mr. Snow, as he let himself in at the

hall-door, and thence to the room, where he took a seat in front of the

Rector, examined his ailment, and gossiped at the same time, as was his

wont; gossiped and grumbled.

"Ah, yes; just so: feel worse than you have felt for twenty years. You

caught this cold at Thomas Godolphin's funeral, and you have not chosen

to pay attention to it."

"I think I did. I felt it coming on the next day. I could not read the

service in my hat, Snow, over _him_, and you know that rain was falling.

Ah! There was a sufferer! But had it not been for the calamity that fell

upon him, he might not have gone to the grave quite so soon."

"He felt it too keenly," remarked Mr. Snow. "And your daughter--there's

another sad victim. Ah me! Sometimes I wish I had never been a doctor,

when I find all that I can do in the way of treatment comes to nothing."

"If she can only get well through the fatigues of the voyage, she may be

better in India. Don't you think so? The very change from this place

will put new life into her."

Mr. Snow paused in surprise, and the truth flashed into his mind--that

Mr. Hastings was as yet in ignorance of Maria's danger: flashed with

pain. Of course it was his duty to enlighten him, and he would rather

have been spared the task. "When did you see her last?" he inquired.

"The day Mrs. Hastings left. I have not been well enough to go out much

since. And I dare say Maria has been busy."

"I am sorry then to have to tell you that she has not been busy; that

she has not been well enough to be busy. She is much worse."

There was a significance in the tone that spoke to the father more

effectually than any words could have done. He was silent for a full

minute, and then he rose from his chair and walked once up and down the

room before he turned to Mr. Snow.

"The full truth, Snow? Tell it me."

"Well--the truth is, that hope is over. That she will not very long be

here. I had no suspicion that you knew it not."

"I knew nothing of it. When I and her mother were with her last: it was,

I tell you, the day Mrs. Hastings left: Maria was talking of going back

to London with her husband the next time he came down to Prior's Ash. I

thought her looking better that morning; she had quite a colour; was in

good spirits. When did you see her?"

"Now. I went up there before I came down to you. She grows worse and

worse every hour. Lord Averil telegraphed for George Godolphin last

night."

"And I have not been informed of this!" burst forth the Rector. "My

daughter dying--for I infer no less--and I to be left in ignorance of

the truth!"

"Understand one thing, Mr. Hastings--that until this morning we saw no

fear of _immediate_ danger. Lord Averil says he suspected it last night;

I did not see her yesterday in the after-part of the day. I have known

some few cases precisely similar to Mrs. George Godolphin's; where

danger and death seem to have come on suddenly together."

"And what is her disease?"

The surgeon threw up his arms. "_I_ don't know--unless the trouble has

fretted her into her grave. Were I not a doctor, I might say she had

died of a broken heart, but the faculty don't recognize such a thing."

Half an hour afterwards, the Reverend Mr. Hastings was bending over his

daughter's dying bed. A dying bed, it too surely looked; and if Mr.

Hastings had indulged a gleam of hope, the first glance at Maria's

countenance dispelled it. She lay wrapped in a shawl, the lace border of

her nightcap shading her delicate face and its smooth brown hair, her

eyes larger and softer and sweeter than of yore.

They were alone together. He held her hand in his, he gently laid his

other hand on her white and wasted brow. "Child! child! why did you not

send to me?"

"I did not know I was so ill, papa," she panted. "I seem to have grown

so much worse this last night. But I am better than I was an hour ago."

"Maria," he gravely said, "are you aware that you are in a state of

danger?--that death may come to you."

"Yes, papa, I know it. I have seen it coming a long while: only I was

not quite sure."

"And my dear child, are you----" Mr. Hastings paused. He paused and bit

his lips, gathering firmness to suppress the emotion that was rising.

His calling made him familiar with death-bed scenes; but Maria was his

own child, and nature will assert her supremacy. A minute or two and he

was himself again: not a man living was more given to reticence in the

matter of his own feelings than the Rector of All Souls': he could not

_bear_ to betray emotion in the sight of his fellow-men.

"Are you prepared for death, Maria? Can you look upon it without

terror?"

"I think I am," she murmured. "I feel that I am going to God. Oh, papa,

forgive, forgive me!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears of emotion, as

she raised her hands to him in the moment's excitement. "The trouble has

been too much for me; I could not shake it off. All the sorrow that has

been brought upon you through us, I think of it always: my heart aches

with thinking of it. Oh, papa, forgive me before I die! It was not my

fault; indeed, I did not know of it. Papa"--and the sobs became

painfully hysterical, and Mr. Hastings strove in vain to check them--"I

would have sacrificed my life to bring good to you and my dear mamma: I

would have _sold_ myself, to keep this ill from you!"

"Child, hush! There has been nothing to forgive to _you_. In the first

moment of the smart, if I cast an unkind thought to you, it did not

last; it was gone almost as soon as it came. My dear child, you have

ever been my loving and dutiful daughter. Maria, shall I tell it you?--I

know not why, but I have loved you better than any of my other

children."

She had raised herself from the pillow, and was clasping his hand to her

bosom, sobbing over it. Few daughters have loved a father as Maria had

loved and venerated hers. The Rector's face was preternaturally pale and

calm, the effect of his powerfully suppressed emotion.

"It has been too much for me, papa. I have thought of your trouble, of

the discomforts of your home, of the blighted prospects of my brothers,

feeling that it was our work. I thought of it always, more perhaps than

of other things: and I could not battle with the pain it brought, and it

has killed me. But, papa, I am resigned to go: I know that I shall be

better off. Before these troubles came, I had not learned to think of

God, and I should have been afraid to die."

"It is through tribulation that we must enter the Kingdom," interrupted

the calm, earnest voice of the clergyman. "It must come to us here in

some shape or other, my child; and I do not see that it matters how, or

when, or through whom it does come, if it takes us to a better world.

You have had your share of it: but God is a just and merciful Judge, and

if He has given you a full share of sorrow, He will deal out to you His

full recompense."

"Yes," she gently said, "I am going to God. Will you pray for me,

papa?--that He will pardon me and take me for Christ's sake. Oh, papa!

it seems--it seems when we get near death as if the other world were so

very near to this! It seems such a little span of time that I shall have

to wait for you all before you come to me. Will you give my dear love to

mamma if I should not live to see her, and say how I have loved her: say

that I have only gone on first; that I shall be there ready for her.

Papa, I dare say God will let me be ever waiting and looking for you."

Mr. Hastings turned to search for a Book of Common Prayer. He saw

Maria's on her dressing-table--one which he had given her on her

marriage, and written her name in--and he opened it at the "Visitation

of the Sick." He looked searchingly at her face as he returned: surely

the signs of death were already gathering there!

"The last Sacrament, Maria?" he whispered. "When shall I come?"

"This evening," she answered. "George will be here then."

The Reverend Mr Hastings bent his eyebrows with a frown, as if he

thought---- But no matter. "At eight o'clock, then," he said to Maria,

as he laid the book upon the bed and knelt down before it. Maria lay

back on her pillow, and clasping her hands upon the shawl which covered

her bosom, closed her eyes to listen.

It was strange that even then, as he was in the very act of kneeling,

certain words which he had spoken to Maria years ago, should flash

vividly into the Rector's mind--words which had referred to the death of

Ethel Grame.

"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 carking cares,

wails out a vain wish that he had been taken from the evil to come."

Had the gift of prevision been on the Rector of All Souls' when he spoke

those words to Maria Hastings? Poor child! lying there now on her early

death-bed; with her broken heart! The world's carking cares had surely

done their work on Maria Godolphin!

CHAPTER VI.

A CROWD OF MEMORIES.

If it were not for mismanagement, how smoothly things might go on! That

telegraphic despatch which Lord Averil had deemed it well to send, and

which had not been sent any too soon, did not reach George Godolphin for

hours and hours, through mismanagement at his lodgings.

It was afternoon when he reached Prior's Ash. The first person he saw at

the station was Lord Averil. That nobleman, wondering at George's

non-appearance, believing that Maria was getting nearer to death with

every hour, had come to the conclusion that by some mischance his

message had miscarried; and he had now gone to the station to send

another. Lord Averil linked his arm within George's, and they walked

rapidly away through the snow that lay on the path.

Yes, he linked his arm within George Godolphin's who had so very nearly

been held up to the virtuous British public as a candidate for a free

passage to Australia. Somehow, George had slipped through that danger,

and was a gentleman still: moreover, he was Lord Averil's

brother-in-law, and it was the earnest wish of that nobleman that

society should forget the little mistake in George's life as heartily as

he did. He explained as he walked along: Maria had got rapidly worse all

at once: it was only within a few hours that immediate danger had shown

itself.

George could not understand it. He had left his wife, ill certainly, but

not, as he believed, seriously so; he had supposed her to be busy in

preparations for the voyage: and now to be told that she was dying! If

this was so, why had Maria not sent for him before?

Lord Averil explained. No one seemed to have known of the danger.

"Snow must have known it," remonstrated George.

"I think not. I was talking to him to-day, and he expressed his surprise

at the disorder having suddenly increased in this rapid manner."

"What _is_ the disorder?" asked George. "My wife had no disorder--except

weakness."

"I suppose that is it--weakness."

"But weakness does not kill!"

"Yes, it does, sometimes."

Margery was standing at the door when they reached the gate, possibly

looking out for her master, for she knew the hours of the arrival of the

trains. The windows of the sitting-room faced that way, and George's

eyes naturally turned to them. But there was no sign of busy life, of

every-day occupation: the curtains hung in their undisturbed folds, the

blinds were partially down.

"I will just ask how your wife is now, and whether Cecil is here," said

Lord Averil, following George up the path.

No, Lady Averil and Miss Bessy Godolphin had left about ten minutes

before, Margery said. My Lady Godolphin, who had driven up in her

carriage and come in for a quarter of an hour, had left; and Miss Rose

Hastings, who had been there the best part of the morning, had also

left. Mrs. George Godolphin seemed a trifle better; inclined to sleep,

tired out, as it were; and she, Margery, didn't wonder at it with such a

heap of visitors: she had given them a broad hint herself that her

mistress might be all the better for an hour's quiet.

Lord Averil departed. George flung his railway wrapper on to a chair and

hung his hat up in the little hall: he turned his face, one of severity

then, on Margery.

"Is your mistress so very ill? Why was I not sent for earlier? Is she so

very ill?" he continued in an impassioned tone.

"Well, sir, I don't know," answered Margery, willing perhaps to soften

the truth to him. "She is certainly better than she was in the morning.

She is sitting up."

George Godolphin was of a hopeful nature. Even those few words seemed to

speak to his heart with a certainty. "Not there, sir," interposed

Margery, as he opened the door of the sitting-room. "But it don't

matter," she added: "you can go in that way."

He walked through the room and opened the door of the bedchamber. Would

the scene ever leave his memory? The room was lighted more by the blaze

of the fire than by the daylight, for curtains partly covered the

windows and the winter's dreary afternoon was already merging into

twilight. The bed was at the far end of the room, the dressing-table

near it. The fire was on his right as he entered, and on a white-covered

sofa, drawn before it, sat Maria. She was partly dressed and wrapped in

a light cashmere shawl; her cap was untied, and her face, shaded though

it was by its smooth brown hair, was all too visible in the reflection

cast by the firelight.

Which was the more colourless--that face, or the white cover of the

sofa? George Godolphin's heart stood still as he looked upon it and then

bounded on with a rush. Every shadow of hope had gone from him.

Maria had not heard him, did not see him; he went in gently. By her side

on the sofa lay Miss Meta, curled up into a ball and fast asleep, her

hands and her golden curls on her mamma's knee. With George's first step

forward, Maria turned her sad sweet eyes towards him, and a faint cry of

emotion escaped her lips.

Before she could stir or speak, George was with her, his protecting arms

thrown round her, her face gathered to his breast. What a contrast it

was! she so wan and fragile, so near the grave, he in all his manly

strength, his fresh beauty. Miss Meta woke up, recognized her papa with

a cry and much commotion, but Margery came in and carried her off,

shutting the door behind her.

Her fair young face--too fair and young to die--was laid against her

husband's; her feeble hand lay carelessly in his. The shock to George

was very great; it almost seemed that he had already lost her; and the

scalding tears, so rarely wrung from man, coursed down his cheeks, and

fell on her face.

"Don't grieve," she whispered, the tears raining from her own eyes.

"Oh, George, my husband, it is a bitter thing to part, but we shall meet

again in heaven, and be together for ever. It has been so weary here;

the troubles have been so great!"

He steadied his voice to speak. "The troubles have not killed you, have

they, Maria?"

"Yes, I suppose it has been so. I did try and struggle against them,

but--I don't know---- Oh, George!" she broke out in a wailing tone of

pain, "if I could have but got over them and lived!--if I could only

have gone with you to your new home!"

George sat down on the sofa where Meta had been, and held her to him in

silence. She could hear his heart beating; could feel it bounding

against her side.

"It will be a better home in heaven," she resumed, laying her poor pale

face upon his shoulder. "You will come to me there, George; I shall only

go on first a little while; all the pains and the cares, the

heart-burnings of earth will be forgotten, and we shall be together in

happiness for ever and ever."

He dropped his face upon her neck, he sobbed aloud in his anguish.

Whatever may have been his gracelessness and his faults, he had loved

his wife; and now that he was losing her, that love was greater than it

had ever been: some pricks of conscience may have been mingled with it,

too! Who knows?

"Don't forget me quite when I am gone, George. Think of me sometimes as

your poor wife who loved you to the last; who would have stayed with you

if God had let her. When first I began to see that it must be, that I

should leave you and Meta, my heart nearly broke; but the pain has grown

less, and I think God has been reconciling me to it."

"What shall I do?--what will the child do without you?" broke from his

quivering lips.