Perhaps the thought crossed Maria that he had done very well without her

in the last few months, for his sojourn with her might be counted by

hours instead of by days: but she was too generous to allude to it; and

the heart-aching had passed. "Cecil and Lord Averil will take Meta," she

said. "Let her stay with them, George! It would not be well for her to

go to India alone with you."

The words surprised him. He did not speak.

"Cecil proposed it yesterday. They will be _glad_ to have her. I dare

say Lord Averil will speak to you about it later. It was the one great

weight left upon my mind, George--our poor child, and what could be done

with her: Cecil's generous proposal removed it."

"Yes," said George hesitatingly. "For a little while; perhaps it will be

the best thing. Until I shall get settled in India. But she must come to

me then; I cannot part with her for good."

"For good? No. But, George, you may--it is possible--" she seemed to

stammer and hesitate--"you may be forming new ties. In that case you

would care less for the loss of Meta----"

"Don't talk so!" he passionately interrupted. "How can you glance at

such things, Maria, in these our last moments?"

She was silent for a few minutes, weeping softly. "Had this parting come

upon me as suddenly as it has upon you, I might have started from the

very thought with horror; but, George, I have had nothing else in my own

mind for weeks but the parting, and it has made me look at the future as

I could not else have looked at it. Do not blame me for saying this. I

must allude to it, if I am to speak of Meta. I can understand how full

of aversion the thought is to you now: but, George, it _may_ come to

pass."

"I think not," he said, and his voice and manner had changed to grave

deliberation. "If I know anything of myself, Maria, I shall never marry

again."

"It is not impossible."

"No," he assented; "it is not impossible."

Her heart beat a shade quicker, and she hid her face upon him so that he

could not see it. When she spoke again, it was with difficulty he could

catch the whispered words.

"I know how foolish and wrong it is for a dying wife to extract any

promise of this nature from her husband: were I to say to you, Do not

marry again, it would be little else than a wicked request; and it would

prove how my thoughts and passions must still cling to earth. Bear with

me while I speak of this, George, _I_ am not going to be so wicked;

but--but----"

Agitation stopped her voice. Her bosom heaved, her breath almost left

her. He saw that this was mental emotion, not bodily weakness; and he

waited until it should pass, stroking the hair from her brow with his

gentle hand.

"My darling, what is it?"

"But there is one promise that I do wish to beg of you," she resumed,

mastering her emotion sufficiently to speak. "If--if you should marry,

and your choice falls upon _one_--upon _her_--then, in that case, do not

seek to have Meta home; let her remain always with Cecil."

A pause, broken by George. "Of whom do you speak, Maria?"

The same laboured breathing; the same cruel agitation; and they had to

be fought with before she could bring out the words.

"Of Charlotte Pain."

"Charlotte Pain!" echoed George, shouting out the name in surprise.

"I could not bear it," she shivered. "George, George! do not make her

the second mother of my child! I could not bear it; it seems to me that

I could not even in my grave bear it! Should you marry her, promise me

that Meta shall not be removed from Ashlydyat."

"Maria," he quietly said, "I shall never marry Charlotte Pain."

"You don't know. You may think now you will not, but you cannot answer

for yourself. George! she has helped to kill me. She must not be Meta's

second mother."

He raised her face so that he could see it, his dark blue eyes met hers

searchingly, and he took her hand in his as he gravely spoke.

"She will never be Meta's second mother: nay, if it will be more

satisfactory, I will say she never shall be. By the heaven that perhaps

even I may some day attain to, I say it! Charlotte Pain will never be

Meta's second mother, or my wife."

She did not answer in words. She only nestled a little nearer to him in

gratitude; half in repentance perhaps for having doubted him. George

resumed, in the same grave tone:

"And now, Maria, tell me what you mean by saying that Charlotte Pain has

helped to kill you."

A vivid flush came over her wan face, and she contrived to turn it from

him again, so that her eyes were hidden. But she did not speak quite at

first.

"It all came upon me together, George," she murmured at length, her tone

one of loving-tenderness, in token that she was not angry now; that the

past, whatever may have been its sins against her, any or none, was

forgiven. "At that cruel time when the blow fell, when I had nowhere to

turn to for comfort, then I also learnt what Prior's Ash had been

saying, about--about Charlotte Pain. George, it seemed to wither my very

heart; to take the life out of it. I had so loved you; I had so trusted

you: and to find--to find--that you loved her, not me----"

"Hush!" thundered George, in his emotion. "I never _loved_ any one but

you, Maria. I swear it!"

"Well--well. It seems that I do not understand. I--I could not get over

it," she continued, passing her hand across her brow where the old

aching pain had come momentarily again, "and I fear it has helped to

kill me. It was so cruel, to have suffered me to know her all the

while."

George Godolphin compressed his lips. He never spoke.

"But, George, it is over; it is buried in the past; and I did not intend

to mention it. I should not have mentioned it but for speaking of Meta.

Oh, let it go, let it pass, it need not disturb our last hour together."

"It appears to have disturbed you a great deal more than it need have

done," he said, a shade of anger in his tone.

"Yes, looking back, I see it did. When we come to the closing scenes of

life, as I have come, this world closing to our view, the next opening,

then we see how foolish in many things we have been; how worse than vain

our poor earthly passions. So to have fretted ourselves over this little

space of existence with its passing follies, its temporary interests,

when we might have been living and looking for that great one that shall

last for ever! To gaze back on my life it seems but a span; a passing

hour compared with the eternity that I am entering upon. Oh, George, we

have all need of God's loving forgiveness! I, as well as you. I did not

mean to reproach you: but I _could_ not bear--had you made her your

second wife--that she should have had the training of Meta."

Did George Godolphin doubt whether the fear was wholly erased from her

heart? Perhaps so: or he might not have spoken to her as he was about to

speak.

"Let me set your mind further at rest, Maria. Had I ever so great an

inclination to marry Mrs. Pain, it is impossible that I could do so.

Mrs. Pain has a husband already."

Maria raised her face, a flashing light, as of joy, illuminating it.

George saw it: and a sad, dreamy look of self-condemnation settled on

his own. _Had_ it so stabbed her? "Has she married again?--since she

left Prior's Ash?"

"She has never been a widow, Maria," he answered. "Rodolf Pain, her

husband, did not die."

"He did not die?"

"As it appears. He is now back again in England."

"And did you know of this?"

"Only since his return. I supposed her to be a widow, as every one else

supposed it. One night last summer, in quitting Ashlydyat, I came upon

them both in the grounds, Mr. and Mrs. Pain; and I then learned to my

great surprise that he, whom his wife had passed off as dead, had in

point of fact been hiding abroad. There is some unpleasant mystery

attached to it, the details of which I have not concerned myself to

inquire into: he fell into trouble, I expect, and feared his own country

was too hot for him. However it may have been, he is home again, and

with her. I suppose the danger is removed, for I met them together in

Piccadilly last week walking openly, and they told me they were looking

out for a house."

She breathed a sobbing sigh of relief, as one hears sometimes from a

little child.

"But were Mrs. Pain the widow she assumed to be, she would never have

been made my wife. Child!" he added, in momentary irritation, "don't you

understand things better? _She_ my wife!--the second mother, the trainer

of Meta! What could you be thinking of? Men do not marry women such as

Charlotte Pain."

"Then you do not care for her so very much?"

"I care for her so much, Maria, that were I never to see her or hear of

her again it would not give me one moment's thought," he impulsively

cried. "I would give a great deal now not to have kept up our

acquaintance with the woman--if that had saved you one single iota of

pain."

When these earthly scenes are closing--when the grave is about to set

its seal on one to whom we could have saved pain, and did not,--when

heaven's solemn approach is to be seen, and heaven's purity has become

all too clear to our own sight, what would _we_ give to change inflicted

wrongs--to blot out the hideous past! George Godolphin sat by the side

of his dying wife, his best-beloved in life as she would be in death,

and bit his lips in his crowd of memories, his unavailing repentance.

Ah, my friends! these moments of reprisal, prolonged as they may seem,

must come to us in the end. It is convenient no doubt to ignore them in

our hot-blooded carelessness, but the time will come when they must find

us out.

He, George Godolphin, had leisure to hug them to himself, and make the

best and the worst of them. Maria, exhausted with excitement, as much as

by her own weakness, closed her eyes as she lay upon his breast and

dropped into a sleep, and he sat watching her face, holding her to him,

not daring to move, lest he should disturb her, not daring even to lift

a finger and wipe off his own bitter and unavailing tears.

Yes, there could be no doubt of the fact--that the troubles of one kind

and another had been too much for her; that she was dying of them; and

he felt the truth to his heart's core. He felt that she, that delicate,

refined, sensitive woman had been the very last who should have been

treated rudely. You may remember it was observed at the beginning of her

history that she was one unfitted to battle with the world's sharp

storms--it had now proved so. Charlotte Pain would have braved them,

whatever their nature, have weathered them jauntily on a prancing

saddle-horse; Maria had shrunk down, crushed by their weight. _Il y

a_--let me once more repeat it--_il y a des femmes et des femmes_.

There came one with hurried steps up the path; with hurried steps and a

distressed, anxious countenance. Passing Margery in the passage, she

bore on as if no power on earth should stop her, and entered the

sick-chamber.

It was Grace: Mrs. Akeman. This sudden change in the illness of Maria

had certainly come at an inopportune moment: Mrs. Hastings was at a

distance, Grace had gone for the day with her husband some miles into

the country. A messenger was sent to her, and it brought her home.

It brought her home with a self-condemning conscience. Maria

dying!--when Grace had only thought of her as flaunting off to India;

when she had that very day remarked to her husband, as they drove along

the snowy road in his four-wheeled chaise, crammed with architectural

plans, that some people had all the luck of it in this world, and that

Mr. and Mrs. George Godolphin, she supposed, would soon be swaying it in

the Bengal presidency, as they had swayed it in Prior's Ash. Maria

dying! dying of the trouble, the sorrow, the disgrace, the humiliation,

the neglect! dying of a broken heart! It came flashing into Grace

Akeman's mind that she _might_ have taken a different view of her

conduct: have believed in the wrongs of wives, who are bound to their

husbands for worse as well as for better; it came into her mind that she

might have accorded her a little sisterly sympathy instead of reproach.

She came in now, brimming over with repentance: she came in with a sort

of belief that things could not have gone so very far; that there must

be some remedy still, some hope; and that if she, Grace, exerted her

energies to rouse Maria, health and life would come again. Maria had

awakened out of her temporary slumber then, and George was standing with

his arm on the mantel-piece. A half-frown crossed his brow when he saw

Grace enter. He had never liked her; he was conscious that she had not

been kind to Maria, and he deemed her severe manner and sharp voice

scarcely suited to that dying chamber. But she was his wife's sister,

and he advanced to welcome her.

Grace did not see his welcome; would not see it. Perhaps in truth she

was wholly absorbed by the sight which met her view in Maria. Remedy

still?--hope yet? Ah no! death was there, was upon her, and Grace burst

into tears. Maria held out her hand, a smile lighting up her wan

countenance.

"I thought you were not coming to see me, Grace."

"I was out; I went to Hamlet's Wood this morning with Mr. Akeman,"

sobbed Grace. "Whatever is the reason that you have suddenly grown so

ill as this?"

"I have been growing ill a long time," was Maria's answer.

"But there must be hope!" said Grace in her quick way. "Mr. George

Godolphin"--turning to him and dashing away the tears on her cheeks, as

if she would not betray them to _him_--"surely there must be hope! What

do the medical men say?"

"There is no hope, Grace," interposed Maria in her feeble voice. "The

medical men know there is not. Dr. Beale came with Mr. Snow at midday;

but their coming at all is a mere form now."

Grace untied her bonnet and sat down. "I thought," said she, "you were

getting well."

Maria made a slight motion of dissent. "I have not thought it myself;

not really thought it. I hoped it might be so, and the hope prevented my

speaking: but there was always an undercurrent of conviction to the

contrary in my heart."

George looked at her, half-reproachfully. She understood the look, and

answered it.

"I wish now I had told you, George: but I was not sure. And if I had

spoken you would only have laughed at me then in disbelief."

"You speak very calmly, Maria," said Grace with passionate earnestness.

"Have you no regret at leaving us?"

A faint hectic shone suddenly in Maria's cheek. "Regret!" she repeated

with emotion; "my days have been one long regret; one long, wearying

pain. Don't you see it is the pain that has killed me, Grace?"

Grace's temper was sharp: her sense of right and wrong cynically keen:

the Rector had had the same sharp temper in his youth, but he had

learned to control it; Grace had not. She turned her flashing eyes, her

flaming cheeks, on George Godolphin.

"Do you hear?--the pain has killed her. Who brought that pain upon her?

Mr. George Godolphin, I wish you joy of your conscience! I almost seemed

to foresee it--I almost seemed to foresee this," she passionately cried,

"ere ever my sister married you."

"Don't, Grace!" wailed Maria, a faint cry of fear escaping her; a sudden

terror taking possession of her raised face. "George, George!" She held

out her hands yearningly to him, as if she would shield him, or as if

she wanted him to shield her from the sharp words. George crossed over

to her with his protecting presence, and bent to catch her whisper,

praying him for peace.

"You forget your sister's state when you thus speak, Mrs. Akeman," he

gravely said. "Say anything you please to me later; you shall have the

opportunity if you desire it; but in my wife's presence there must be

peace."

Grace flung off the shawl which she had worn, and stood beating the toe

of her foot upon the fender, her throat swelling with the effort to

subdue her emotion. What with her anger in the past, her grief in the

present, she had well-nigh burst into sobs.

"I think I could drink some tea," said Maria. "Could we not have it

together; here; for the last time? You will make it, Grace?"

Poor, weak, timid heart! Perhaps she only so spoke as an incentive to

keep that "peace" for which she tremblingly yearned; which was essential

to her, as to all, in her dying hour. George rang the bell and Margery

came in.

It was done as she seemed to wish. The small round table was drawn to

the fire, and Grace sat at it, making the tea. Maria turned her face and

asked for Meta: Margery answered that she was coming in by-and-by. Very

little was said. George drew a chair near Maria and leaned upon the arm

of the sofa. The tea, so far as she went, was a mockery: George put a

teaspoonful into her mouth, but she with difficulty swallowed it, and

shook her head when he would have given her more. It did not seem to be

much else than a mockery for the others: Grace's tears dropped into

hers, and George suffered his to grow cold and then swallowed it at a

draught, as if it was a relief to get rid of it. Margery was called

again to take the things away, and Maria, who was leaning back on the

sofa with closed eyes, asked again for Meta to come in.

Then Margery had to confess that Miss Meta was not at home to come in.

She had gone out visiting. The facts of the case were these. Lord

Averil, after quitting the house, had returned to it to say a word to

George which he had forgotten: but finding George had gone into his

wife's room, he would not have him disturbed. It was just at the moment

that Margery had carried out Meta, and the young lady was rather restive

at the proceedings, crying loudly. His lordship proposed to carry her

off to Ashlydyat. Margery seized upon the offer. She took down a woollen

shawl and the child's garden-hat that were hanging on the pegs, and

enveloped her in them without ceremony. "They'll do as well as getting

out her best things, my lord, if you won't mind them: and it will be

almost dusk by the time you get to Ashlydyat."

It was quite the same to Lord Averil, whether the young lady was bundled

up as she was now, or decked out in a lace frock and crinoline. He led

her down the path, talking pleasantly; but Meta's breath was caught up

incessantly with sobbing sighs. Her heart was full, imperfect as her

idea of the calamity overshadowing her necessarily was.

Thus it happened that Miss Meta was not at hand when Maria asked for

her. Whether it was from this, or from causes wholly unconnected with

it, in a short time Maria grew restless: restless, as it seemed, both in

body and mind, and it was deemed advisable that she should not sit up

longer.

"Go for Meta while they get me into bed, George," she said to him. "I

want her to be near me."

He went out at once. But he did not immediately turn to Ashlydyat: with

hasty steps he took the road to Mr. Snow's. There had been a yearning on

George Godolphin's mind, ever since he first saw his wife in the

afternoon, to put the anxious question to one or both of the medical

men: "Can nothing be done to prolong her life, even for the shortest

space of time?"

Mr. Snow was out: the surgery boy did not know where: "Paying visits,"

he supposed, and George turned his steps to Dr. Beale's, who lived now

in Prior's Ash, though he used not to live in it. Dr. Beale's house was

ablaze with light, and Dr. Beale was at home, the servant said, but he

had a dinner-party.

How the words seemed to grate on his ear! A dinner-party!--gaiety,

lights, noise, mirth, eating and drinking, when his wife was dying! But

the next moment reflection came to him: the approaching death of a

patient is not wont to cast its influence on a physician's private life.

He demanded to see Dr. Beale in spite of the dinner-party. George

Godolphin forgot recent occurrences, exacting still the deference paid

to him all his life, when Prior's Ash had bowed down to the Godolphins.

He was shown into a room, and Dr. Beale came out to him.

But the doctor, though he would willingly have smoothed matters to him,

could not give him hope. George asked for the truth, and he had it--that

his wife's life now might be counted by hours. He went out and proceeded

towards Ashlydyat, taking the near way down Crosse Street, by the

Bank--the Bank that once was: it would lead him through the dull

Ash-tree Walk with its ghostly story; but what cared George Godolphin?

Did a remembrance of the past come over him as he glanced up at the

Bank's well-known windows?--a remembrance that pricked him with its

sharp sting? He need never have left that house; but for his own

recklessness, folly, wickedness--call it what you will--he might have

been in it still, one of the honoured Godolphins, heir to Ashlydyat, his

wife well and happy by his side. Now!--he went striding on with wide

steps, and he took off his hat and raised his burning brow to the keen

night air. You may leave the house behind you, George Godolphin, and so

put it out of your sight, but you cannot blot out your memory.

Grace had remained with Maria. She was in bed now, but the restlessness

seemed to continue. "I want Meta; bring Meta."

"Dear Maria, your husband has but just gone for her," breathed Grace.

"She will soon be here."

It seemed to satisfy her. She lay still, looking upwards, her breath, or

Mrs. Akeman fancied it, growing shorter. Grace, hot tears blinding her

eyes, bent forward to kiss her wasted cheek.

"Maria, I was very harsh to you," she whispered. "I feel it now. I can

only pray God to forgive me. I loved you always, and when that dreadful

trouble came, I felt angry for your sake. I said unkind things to you

and of you, but in the depth of my heart there lay the pain and the

anger because you suffered. Will _you_ forgive me?"

She raised her feeble hand and laid it lovingly on the cheek of Grace.

"There is nothing to forgive, Grace," she murmured. "What are our poor

little offences one against the other? Think how much Heaven has to

forgive us all. Oh, Grace, I am going to it! I am going away from care."

Grace stood up to dash away her tears; but they came faster and faster.

"I would ask you to let me atone to you, Maria," she sobbed--"I would

ask you to let me welcome Meta to our home. We are not rich, but we have

enough for comfort, and I will try to bring her up a good woman; I will

love her as my own child."

"She goes to Cecil." There was no attempt at thanks in words--Maria was

growing beyond it; nothing but the fresh touch of the hand's loving

pressure. And that relaxed with the next moment and fell upon the bed.

Grace felt somewhat alarmed. She cleared the mist from her eyes and bent

them steadily on Maria's face. It seemed to have changed. "Do you feel

worse?" she softly asked.

Maria opened her lips, but no sound came from them. She attempted to

point with her finger to the door; she then threw her eyes in the same

direction; but why or what she wanted it was impossible to tell. Grace,

her heart beating wildly, flew across the little hall to the kitchen.

"Oh, Margery, I think she is sinking! Come you and see."

Margery hastened in. Her mistress evidently _was_ sinking, and was

conscious of it. The eager, anxious look upon her face and her raised

hand proved that she was wanting something.

"Is it my master?--Is it the child?" cried Margery, bending over her.

"They won't be long, ma'am."

It was Margery's habit to soothe the dying, even if she had to do it at

some little expense of veracity. She knew that her master could not go

to Ashlydyat and be home just yet: she did not know of his visits to the

houses of the doctors: but if she had known it she would equally have

said, "They won't be long."

But the eager look continued on Maria's face, and it became evident to

experienced Margery that her master and Meta were not the anxious point.

Maria's lips moved, and Margery bent her ear.

"Papa! Is it time?"

"It's the Sacrament she's thinking of," whispered Margery to Mrs.

Akeman: "or else that she wants to take leave of him. The Rector was to

come at eight o'clock; he told me so when he called in again this

afternoon. What is to be done, ma'am?"

"And it is only half-past six! We must send to him at once."

Margery seemed in some uncertainty. "Shall you be afraid to stay here

alone, ma'am, if I go?"

"Why! where is Jean?"

Jean, one of the old servants of Ashlydyat, discharged with the rest

when the bankruptcy had come, but now in service there again under Lord

and Lady Averil, had been with Margery all day. She had now been sent

out by the latter for certain errands wanted in the town.

A tremor came over Mrs. Akeman at Margery's question, as to whether she

would be afraid to stay there alone. To one not accustomed to it, it

does require peculiar courage to remain with the dying. But Grace could

call up a brave spirit at will, and she no longer hesitated, when she

saw the continued eager look on her sister's face.

"Make haste, Margery. I shall not mind. Mrs. James is in the house, and

I can call her if I see a necessity for doing so. Margery!"--following

her outside the door to whisper it--"do you see that strange look in her

face? Is it _death_?"

She was trembling all over, as she spoke, in nervous trepidation. It was

to be a memorable night, that, what with one emotion and another, in the

memory of Grace Akeman. Margery's answer was characteristic. "It does

look like it, ma'am; but I have seen them like this, and then rally

again. Anyhow, it can't be far off. Mrs. Akeman, it seems to me that all

the good ones are leaving the world. First Mr. Godolphin, and now her!"

Margery had scarcely been gone five minutes when Lord Averil came back

with Meta. They had not met George. It was not likely that they had,

seeing that he was going to Ashlydyat by a different route. In point of

fact, at that moment George was about turning into Crosse Street,

passing his old house with those enlivening reminiscences of his. Grace

explained why she was alone, and Lord Averil took off his hat and

great-coat to remain.

Maria asked for him. He went up to the bed and she smiled at him and

moved her hand. Lord Averil took it between his, the tears gathering in

his earnest eyes as he saw the change in her.

"She has been as happy as possible with us all the evening," he gently

said, alluding to the child. "We will do all we can for her always."

"Tell Cecil--to bring--her up--for God."

She must have revived a little or she could not have spoken the words.

By-and-by, Margery was heard to enter, panting with the speed she had

made, and Mr. Hastings was not far behind.

As the clergyman approached the gate, he saw a man leaning over it, in

the light cast by the white snow of the winter's night. It was David

Jekyl.

"I thought I'd ask how the young missis was, sir, as I went home, but it

might be disturbing of 'em to go right up to the door," he said, drawing

back to make way for the Rector. "It were said in the town, as I come

along, that she was worse."

"Yes, David, she is worse; as ill as she can be. I have just had a

message."

David twirled his grey felt hat awkwardly round on his hand, stroking

its napless surface with his other arm. He did not raise his eyes as he

spoke to the Rector.

"Might be, you'd just say a word to her about that money, sir, asking of

her not to let it worry her mind. It is said as them things _have_

worried her more nor need be. If you could say a word for us, sir, that

we don't think of it any more, it might comfort her like."

"The trouble for her has passed, David: to say this to her might bring

her thoughts back to it. Heaven is opening to her, earth is closing.

Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

The Reverend Mr. Hastings continued his way slowly up the path, whence

the snow had been swept away. Illness was upon him, and he could not

walk quickly. It was a dull night, and yet there was that peculiar light

in the atmosphere, often seen when the earth is covered with snow. The

door was held open, awaiting him; and the minister uncovered his head,

and stepped in with his solemn greeting:

"PEACE BE TO THIS HOUSE AND TO ALL THAT DWELL IN IT!"

There could be no waiting for George Godolphin: the spirit might be on

its wing. They gathered in the room, Grace, Margery, and Viscount

Averil: and, the stillness broken only by the hushed sobs of Grace, Mr.

Hastings administered the last rite of our religion to his dying child.

CHAPTER VII.

AT REST.

Breathe softly, tread gently, for it is the chamber of the dying! The

spirit is indeed on its wing, hovering on the very isthmus which

separates time from eternity.

A small shaded lamp throws its subdued light upon the room, blending

with the ruddier hue cast by the fire. The white, wan face of Maria

Godolphin lies quietly on the not whiter pillow; her breath comes in

short gasps, and may be heard at a distance; otherwise she is calm and

still; the sweet soft eyes are open yet, and the world and its

interests, so far as cognizance goes, has not closed. Meta, in her black

frock, dressed as she had been in the day, is lying on the bed by her

mother's side: one weak arm is thrown round the child, as if she could

not part with her greatest earthly treasure; and George is sitting in a

chair on the other side the bed, his elbow on the pillow, his face

turned to catch every shade that may appear on that fading one, so soon

to be lost to him for ever.

The silence was interrupted by the striking of the house-clock: twelve:

and its strokes came through the doors of the room with preternatural

loudness in the hushed stillness of midnight. Margery glided in. Margery

and Jean were keeping watch over the fire in the next room, the

sitting-room, ready for any services required of them: and they knew

that services for the dead as well as for the living might be wanted

that night.

The doctors had paid a last visit, superfluous as they knew it to be.

Dr. Beale had come with the departure of his dinner guests; Mr. Snow

earlier in the evening: she was dying, they said, calmly and peacefully:

and those friends who had wished to take their farewell had taken it ere

they left the house, leaving her, as she wished, alone with her husband.

Margery came in with a noiseless step. If Margery had come in once upon

the same errand which brought her now, she had come in ten times. Maria

turned her eyes towards her.

"She would be a sight better in bed. It has gone midnight. It can't do

any good, her lying there."

Meta partly stirred her golden curls as she moved nearer to her mother,

and Maria's feeble hand tightened its clasp on the little one. George

nodded; and Margery went back rather in dudgeon, and gave the fire in

the next room a fierce poke.

"It's not _well_ to let her see a mortal die. Just you hold your tongue,

Jean, about mother and child! Don't I know it's parting them as well as

you?--but the parting _must_ come, and before another hour is over; and

I say it would be better to bring her away now. Master has no more sense

than a calf, or he'd send her. Not he! He just gave me one of his looks,

as much as to say, 'You be off again; she isn't coming.'"

"How does she seem now?" asked Jean, a tall woman, with a thin, straight

figure, and an old-fashioned, large white cap.

"I saw no change. There won't be any till the minute comes."

On the table was a tray of cups and saucers. Margery went up to them and

drew two from the rest. "We may as well have a drop o' tea now," she

said, taking up a small black tea-pot that was standing on the hob--for

the grate was old-fashioned. "Shall I cut you a bit of bread and butter,

Jean?"

"No, thank you. I couldn't eat it."

They sat on either side the table, the tea-cups between them. Margery

put the tea-pot back on the hob. Jean stirred her tea noiselessly.

"I have known those, as far gone as she, rally for hours," Jean

remarked, in a half-whisper.

Margery shook her head. "_She_ won't rally. It will be only the working

out of my dream. I dreamt last night----"

"Don't get talking of dreams now, Margery," interrupted Jean, with a

shiver. "I never like to bring dreams up when the dead are about."

Margery cast a resentful glance at her. "Jean, woman, if you have

laughed at my dreams once you have laughed at them a hundred times when

we lived together at Ashlydyat, ridiculing and saying you never could

believe in such things. You know you have."

"No more I don't believe in 'em," said Jane, taking little sips of her

hot tea. "But it's not a pleasant subject for to-night. The child is to

come to the old home, they say, to be brought up by my lady."

Margery grunted.

"Shall we have you at Ashlydyat again, Margery?"

"Now don't you bother your head about me, Jean, woman. Is it a time to

cast one's thoughts about and lay out plans? Let the future take care of

itself."

Jean remained silent after this rebuff and attended to her tea, which

she could not get sufficiently cool to drink comfortably. She had been

an inferior servant to Margery at Ashlydyat, in a measure under her

control; and she still deferred to her in manner. Presently she began

again.

"It's a curious complaint that your mistress has died of, Margery.

Leastways it has a curious name. I made bold to ask Dr. Beale to-night

what it was, when I went to open the gate for him, and he called

it--what was it?--atrophy. Atrophy: that was it. They could not at all

class the disease of which Mrs. George Godolphin had died, he said, and

were content to call it atrophy for want of a better name. I took leave

to say that I didn't understand the word, and he explained that it meant

a gradual wasting away of the system without apparent cause."

Margery did not reply for the moment: she was swelling with displeasure.

"Margery, what _is_ atrophy, for I don't understand it a bit?"

"It's rubbish," flashed Margery--"as applied to my poor dear mistress.

She has died of the trouble--that she couldn't speak of--that has eaten

into her heart and cankered there--and broke it at the last. Atrophy!

but those doctors must put a name to everything. Jean, woman, I have

been with her all through it, and I tell you that it's the _trouble_

that has killed her. She has had it on all sides, has felt it in more

ways than the world gives her credit for. She never opened her lips to

me about a thing--and perhaps it had been better if she had--but I have

my eyes in my head, and I could see what it was doing for her. As I lay

down in my clothes on this very sofa last night, for it wasn't up to my

bed I went, with her so ill, I couldn't help thinking to myself, that if

she could but have broken the ice and talked of her sorrows they might

have worn off in time. It is burying the grief within people's own

breasts that kills them."

Jean was silent. Margery began turning the grounds in her empty tea-cup

round and round, staring dreamily at the forms they assumed.

"Hark!" cried Jean.

A sound was heard in the next room. Margery started from her chair and

softly opened the door. But it was only her master, who had gone round

the bed and was leaning over Meta. Margery closed the door again.

George had come to the conclusion that the child would be best in bed.

Meta was lying perfectly still, looking earnestly at her mamma's face,

so soon, so soon to be lost to her. He drew the hair from her brow as he

spoke.

"You will be very tired, Meta. I think you must go to bed."

For answer Meta broke into a passionate storm of sobs. They roused Maria

from her passive silence.

"Meta--darling," came forth the isolated words in the difficulty of her

laboured breath--"I am going away, but you will come to me. You will be

sure to come to me, for God has promised. I seem to have had the promise

given to me, to hold it, now, and I shall carry it away with me. I am

going to heaven. When the blind was drawn up yesterday morning and I saw

the snow, it made me shiver, but I said there will be no snow in heaven.

Meta, there will be only spring there; no sultry heat of summer, no keen

winter's cold. Oh, my child! try to come to me, try always! I shall keep

a place for you."

The minutes went on: the spirit fleeting, George watching with his

aching heart. Soon she spoke again.

"Has it struck twelve?"

"Ten minutes ago."

"Then it is my birthday. I am twenty-eight to-day. It is young to die!"

Young to die! Yes, it was young to die: but there are some who can count

time by sorrow, not by years.

"Don't grieve, George. It will pass so very soon, and you will come to

me. Clad in our white robes, we shall rise at the Last Day to eternal

life, and be together for ever and for ever."

The tears were dropping from his eyes. The grief of the present, the

anguish of the parting, the remorse for the irrevocable past, in which

he might have cherished her more tenderly had he foreseen this, and did

not, were all too present to him. He laid his face on hers with a bitter

cry.

"Forgive me before you go! Oh, my darling, forgive me all!"

There was no answering response, nothing but the feeble pressure of her

hand as it held him there, and he started up to look at her. Ah no:

there could never more be any response from those fading lips, never

more, never more.

Had the hour come? George Godolphin's heart beat quicker, and he wildly

kissed her with passionate kisses--as if that would keep within her the

life that was ebbing. The loving eyes gazed at him still--it was he who

had the last lingering look, not Meta.

But she was not to die just then: life was longer in finally departing.

George--greedily watching her every breath, praying (who knows?) wild

and unavailing prayers to Heaven that even yet a miracle might be

wrought and she spared to him--supported her head on his arm. And the

minutes went on and on.

Meta was very still. Her sobs had first subsided into a sudden catching

of the breath now and then, but that was no longer heard. Maria moved

uneasily, or strove to move, and looked up at George in distress; dying

though she was, almost past feeling, the weight of the child's head had

grown heavy on her side. He understood and went round to move Meta.

She had fallen asleep. Weary with the hour, the excitement, the still

watching, the sobs, sleep had stolen unconsciously upon her: her wet

eyelashes were closed, her breathing was regular, her hot cheeks were

crimson. "Shall I take her to Margery?" he whispered.

Maria seemed to look approval, but her eyes followed the child as George

raised her in his arms. It was impossible to mistake their yearning

wish.

He carried the child round, he gently held her sleeping face to that of

his wife, and the dying mother pressed her last feeble kiss upon the

unanswering and unconscious lips. Then he took her and gave her to

Margery.

The tears were in Maria's eyes when he returned to her, and he bent his

face to catch the words that were evidently striving to be spoken.

"Love her always, George."

"Oh, my darling, there is no need to tell it me!"

The answer seemed to have burst from him in anguish. There is no doubt

that those few last hours had been of the bitterest anguish to George

Godolphin: he had never gone through such before--he never would go

through such again. It is well, it is well that these moments can come

but once in a lifetime.

He hung over her, suppressing his emotion as he best could for her sake;

he wiped the death-dews from her brow, fast gathering there. Her eyes

never moved from him, her fingers to the last sought to entwine

themselves with his. But soon the loving expression of those eyes faded

into unconsciousness: they were open still, looking, as it may be, afar

off: the recognition of him, her husband, the recollection of earthly

things had passed away.

Suddenly there was a movement of the lips, a renewal in a faint degree

of strength and energy; and George strove to catch the words. Her voice

was dreamy; her eyes looked dreamily at him whom she would never more

recognize until they should both have put on immortality.

"And the city has no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in

it: for the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb is the light----"

Even as she was speaking, the last words of her voice dropped, and was

still. There was no sigh, there was no struggle; had Meta been looking

on, the child's pulses would not have been stirred. Very, very gently

had the spirit taken its flight.

George Godolphin let his head fall upon the pillow beside her. In his

overwhelming grief for her? or in repentant prayer for himself? He alone

knew. Let us leave it with him!

Once more, once more--I cannot help it, if you blame me for relating

these things--the death-knell of All Souls' boomed out over Prior's Ash.

People were rising in the morning when it struck upon their ear, and

they held their breath to listen: three times _two_, and then the quick

sharp strokes rang for the recently departed. Then it was for her who

was known the previous night to be at the point of death! and they went

out of their houses in the bleak winter's morning, and said to each

other, as they took down their shutters, that poor Mrs. George Godolphin

had really gone at last.

_Poor_ Mrs. George Godolphin! Ay, they could speak of her considerately,

kindly, regretfully now, but did they remember how they had once spoken

of her? She had gone to the grave with her pain and sorrow--she had gone

with the remembrance of their severe judgment, their harsh words, which

had eaten into her too-sensitive heart; she had gone away from them, to

be judged by One who would be more merciful than they had been.

Oh, if we could but be less harsh in judging our fellow-pilgrims! I have

told you no idle tale, no false story conjured up by a plausible

imagination. Prior's Ash lamented her in a startled sort of manner:

their consciences pricked them sorely; and they would have given

something to recall her back to life, now it was too late.

They stared at each other, shutters in hand, stunned as it were, with

blank faces and repentant hearts. Somehow they had never believed she

would really die, even the day before, when it had been talked of as all

too probable, they had not fully believed it: she was young and

beautiful, and it is not common for such to go. They recalled her in the

several stages of her life: their Rector's daughter, the pretty child

who had been born and reared among them, the graceful girl who had given

her love to George Godolphin, the most attractive man in Prior's Ash;

the faithful, modest wife, against whose fair fame never a breath of

scandal had dared to come. It was all over now: she and her broken

heart, her wrongs and her sorrows had been taken from their tender

mercies to a land where neither wrongs nor sorrows can penetrate--where

the hearts broken here by unkindness are made whole.

When Meta woke in the morning it was considerably beyond her usual hour,

the result probably of her late vigil. Jean was in the room, not

Margery. A moment's surprised stare, and then recollection flashed over

her. She darted out of bed, her flushed cheeks and her bright eyes

raised to Jean.

"I want mamma."

"Yes, dear," said Jean evasively. "I'll dress you, and then you shall go

down."

"Where's Margery?"

"She has just stepped out on an errand."

"Is mamma in her room? Is she in her bed?"

"We'll go and see presently, dear," repeated Jean with the same evasion.

The worst way that any one can take is to attempt to deceive a

thoughtful, sensitive child, whose fears may be already awakened: it is

certain to defeat its own ends. Meta knew as well as Jean did that she

was being purposely deceived, that there was something to tell which was

not being told. She had no very defined idea of death, but a dread came

over Meta that her mamma was in some manner gone out of the house, that

she should never see her again: she backed from Jean's hand, dashed the

door open, and flew down the stairs. Jean flew after her, crying and

calling.

The noise surprised George Godolphin. He was in the parlour at the

breakfast-table; sitting at the meal but not touching it. The

consternation of Prior's Ash was great, but that was as nothing in

comparison with his. George Godolphin was as a man bewildered. He could

not realize the fact. Only four and twenty hours since he had received

intimation of the danger, and now she was--there. He could not realize

it. Though all yesterday afternoon, since his arrival, he had known

there was no hope--though he had seen her die--though he had passed the

hours since, lamenting her as much as he could do so in his first

stunned state, yet he could not realize it. He was not casting much

blame to himself: he was thinking how circumstances had worked against

him and against Maria. His mind was yet in a chaos, and it was from this

confused state that the noise outside disturbed him. Opening the door,

the sight came full upon his view. The child flying down in her white

night-dress, her naked feet scarcely touching the stairs, her eyes wild,

her hot cheeks flaming, her golden hair entangled as she had slept.

"I want mamma," she cried, literally springing into his arms, as if for

refuge. "Papa, I want mamma."

She burst into a storm of sobs distressing to hear; she clung to him,

her little arms, her whole frame trembling. George, half unmanned, sat

down before the fire, and pressed her to him in his strong arms.

"Bring a shawl," he said to Jean.

A warm grey shawl of chenille which Maria had often lately worn upon her

shoulders was found by Jean, and George wrapped it round Meta as she lay

in his arms, and he kept her there. Had Margery been present, she would

probably have taken the young lady away by force, and dressed her, with

a reprimand: but there was only Jean: and George had it all his own way.

He tried to comfort the grieved spirit; the little sobbing bosom that

beat against his; but his efforts seemed useless, and the child's cry

never ceased.

"I want mamma; I want to see mamma."

"Hush, Meta! Mamma"--George had to pause, himself--"mamma's gone.

She----"

The words confirmed all her fears, and she strove to get off his lap in

her excitement, interrupting his words. "Let me go and see her, papa! Is

she in the grave with Uncle Thomas? Oh, let me go and see it! Grandpapa

will show it to me."

How long it took to soothe her even to comparative calmness, George

scarcely knew. He learnt more of Meta's true nature in that one

interview than he had learnt in all her life before: and he saw that he

must, in that solemn hour, speak to her as he would to a girl of twice

her years.

"Mamma's gone to heaven, child; she is gone to be an angel with the

great God. She would have stayed with us if she could, Meta, but death

came and took her. She kissed you; she kissed you, Meta, with her last

breath. You were fast asleep: you fell asleep by her side, and I held

you to mamma for her last kiss, and soon after that she died."

Meta had kept still, listening: but now the sobs broke out again.

"Why didn't they wake me and let me see her? why did they take her away

first? Oh, papa, though she is dead, I want to see her; I want to see

mamma."

He felt inclined to take her into the room. Maria was looking very much

like herself; far more so than she had looked in the last days of life:

there was nothing ghastly, nothing repulsive, as is too often the case

with the dead; the sweet face of life looked scarcely less sweet now.

"Mamma _that was_ is there still, Meta," he said, indicating the next

room. "The spirit is gone to heaven; you know that: the body, that which

you used to call mamma, will be here yet a little while, and then it

will be laid by Uncle Thomas, to wait for the resurrection of the Last

Day. Meta, if I should live to come home from India; that is, if I am in

my native land when my time comes to die, they will lay me beside her--"

He stopped abruptly. Meta had lifted her head and was looking at him

with a wild, questioning expression; as if she could not at first

understand or believe his words. "Mamma is there?"

"Yes. But she is dead now, Meta; she is not living."

"Oh, take me to her! Papa, take me to her!"

"Listen, Meta. Mamma is changed, she looks cold and white, and her eyes

are shut, and she does not stir. I would take you in: but I fear--I

don't know whether you would like to look at her."

But there might be no denial now that the hope had been given; the child

would have broken her heart over it. George Godolphin rose; he pressed

the little head upon his shoulder, and carried her to the door, the

shawl well wound round her body, her warm feet hanging down. Once in the

room, he laid his hand upon the golden curls, to insure that the face

was not raised until he saw fit that it should be, and bore her straight

to the head of the bed. Then, holding her in his arms very tightly that

she might feel sensibly his protection, he suffered her to look full

upon the white face lying there.

One glance, and Meta turned and buried her head upon him; he could feel

her trembling; and he began to question his own wisdom in bringing her

in. Another minute, and she looked back and took a longer gaze.

"That's not mamma," she said, bursting into tears.

George sat down on a chair close by, and laid her wet cheek against his,

and hid his eyes amidst her curls. His emotion had spent itself in the

long night, and he thought he could control it now.

"That is mamma, Meta; your mother and my dear wife. It is all that is

left of her. Oh, Meta! if we had only known earlier that she was going

to die!"

"It does not look like mamma."

"The moment death comes, the change begins. It has begun in mamma. Do

you understand me, Meta? In a few days I shall hear read over her by

your grandpapa----" George stopped: it suddenly occurred to him that the

Reverend Mr. Hastings would not officiate this time; and he amended his

sentence. "I shall hear read over her the words she has I know often

read to you; how the corruptible body must die, and be buried in the

earth as a grain of wheat is, ere it can be changed and put on

immortality."

"Will she never come again?" sobbed Meta.

"Never here, never again. We shall go to her."

Meta sobbed on. "I want mamma! I want mamma, who talked to me and nursed

me. Mamma loved us."

"Yes, she loved us," he said, his heart wrung with the recollection of

the past: "we shall never find any one else to love us as she loved.

Meta, child, listen! Mamma lives still; she is looking down from heaven

now, and sees and hears us; she loves us, and will love us for ever. And

when our turn shall come to die, I hope--I hope--we shall have learnt

all that she has learnt, so that God may take us to her."

It was of no use prolonging the scene: George still questioned his

judgment in allowing Meta to enter upon it. But as he rose to carry her

away, the child turned her head with a sharp eager motion to take a last

look. A last look at the still form, the dead face of her who yesterday

only had been as they were.

Margery had that instant come in, and was standing in her bonnet in the

sitting-room. To describe her face of surprised consternation when she

saw Meta carried out of the chamber, would take time and trouble. "You

can dress her, Margery," George said, giving the child into her arms.

But for his subdued tones, and the evident emotion which lay upon him

all too palpably in spite of his efforts to suppress it, Margery might

have given her private opinion of the existing state of things. As it

was, she confined her anger to dumb-show. Jerking Meta to her, with a

half fond, half fierce gesture, she lifted her hand in dismay at sight

of the naked feet, turned her own gown up, and flung it over them.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SAD PARTING.

Again another funeral in All Souls' Church, another opening of the vault

of the Godolphins! But it was not All Souls' Rector to officiate this

time; he stood at the grave with George. Isaac Hastings had come down

from London, Harry had come from his tutorship; Lord Averil was again

there, and Mr. Crosse had asked to attend. Prior's Ash looked out on the

funeral with regretful eyes, saying one to another, what a sad thing it

was for her, only twenty-eight, to die.

George Godolphin, contriving to maintain an outward calmness, turned

away when it was over. Not yet to the mourning-coach that waited for

him, but through the little gate leading to the Rectory. He was about to

leave Prior's Ash for good that night, and common courtesy demanded that

he should say a word of farewell to Mrs. Hastings.

In the darkened drawing-room with Grace and Rose, in their new mourning

attire, sat Mrs. Hastings: George Godolphin half started back as they

rose to greet him. He did not stay to sit: he stood by the fireplace,

his hat in his hand, its flowing crape almost touching the ground.

"I will say good-bye to you, now, Mrs. Hastings."

"You really leave to-night?"

"By the seven o'clock train. Will you permit me to express my hope that

a brighter time may yet dawn for you; to assure you that no effort on my

part shall be spared to conduce to it?"

He spoke in a low, quiet, meaning tone, and he held her hand between

his. Mrs. Hastings could not misunderstand him--that he was hinting at a

hope of reimbursing somewhat of their pecuniary loss.

"Thank you for your good wishes," she said, keeping down the tears. "You

will allow me--you will speak to Lady Averil to allow me to have the

child here for a day sometimes?"

"Need you ask it?" he answered, a generous warmth in his tone. "Cecil, I

am quite sure, recognizes your right in the child at least in an equal

degree with her own, and is glad to recognize it. Fare you well; fare

you well, dear Mrs. Hastings."

He went out, shaking hands with Grace and Rose as he passed, thinking

how much he had always liked Mrs. Hastings, with her courteous manners

and gentle voice, so like those of his lost wife. The Rector met him in

the passage, and George held out his hand.

"I shall not see you again, sir. I leave to-night."

The Rector took the hand. "I wish you a safe voyage!" he said. "I hope

things will be more prosperous with you in India than they have been

latterly here!"

"We have all need to wish that," was George's answer. "Mr. Hastings,

promises from me might be regarded as valueless, but this much I wish to

say ere we part: that I carry the weight of my debt to you about me, and

I will lessen it should it be in my power. You will"--dropping his

voice--"you will see that the inscription is properly placed on the

tombstone?"

"I will. Have you given orders for it?"

"Oh yes. Farewell, sir. Farewell, Harry," he added, as the two sons came

in. "Isaac, I shall see you in London."

He passed swiftly out to the mourning-coach, and was driven home. Above

everything on earth, George hated this leave-taking: but there were two

or three to whom it had to be spoken.

Not until dusk did he go up to Ashlydyat. He called in at Lady

Godolphin's Folly as he passed it: she was his father's widow, and Bessy

was there. My lady was very cool. My lady told him that it was his place

to give the refusal of Meta to her: and she should never forgive the

slight. From the very moment she heard that Maria's life was in danger,

she made up her mind to break through her rules of keeping children at a

distance, and to take the child. She should have reared her in every

luxury as Miss Godolphin of Ashlydyat, and have left her a handsome

fortune: as it was, she washed her hands of her. George thanked her for

her good intention as a matter of course; but his heart leaped within

him at the thought that Meta was safe and secure with Cecil: he would

have taken her and Margery out to make acquaintance with the elephants,

rather than have left Meta to Lady Godolphin.

"She'll get over the smart, George," whispered Bessy, as she came out to

bid him God-speed. "I shall be having the child here sometimes, you

know. My lady's all talk: she never cherishes resentment long."

He entered the old home, Ashlydyat, and was left alone with Meta at his

own request. She was in the deepest black: crape tucks on her short

frock; not a bit of white to be seen about her, except her socks and the

tips of her drawers; and Cecil had bought her a jet necklace of round

beads, with a little black cross hanging from it on her neck. George sat

down and took her on his knee. What with the drawn blinds and the

growing twilight, the room was almost dark, and he had to look closely

at the little face turned to him. She was very quiet, rather pale, as if

she had grieved a good deal in the last few days.

"Meta," he began, and then he stopped to clear his husky voice--"Meta, I

am going away."

She made no answer. She buried her face upon him and began to cry

softly. It was no news to her, for Cecil had talked to her the previous

night. But she clasped her arms tightly round him as if she could not

let him go, and began to tremble.

"Meta!--my child!"

"I want mamma!" burst from the little full heart. "I want mamma to be

with me again. Is she gone away for ever? Is she put down in the grave

with Uncle Thomas? Oh, papa! I want to see her!"

A moment's struggle with himself, and then George Godolphin gave way to

the emotion which he had so successfully restrained in the churchyard.

They sobbed together, the father and child: her face against his, the

sobs bursting freely from his bosom. He let them come; loud, passionate,

bitter sobs; unchecked, unsubdued. Do not despise him for it! they are

not the worst men who can thus give way to the vehemence of our common

nature.

It spent itself after a time; such emotion must spend itself; but it

could not wholly pass yet. Meta was the first to speak: the same vain

wish breaking from her, the sane cry.

"I want mamma! Why did she go away for ever?"

"Not for ever, Meta. Only for a time. Oh, child, we shall go to her: we

shall go to her in a little while. Mamma's gone to be an angel; to keep

a place for us in heaven."

"How long will it be?"

"Not a moment of our lives but it will draw nearer and nearer. Meta, it

may be well for us that those we love should go on first, or we might

never care to go thither ourselves."

She lay more quietly. George laid his hand upon her head, unconsciously

playing with her golden hair, his tears dropping on it.

"You must think of mamma always, Meta. Think that she is looking down at

you, on all you do, and try and please her. She was very good: and you

must be good, making ready to go to her."

A renewed burst of sobs came from the child. George waited, and then

resumed.

"When I come back--if I live to come back; or when you come to me in

India; at any rate when I see you again, Meta, you will probably be

grown up; no longer a child, but a young lady. If I shall only find you

like mamma was in all things, I shall be happy. Do you understand,

darling?"

"Yes," she sobbed.

"Good, and gentle, and kind, and lady-like,--and remembering always that

there's another world, and that mamma has gone on to it. I should like

to have kept you with me, Meta, but it cannot be: I must go out alone.

You will not quite forget me, will you?"

She put up her hand and her face to his, and moaned in her pain. George

laid his aching brow on hers. He knew that it might be the last time

they should meet on earth.

"I shall write to you by every mail, Meta, and you must write to me. You

can put great capital letters together now, and that will do to begin

with. And," his voice faltered, "when you walk by mamma's grave on

Sundays--and see her name there--you will remember her--and me. You will

think how we are separated: mamma in heaven; I, in a far-off land; you

here: but you know the separation will not be for ever, and each week

will bring us nearer to its close--its close in some way. If--if we

never meet again on earth, Meta----"

"Oh don't, papa! I want you to come back to me."

He choked down his emotion. He took the little face in his hands and

kissed it fervently: in that moment, in his wrung feelings, he almost

wished he had no beloved child to abandon.

"You must be called by your own name now. I should wish it. Meta was all

very well," he continued, half to himself, "when _she_ was here; that

the names should not interfere with each other. Be a good child, my

darling. Be very obedient to Aunt Cecil, as you used to be to mamma."

"Aunt Cecil is not mamma," said Meta, her little heart swelling.

"No, my darling, but she will be to you as mamma, and she and Lord

Averil will love you very much. I wish--I wish I could have kept you

with me, Meta!"

She wished it also. If ever a child knew what an aching heart was, she

knew it then.

"And now I must go," he added--for indeed he did not care to prolong the

pain. "I shall write to you from London, Meta, and I shall write you

quite a packet when I am on board ship. You must get on well with your

writing, so as to be able soon to read my letters yourself. Farewell,

farewell, my darling child!"

How long she clung to him; how long he kept her clinging, he gave no

heed. When the emotion on both sides was spent, he took her by the right

hand and led her to the next room. Lady Averil came forward.

"Cecil," he said, his voice quiet and subdued, "she must be called Maria

now--in remembrance of her mother."

"Yes," said Cecil eagerly. "We should all like it. Sit down, George.

Lord Averil has stepped out somewhere, but he will not be long."

"I cannot stay. I shall see him outside, I dare say. If not, he will

come to the station. Will you say to him----"

A low burst of tears from the child interrupted the sentence. George, in

speaking to Cecil, had loosed her hand, and she laid her head down on a

sofa to cry. He took her up in his arms, and she clung to him tightly:

it was only the old scene over again, and George felt that they were not

alone now. He imprinted a last kiss upon her face, and gave her to his

sister.

"She had better be taken away, Cecil."

Lady Averil, with many loving words, carried her outside the door,

sobbing as she was, and called to her maid. "Be very kind to her," she

whispered. "It is a sad parting. And--Harriet--henceforth she is to be

called by her proper name--Maria."

"She will get over it in a day or two, George," said Lady Averil,

returning.

"Yes, I know that," he answered, his face turned from Cecil. "Cherish

the remembrance of her mother within her as much as you possibly can,

Cecil: I should wish her to grow up like Maria."

"If you would only stay a last hour with us!"

"I can't; I can't: it is best that I should go. I do not know what the

future may bring forth," he lingered to say, "Whether I shall come

home--or live to come home, or she, when she is older, come out to me:

it is all uncertain."

"Were I you, George, I would not indulge the thought of the latter. She

will be better here--as it seems to me."

"Yes--there's no doubt of it. But the separation is a cruel one.

However--the future must be left. God bless you, Cecil! and thank you

ever for your kindness."

The tears rolled down her cheeks as he bent to kiss her. "George," she

whispered timidly--"if I might only ask you one question."

"Ask me anything."

"Is--have you any intention--shall you be likely to think of--of

replacing Maria by Charlotte Pain--of making her your wife?"

"Replacing _Maria by her_!" he echoed, his face flushing. "Heaven

forgive you for thinking it!"

The question cured George's present emotion more effectually than

anything else could have done. But his haughty anger against Cecil was

unreasonable, and he felt that it was so.

"Forgive me, my dear: but it sounded so like an insult to my dear wife.

Be easy: _she_ will never replace Maria."

In the porch, as George went out, he met Lord Averil hastening in. Lord

Averil would have put his arm within George's to walk with him through

the grounds, but George drew back.

"No, not to-night: let me go alone. I am not fit for companionship.

Good-night. Good-bye," he added, his voice hoarse. "I thought to say a

word of gratitude to you, for the past, for the present, but I cannot.

If I live----"

"Don't say 'if,' George: go away with a good heart, and take my best

wishes with you. A new land and a new life! you may yet live down the

past."

Their hands lingered together in a firm pressure, and George turned away

from Ashlydyat for the last time. Ashlydyat that might have been his.

CHAPTER IX.

A SAFE VOYAGE TO HIM!

Was it ever your fate or fortune to be on board an Indian vessel when it

was just about to start? If so, there's no doubt you retain a more vivid

than agreeable reminiscence of the reigning confusion. Passengers coming

on at the last moment and going frantic over their luggage or the

discovered inconveniences of their cabins; cords and ropes creaking and

coiling; sailors shouting, officers commanding; boxes shooting up from

the boats to the deck, and to your feet, only in turn to be shot down

again to the hold!--it is Bedlam gone frantic, and nothing less.

On a fine ship, anchored off Gravesend, this scene was taking place on a

crisp day early in January. A bright, inspiriting, sunny day, giving

earnest--if there's anything in the popular belief--of a bright voyage.

One gentleman stood aloof from the general _mêlée_. He had been on board

half an hour or more; had seen to his cabin, his berth, his baggage--as

much of the latter as he could see to; and now stood alone watching the

turmoil. Others, passengers, had come on board in groups, surrounded by

hosts of friends; he came alone: a tall and very distinguished-looking

man, attired in the deepest mourning, with a grey plaid crossed on his

shoulder.

As if jealous that the ship should have all the confusion to itself, the

shore was getting up a little on its own account. Amidst the drays, the

trucks, the carts: amidst the cases and packages, which were heaped on

the bank, not all, it was to be hoped, for that ship, or she would never

get off to-day; amidst the numerous crowds of living beings, idlers and

workers, that such a scene brings together, there came something into

the very throng of them, scattering everything that could be scattered

right and left.

An exceedingly remarkable carriage, of the style that may be called

"dashing," especially if height be any criterion, its wheels red and

green, its horses of high mettle, and a couple of fierce dogs barking

and leaping round it. The scattered people looked up in astonishment to

see a lady guiding those horses, and deemed at first that the sun,

shining right into their eyes, had deceived them: pawing, snorting,

prancing, fiery animals; which, far from being spent by their ten or

twelve miles journey, looked as if they were eager to start upon

another. The lady managed them admirably. A very handsome lady was she,

of the same style as the carriage; dashing, with jet-black eyes, large

and free, and a scarlet feather in her hat that might have been found

nearly thirty-six inches long, had it been measured from top to tip. A

quiet little gentleman, slight and fair, sat beside her, and a groom

lounged grandly with folded arms in the back seat. She, on her high

cushions, was almost a yard above either of them: the little gentleman

in fact was completely eclipsed: and she held the reins in her white

gauntleted hands and played gallantly with the whip, perfectly at ease,

conscious that she was those foaming steeds' master. Suddenly, without

the least warning, she drew them back on their haunches.

"There she is! in the middle of the stream. Can't you read it, Dolf?

_The Indus._ How stupid of the people to tell us she was lying lower

down!"

Jumping from the carriage without waiting to be assisted, she left the

groom in charge and made her way to the pier, condescendingly taking the

gentleman's arm as she hastened up it, and hissing off the dogs as a

hint that they were to remain behind. I am sure you cannot need an

introduction to either of these people, but you shall have it for all

that; Mr and Mrs. Rodolf Pain.

She, Charlotte, did all the acting, and the talking too. Her husband had

always been retiring in manner, as you may remember; and he had grown

far more retiring than he used to be. Charlotte bargained for a boat:

and they were pulled to the ship's side.

For a few moments they had to take their chance; they made only two more

in the general confusion; but Charlotte seized upon a handsome young man

with a gold band upon his cap, who was shouting out orders.

"Can you tell me whether Mr. George Godolphin has come on board yet?"

"Mr. George Godolphin," repeated the young officer, cutting short some

directions midway, and looking half bewildered in the general disorder.

"Bound for Calcutta," explained Charlotte.

"I can inquire. Tymms," beckoning to him one of the middies, "go and ask

the steward whether a gentleman of the name of Godolphin has come down."

But there was no need of further search. Charlotte's restless eyes had

caught sight of George--the solitary passenger in mourning whom you saw

standing alone. She and Mr. Pain made the best of their way to him, over

the impediments blocking up the deck.

He did not see their approach. He was leaning over the vessel on the

side opposite to that facing the shore, and Charlotte gave him a smart

rap on the arm with her gauntlet-glove.

"Now, Mr. George Godolphin! what do you say for your manners!"

He turned quickly, his face flushing slightly with surprise when he saw

them standing there: and he shook hands with them both.

"I ask what you have to say for your manners, Mr. George? The very idea

of your leaving England for good, and never calling to say good-bye to

us!"

"I met Mr. Pain a day or two ago," said George. "He----"

"Met Mr. Pain! what on earth if you did!" interrupted Charlotte. "Mr.

Pain's not me. You might have found time to dine with us. I have a great

mind to quarrel with you, George Godolphin, by way of leave-taking."

Something like a smile crossed George's lips. "The fact is, I thought I

might have seen you at the Verralls', Mrs. Pain. I went there for half

an hour yesterday. I charged Mrs. Verrall----"

"Rubbish!" retorted Charlotte. "When you must have known we had moved

into a house at Shooter's Hill, you could not suppose we were still at

the Verralls'. Our catching you this morning here was a mere chance. We

stayed late in town yesterday afternoon at the furniture warehouse, and,

in driving back down the Strand, saw Isaac Hastings, so I pulled up to

ask what had become of you, and whether you were dead or alive. He

informed us you were to sail to-day from Gravesend, and I told Dolf I

should drive down. But it _is_ ill-mannered of you, Mr. George."

"You will readily understand, that since my last return from Prior's

Ash, I have not felt inclined for visiting," he said in a low grave

tone, unconsciously glancing at his black attire. "I intended you no

discourtesy, Mrs. Pain: but, for one thing, I did not know where you

might be met with."

"And couldn't find out!" retorted Charlotte. "Dolf could have given you

the address, I suppose, the other day, had you asked. He's too great a

fool to think to give it of his own accord."

George looked at "Dolf," whom his wife seemed so completely to ignore;

looked at him with a pleasant smile, as if he would atone for

Charlotte's rudeness. "We were not together a minute, were we, Mr. Pain?

I was in a hurry, and you seemed in one also."

"Don't say any more about it, Mr. Godolphin," spoke Dolf, as resentfully

as he dared. "That's just like her! Making a fuss over nothing! Of

course you could not be expected to visit at such a time: and any one

but Charlotte would have the good feeling to see it. I am pleased to be

able to see you here, and wish you a pleasant voyage; but I remonstrated

with her this morning, that it was scarcely the right thing to intrude

upon you. But she never listens, you know."

"_You_ needn't have come," snapped Charlotte.

"And then you would have gone on at me about my bad manners, as you have

to Mr. Godolphin! One never knows how to please you, Charlotte."

George resumed: to break the silence possibly, more than from any other

motive. "Have you settled at Shooter's Hill?"

"Settled!" shrieked Charlotte; "settled at Shooter's Hill! Where it's

ten miles, good, from a theatre or any other place of amusement! No,

thank you. A friend of Verrall's had this place to let for a few weeks,

and Dolf was idiot enough to take it----"

"You consented first, Charlotte," interrupted poor Dolf.

"Which I never should have done had I reflected on the bother of getting

up to town," said Charlotte equably. "Settled at Shooter's Hill! I'd as

soon do as you are going to do, Mr. George--bury myself alive in

Calcutta. We have taken on lease a charming house in Belgravia, and

shall enter on a succession of dinner-parties: one a week we think of

giving during the season. We shall not get into it much before February:

it takes some time to choose furniture."

"I hate dinner-parties," said Dolf ruefully.

"You are not obliged to appear at them," said Charlotte with much

graciousness. "I can get your place filled up at table, I dare say. What

_is_ that noise and scuffling?"

"They are weighing anchor," replied George. "We shall soon be on the

move."

"I hear that great alterations are being made at Ashlydyat," remarked

Charlotte.

"Only on the spot called the Dark Plain. The archway is taken down, and

a summer-house is being built on the site. An elaborate sort of

summer-house, for it is to contain three or four rooms, I believe. It

will have a fine view."

"And what of those ugly gorse-bushes?"

"They will be cleared away, and the place laid out as a garden."

"Is my lady starring it at the Folly?"

"Scarcely: just now," quietly answered George.

"Miss Godolphin has gone to Scotland, I hear."

"Yes. Bessy will reside with Lady Godolphin."

"And tart Margery? What has become of her?"

"She remains with Maria at Ashlydyat."

Charlotte opened her eyes--Charlotte had a habit of opening them when

puzzled or surprised. "Maria! Who is Maria?"

"The child. We call her by her proper name now."

"Oh, by the way, I had nearly forgotten it," returned Charlotte in the

old good-natured tone: for it may be remarked, that during the interview

her tone had been what she had just called Margery--tart. "I should like

to have the child up on a visit when we get into our house, and astonish

her mind with the wonders of London. I suppose Lady Averil will make no

objection?"

A very perceptible flush, red and haughty, dyed the face of George

Godolphin. "You are very kind to think of it, Mrs. Pain; but I fear Lady

Averil would not consent. Indeed, I have desired that the child may not

visit, except amidst her immediate relatives."

"As you please," said Charlotte resentfully. "Dolf, I think we may as

well be moving. I only meant it as a kindness to the child."

"And I thank you for it," said George warmly. "For all the kindness you

have shown her, Mrs. Pain, I thank you, sincerely and heartily. Take

care!"

He interposed to prevent a rope, that was being borne along, from

touching her. Charlotte began in earnest to think it was time to move,

unless she would be carried down the river in the ship.

"When shall you come back?" she asked him.

He shook his head. He could net tell any more than she could. The future

was all uncertain and indistinct.

"Well, you won't forget to find us out whenever you do come?" returned

Charlotte.

"Certainly not. Thank you."

"Do you know," cried Charlotte impulsively, "you are strangely different

in manner, George Godolphin! You have grown as cold and formal as a

block of ice. Hasn't he, Dolf?"

"If he has, it's your fault," was the satisfactory answer of Dolf. "You

keep firing off such a heap of personal questions, Charlotte. I see no

difference in Mr. Godolphin; but he has had a good deal of trouble, you

know."

"Shall we ever hear of you?" continued Charlotte, pushing back Dolf with

her elbow, and completely eclipsing his meek face with her sweeping

scarlet feather.

"No doubt you will, Mrs. Pain, from one source or another. Not that I

shall be a voluminous correspondent with England, I expect: except,

perhaps, with Ashlydyat."

"Well, fare you well, George," she said, holding out both her gauntleted

hands. "You seem rather cranky this morning, but I forgive you; it _is_

trying to the spirits to leave one's native place for good and all. I

wish you all good luck with my best heart!"

"Thank you," he said, taking the hands within his own and shaking them:

"thank you always. Good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Pain."

Mr. Pain shook hands less demonstratively than his wife, and his

leave-taking, if quiet, was not less sincere. George piloted them to the

gangway, and saw them pulled ashore in the little boat.

They ascended to the carriage, which to all appearance had been keeping

up a perpetual commotion since they left it, the fault probably of its

horses and dogs; and Charlotte, taking her high seat, dashed away in

style; her whip flourishing, the dogs barking, her red feather tossing

and gleaming. What she will do when these feathers go out of fashion

it's hard to say: Charlotte could hardly stir out without one.

And by-and-by, the anchor up, the tug attached, the good ship _Indus_

was fairly on her way, being towed smoothly down the river under command

of her pilot. The passengers were tormenting themselves still: the

sailors seemed to be perpetually hurrying hither and thither, the

steward was in a tumult: but George Godolphin, wrapped in his grey

plaid, remained in his place, quiet and still, gazing out over the bows

of the vessel. What were his reflections, as his native land began to

recede from his eyes? Did he regret it? Did he regret the position he

had lost; the ruin he had wrought; the death of his wife? Did he,

finally, regret the inevitable PAST, with all its mistakes and

sins?--and think that if it could only come over again, he would act

differently? Possibly so. Once he lifted his hat, and pushed the golden

hair further from his brow, from his handsome face, not less bright or

handsome than of yore--except in its expression. In that, there was an

unmistakable look of weary sadness, never before seen on the features of

gay George Godolphin.

And when, hours after, the rest of the cabin passengers were summoned to

dinner, he never stirred, but kept his place there, looking far into the

dusky night, glancing up at the stars that came glittering out in the

blue canopy of heaven.

A safe landing to him on the shores of Calcutta! A safe and sure landing

on a different shore that must come after it!

And Mr. and Mrs. Pain's dinner-parties in Belgravia are a great success.

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED. DUKE STREET,

STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.

* * * * *

"I care not how often murders and other mysteries form the

foundation of plots, if they give us such novels as

these."--HARRIET MARTINEAU.

"Mrs. Henry Wood has an art of novel-writing which no rival

possesses in the same degree."--_Spectator._

"The fame of Mrs. Henry Wood widens and strengthens."--_Morning

Post._

MRS. HENRY WOOD'S NOVELS.

_Sale, nearly Five Million Copies._

EAST LYNNE. _940th Thousand._

THE CHANNINGS. _320th Thousand._

MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. _245th Thousand._

THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. _180th Thousand._

LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. _250th Thousand._

VERNER'S PRIDE. _182nd Thousand._

ROLAND YORKE. _200th Thousand._

JOHNNY LUDLOW. First Series. _61st Thousand._

MILDRED ARKELL. _155th Thousand._

ST. MARTIN'S EVE. _162nd Thousand._

TREVLYN HOLD. _140th Thousand._

GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. _95th Thousand._

THE RED COURT FARM. _167th Thousand._

WITHIN THE MAZE. _170th Thousand._

ELSTER'S FOLLY. _95th Thousand._

LADY ADELAIDE. _180th Thousand._

OSWALD CRAY. _120th Thousand._

JOHNNY LUDLOW. Second Series. _45th Thousand._

ANNE HEREFORD. _67th Thousand._

DENE HOLLOW. _78th Thousand._

EDINA. _60th Thousand._

A LIFE'S SECRET. _175th Thousand._

COURT NETHERLEIGH. _58th Thousand._

BESSY RANE. _60th Thousand._

THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. _65th Thousand._

ORVILLE COLLEGE. _51st Thousand._

PARKWATER. _75th Thousand._

POMEROY ABBEY. _134th Thousand._

THE HOUSE OF HALLIWELL. _95th Thousand._

THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE. _27th Thousand._

ASHLEY. _79th Thousand._

JOHNNY LUDLOW. Third Series. _23rd Thousand._

LADY GRACE. _31st Thousand._

ADAM GRAINGER. _25th Thousand._

THE UNHOLY WISH. _25th Thousand._

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LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED.

* * * * *

CRITICISMS OF THE PRESS.

EAST LYNNE.

"'East Lynne' is so full of incident, so exciting is every page,

and so admirably written, that one hardly knows how to go to bed

without reading to the very last page."--THE OBSERVER.

"A work of remarkable power which displays a force of

description and a dramatic completeness we have seldom seen

surpassed. The interest of the narrative intensifies itself to

the deepest pathos. The closing scene is in the highest degree

tragic, and the whole management of the story exhibits

unquestionable genius and originality."--THE DAILY NEWS.

"I was having a delightful conversation with a clever Indian

officer, and listening to his reminiscences of being sent out to

serve in China with Gordon. He gave me an account of how he

tried to keep the regimental library together under

difficulties, and how 'East Lynne' was sent to them from

England. Gordon got hold of it, and was fascinated. He used to

come riding from a distance, at some risk, to get hold of the

volumes as they were to be had."--EXTRACT FROM A LETTER.

THE CHANNINGS.

"'The Channings' will probably be read over and over again, and

it can never be read too often."--THE ATHENÆUM.

MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES.

"The boldness, originality, and social scrutiny displayed in

this work remind the reader of Adam Bede. It would be difficult

to place beside the death of Edgar Halliburton anything in

fiction comparable with its profound pathos and simplicity. It

is long since the novel-reading world has had reason so

thoroughly to congratulate itself upon the appearance of a new

work as in the instance of 'Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles.' It is

a fine work; a great and artistic picture."--THE MORNING POST.

THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT.

"'The Shadow of Ashlydyat' is very clever, and keeps up the

constant interest of the reader. It has a slight supernatural

tinge, which gives the romantic touch to the story which Sir

Walter Scott so often used with even greater effect; but it is

not explained away at the end, as Sir Walter Scott's

supernatural touches generally, and inartistically, were."--THE

SPECTATOR.

LADY ADELAIDE.

"One of Mrs. Henry Wood's best novels."--THE STAR.

"Mme. Henry Wood est fort célèbre en Angleterre, et ses

romans--très moraux et très bien écrits--sont dans toutes les

mains et revivent dans toutes les mémoires. _Le serment de lady

Adelaïde_ donneront à nos lecteurs une idée très suffisante du

talent si élevé de mistress Henry Wood."--INSTRUCTION PUBLIQUE.

ROLAND YORKE.

"In all respects worthy of the hand that wrote 'The Channings'

and 'East Lynne.' There is no lack of excitement to wile the

reader on, and from the first to the last a well-planned story

is sustained with admirable spirit and in a masterly

style."--THE DAILY NEWS.

VERNER'S PRIDE.

"'Verner's Pride' is a first-rate novel in its breadth of

outline and brilliancy of description. Its exciting events, its

spirited scenes, and its vivid details, all contribute to its

triumph. The interest this work awakens, and the admiration it

excites in the minds of its readers, must infallibly tend to the

renown of the writer, while they herald the welcome reception of

the work wherever skill in construction of no ordinary kind, or

a ready appreciation of character, which few possess, can arouse

attention or win regard."--THE SUN.

OSWALD CRAY.

"Mrs. Wood has certainly an art of novel-writing which no rival

possesses in the same degree and kind. It is not, we fancy, a

common experience for anyone to leave one of these novels

unfinished."--THE SPECTATOR.

BESSY RANE.

"The power to draw minutely and carefully each character with

characteristic individuality in word and action is Mrs. Wood's

especial gift. This endows her pages with a vitality which

carries the reader to the end, and leaves him with the feeling

that the veil which in real life separates man from man has been

raised, and that he has for once seen and known certain people

as intimately as if he had been their guardian angel. This is a

great fascination."--THE ATHENÆUM.

LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS.

"The story is admirably told."--THE SPECTATOR.

ELSTER'S FOLLY.

"Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist: she

interests people in her books, makes them anxious about the

characters, and furnishes an intricate and carefully woven

plot."--THE MORNING POST.

MILDRED ARKELL.

"Mrs. Henry Wood certainly possesses in a wholly exceptional

degree the power of uniting the most startling incident of

supernatural influence with a certain probability and

naturalness which compels the most critical and sceptical

reader, having once begun, to go on reading.... He finds himself

conciliated by some bit of quiet picture, some accent of poetic

tenderness, some sweet domestic touch telling of a heart

exercised in the rarer experiences; and as he proceeds he

wonders more and more at the manner in which the mystery, the

criminality, the plotting, and the murdering reconciles itself

with a quiet sense of the justice of things; and a great moral

lesson is, after all, found to lie in the heart of all the

turmoil and exciting scene-shifting. It is this which has earned

for Mrs. Wood so high a place among popular novelists, and

secured her admittance to homes from which the sensational

novelists so-called are excluded."--THE NONCONFORMIST.

SAINT MARTIN'S EVE.

"A good novel."--THE SPECTATOR.

"Mrs. Wood has spared no pains to accumulate the materials for a

curiously thrilling story."--THE SATURDAY REVIEW.

GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL.

"The name of Mrs. Henry Wood has been familiar to novel-readers

for many years, and her fame widens and strengthens with the

increase in the number of her books."--THE MORNING POST.

A LIFE'S SECRET.

"Now that the rights of capital and labour are being fully

inquired into, Mrs. Wood's story of 'A Life's Secret' is

particularly opportune and interesting. It is based upon a plot

that awakens curiosity and keeps it alive throughout. The hero

and heroine are marked with individuality, the love-passages are

finely drawn, and the story developed with judgment."--THE CIVIL

SERVICE GAZETTE.

THE RED COURT FARM.

"When we say that a plot displays Mrs. Wood's well-known skill

in construction, our readers will quite understand that their

attention will be enchained by it from the first page to the

last."--THE WEEKLY DISPATCH.

TREVLYN HOLD.

"We cannot read a page of this work without discovering a

graphic force of delineation which it would not be easy to

surpass."--THE DAILY NEWS.

WITHIN THE MAZE.

"The decided novelty and ingenuity of the plot of 'Within the

Maze' renders it, in our eyes, one of Mrs. Henry Wood's best

novels. It is excellently developed, and the interest hardly

flags for a moment."--THE GRAPHIC.

THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS.

"A book by Mrs. Wood is sure to be a good one, and no one who

opens 'The Master of Greylands' in anticipation of an

intellectual treat will be disappointed. The keen analysis of

character, and the admirable management of the plot, alike

attest the clever novelist."--JOHN BULL.

JOHNNY LUDLOW.

THE FIRST SERIES.

"We regard these stories as almost perfect of their kind."--THE

SPECTATOR.

"Fresh, lively, vigorous, and full of clever dialogue, they will

meet with a ready welcome."--THE STANDARD.

ORVILLE COLLEGE.

"Mrs. Wood's stories bear the impress of her versatile talent

and well-known skill in turning to account the commonplaces of

daily life as well as the popular superstitions of the

multitude."--THE LITERARY WORLD.

PARKWATER.

"Mrs. Wood's pleasant style and vivid imagination were never

more pleasantly manifested."--JOHN BULL.

EDINA.

"The whole situation of the book is clever, and the plot is well

managed."--ACADEMY.

"Edina's character is beautifully drawn."--THE LITERARY WORLD.

POMEROY ABBEY.

"All the Pomeroys are very cleverly individualised, and the way

in which the mystery is worked up, including its one horribly

tragic incident, is really beyond all praise."--THE MORNING

POST.

JOHNNY LUDLOW.

THE SECOND SERIES.

"The author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we

had suspected among our living writers of fiction. It is not

possible by means of extracts to convey any adequate sense of

the humour, the pathos, the dramatic power and graphic

description of this book."--THE NONCONFORMIST.

COURT NETHERLEIGH.

"We always open one of Mrs. Wood's novels with pleasure, because

we are sure of being amused and interested."--THE TIMES.

"Lisez-le; l'émotion que vous sentirez peu à peu monter à votre

coeur est saine et fortifiante. Lisez-le; c'est un livre honnête

sorti d'une plume honnête et vous pourrez le laisser traîner sur

la table."--LE SIGNAL (_Paris_).

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Errors in punctuation have been corrected silently.

This lists the changes that have been made to the text, fixing

believed printing errors, together with some unusual usages that

have been left. References are to the page number.

* 2: Changed 'estima-[end of line] of' to 'estimation of'

* 2: Changed 'You _fell_ weak still?' to 'You _feel_ weak still?'

* 20: Original has 'this side thirty' and 'this side forty' in both

editions checked

* 42: Changed ? to ! in 'I wish we had never taken it'

* 168: Changed 'torns' to 'thorns'

* 264: Added missing word 'It' in 'It had occurred' (space for it in

original)

* 288: Corrected 'youself' to 'yourself'

* 318: Added semicolon in 'something; at present' (space for it in

original)

* 342: Corrected '_same_ strange malady' to '_some_ strange malady'

* 358: added comma in 'you see, and therefore' (large space in

original)

* 382: Changed 'shivered _roun_ him' to 'shivered _round_ him'

* 385: 'chaffling' in original. 'Chaffing' may have been intended.

* 471: Changed '_A_ exceedingly remarkable' to '_An_ exceedingly

remarkable'