Maria drew a long, relieved breath. The address was candid, the manner was playful and tender: and she possessed the most implicit faith in her husband. Maria had doubted almost the whole world before she could have doubted George Godolphin. She drew his face down to hers, once more whispering that he was to forgive her for being so silly.
“My dearest, I have been thinking that we may as well go on to-morrow. To-day, that is: I won’t tell you the time, if you don’t know it; but it’s morning.”
She knew the time quite well. No anxious wife ever sat up for a husband yet, but knew it. In her impatience to be away—for she was most desirous of being at home again—she could take note of the one sentence only. “Oh, George, yes! Let us go!”
“Will you promise to get a good night’s rest first, and not attempt to be out of bed before eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, then?”
“George, I will promise you anything,” she said, with a radiant face. “Only say we shall start for home to-morrow.”
“Yes, we will.”
And, somewhat to Mr. Verrall’s surprise, they did start. That gentleman made no attempt to detain them. “But it is shabby of you both to go off like this, and leave us among these foreigners, like Babes in the wood,” said he, when Maria was already in the carriage, and George was about to step into it.
“There is nothing to prevent you leaving too, is there, Mr. Verrall?” asked Maria, leaning forward. “And what did you and Mrs. Verrall do before we came? You had been ‘Babes in the wood’ a fortnight then.”
“Fairly put, young lady,” returned Mr. Verrall. “I must congratulate you on one thing, Mrs. George Godolphin: that, in spite of your recent indisposition, you are looking more yourself to-day than I have yet seen you.”
“That is because I am going home,” said Maria.
And home they reached in safety. The land journey, the pleasant sea crossing—for the day and the waters were alike calm—and then the land again, all grew into things of the past, and they were once more at Prior’s Ash. As they drove to the Bank from the railway station, Maria looked up at the house when it came into sight, a thrill of joy running through her heart. “What a happy home it will be for me!” was her glad thought.
“What would Thomas and old Crosse say, if they knew I had dipped into it so deeply at Homburg?” was the involuntary thought which flashed across George Godolphin.
Quite a levee had assembled to meet them. Mrs. Hastings and Grace, Bessie and Cecil Godolphin, Thomas Godolphin and Mr. Crosse. Maria threw off her bonnet and shawl, and stood amidst them all in her dark silk travelling dress. There was no mistaking that she was intensely happy: her eye was radiant, her colour softly bright, her fair young face without a cloud. And now walked in the Rector of All Souls’, having escaped (nothing loth) from a stormy vestry meeting, to see Maria.
“I have brought her home safely, you see, sir,” George said to Mr. Hastings, leading Maria up to him.
“And yourself also,” was the Rector’s reply. “You are worth two of the shaky man who went away.”
“I told you I should be, sir, if you allowed Maria to go with me,” cried gallant George. “I do not fancy we are either of us the worse for our sojourn abroad.”
“I don’t think either of you look as though you were,” said the Rector. “Maria is thin. I suppose you are not sorry to come home, Miss Maria?”
“So glad!” she said. “I began to think it very, very long, not to see you all. But, papa, I am not Miss Maria now.”
“You saucy child!” exclaimed Mr. Hastings. But the Rector had the laugh against him. Mrs. Hastings drew Maria aside.
“My dear, you have been ill, George wrote me word. How did it happen? We were sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, we were sorry too,” replied Maria, her eyelashes resting on her hot cheek. “It could not be helped.”
“But how did it happen?”
“It was my own fault; notintentionally, you know, mamma. It occurred the day after we reached Homburg. I and George were out walking and we met the Verralls. We turned with them, and then I had not hold of George’s arm. Something was amiss in the street, a great heap of stones and earth and rubbish; and, to avoid a carriage that came by, I stepped upon it. And, somehow I slipped off. I did not appear to have hurt myself: but I suppose it shook me.”
“You met the Verralls at Homburg?” cried Mrs. Hastings, in surprise.
“Yes. Did George not mention it when he wrote? They are at Homburg still. Unless they have now left it.”
“George never puts a superfluous word into his letters,” said Mrs. Hastings, with a smile. “He says just what he has to say, and no more. He mentioned that you were not well, and therefore some little delay might take place in the return home; but he said nothing of the Verralls.”
Maria laughed. “George never writes a long letter——”
“Who’s that, taking George’s name in vain?” cried George, looking round.
“It is I, George. You never told mamma, when you wrote, that the Verralls were with us at Homburg.”
“I’m sure I don’t remember whether I did or not,” said George.
“The Verralls are in Wales,” observed Mr. Hastings.
“Then they have travelled to it pretty quickly,” observed George. “When I and Maria quitted Homburg we left them in it. They had been there a month.”
Not one present but looked up with surprise. “The impression in Prior’s Ash is, that they are in Wales,” observed Thomas Godolphin. “It is the answer given by the servants to all callers at Lady Godolphin’s Folly.”
“They are certainly at Homburg; whatever the servants may say,” persisted George. “The servants are labouring under a mistake.”
“It is a curious mistake for the servants to make, though,” observed the Rector, in a dry, caustic tone.
“I think the Verralls are curious people altogether,” said Bessy Godolphin.
“I don’t know but they are,” assented George. “But Verrall is a thoroughly good-hearted man, and I shall always speak up for him.”
That evening George and his wife dined alone. George was standing over the fire after dinner, when Maria came and stood near him. He put out his arm and drew her to his side.
“It seems so strange, George—being in this house with you, all alone,” she whispered.
“Stranger than being my wife, Maria?”
“Oh, but I have got used to that.” And George Godolphin laughed: she spoke so simply and naturally.
“You will get used in time to this being your home, my darling.”
Standing on the covered terrace outside the dining-room at the Bank, in all the warm beauty of the late and lovely spring morning, surrounded by the perfume of flowers, the green lawn stretching out before her, the pleasant sitting-room behind her, its large window open and its paintings on the walls conspicuous, was Maria Godolphin. She wore a morning dress, simple and pretty as of yore, and her fair face had lost none of its beauty, scarcely any of its youth. Looking at her you would not think that a month had elapsed since she came there, to her home, after her marriage; and yet the time, since then, would not be counted by months, but by years. Six years and a half, it is, since her marriage took place, and the little girl, whom Maria is holding by the hand, is five years old. Just now Maria’s face is all animation. She is talking to the child, and talking also to Jonathan and David Jekyl: but if you saw her at an unoccupied moment, her face in repose, you might detect an expression of settled sadness in it. It arose from the loss of her children. Three had died in succession, one after another; and this one, the eldest, was the only child remaining to her. A wondrously pretty little girl, her bare legs peeping between her frilled drawers and her white socks; with the soft brown eyes of her mother, and the golden Saxon curls of her father. With her mother’s eyes the child had inherited her mother’s gentle temperament: and Margery—who had found in her heart to leave Ashlydyat and become nurse to George’s children—was wont to say that she never had to do with so sweet-tempered a child. She had been named Maria; but the name, for home use, had been corrupted into Meta: not to interfere with Maria’s. She held her mother’s hand, and, by dint of stretching up on her toes, could just bring her eyes above the marble top of the terrace balustrade.
“Donatan, why don’t you get that big ting, to-day?”
Jonathan looked up, a broad smile on his face. He delighted in little children. He liked to hear them call him “Donatan:” and the little lady before him was as backward in the sound of the “th,” as if she had been French. “She means the scythe, ma’am,” said Jonathan.
“I know she does,” said Maria. “The grass does not want mowing to-day, Meta. David, do you not think those rose-trees are very backward?”
David gave his usual grunt. “I should wonder if they were for’ard.There ain’t no rose-trees for miles round but what is back’ard, except them as have been nursed. With the cutting spring we’ve had, how are the rose-trees to get on, I’d like to know?”
Jonathan looked round, his face quite sunshine compared with David’s: his words also. “They’ll come on famous now, ma’am, with this lovely weather. Ten days of it, and we shall have them all out in bloom. Little miss shall have a rare posy then, and I’ll cut off the thorns first.”
“A big one, mind, Donatan,” responded the young lady, beginning to dance about in anticipation. The child had an especial liking for roses, which Jonathan remembered. She inherited her mother’s great love for flowers.
“David, how is your wife?” asked Maria.
“I’ve not heard that there’s anything the matter with her,” was David’s phlegmatic answer, without lifting his face from the bed. He and Jonathan were both engaged almost at the same spot: David, it must be confessed, getting through more work than Jonathan.
They had kept that garden in order for Mr. Crosse, when the Bank was his residence. Also for Thomas Godolphin and his sisters, the little time they had lived there: and afterwards for George. George had now a full complement of servants—rather more than a complement, indeed—and one of them might well have attended to that small garden. Janet had suggested as much: but easy George continued to employ the Jekyls. It was not often that the two attended together; as they were doing to-day.
“David,” returned Maria, in answer to his remark, “I am sure you must know that your wife is often ailing. She is anything but strong. Only she is always merry and in good spirits, and so people think her better than she is. She is quite a contrast to you, David,” Maria added, with a smile. “You don’t talk and laugh much.”
“Talking and laughing don’t get on with a man’s work, as ever I heerd on,” returned David.
“Is it true that your father slipped yesterday, and sprained his ankle?” continued Maria. “I heard that he did.”
“True enough,” growled David.
“’Twas all along of his good fortune, ma’am,” said sunny Jonathan. “He was so elated with it that he slipped down Gaffer Thorpe’s steps, where he was going to tell the news, and fell upon his ankle. The damage ain’t of much account. But that’s old father all over! Prime him up with a piece of good fortune, and he is all cock-a-hoop about it.”
“What is the good fortune?” asked Maria.
“It’s that money come to him at last, ma’am, what he had waited for so long. I’m sure we had all given it up for lost; and father stewed and fretted over it, wondering always what was going to become of him in his old age. ’Tain’t so very much, neither.”
“Sixty pound is sixty pound,” grunted David.
“Well, so it is,” acquiesced Jonathan. “And father looks to it to make him more comfortable than he could be from his profits; his honey, and his garden, and that. He was like a child last night, ma’am, planning what he’d do with it. I told him he had better take care not to lose it.”
“Let him bring it to the Bank,” said Maria. “Tell him I say so, Jonathan. It will be safe here. He might be paid interest for it.”
“I will, ma’am.”
Maria spoke the words in good faith. Her mind had conjured up a vision of old Jekyl keeping his sixty pounds in his house, at the foot of some old stocking: and she thought how easily he might be robbed of it. “Yes, Jonathan, tell him to bring it here: don’t let him keep it at home, to lose it.”
Maria had another auditor, of whose presence she was unconscious. It was her mother. Mrs. Hastings had been admitted by a servant, and came through the room to the terrace unheard by Maria. The little girl’s ears—like all children’s—were quick, and she turned, and broke into a joyous cry of “Grandma!” Maria looked round.
“On, mamma! I did not know you were here. Are you quite well?” hastily added Maria, fancying that her mother looked dispirited.
“We have had news from Reginald this morning, and the news is not good,” was the reply. “He has been getting into some disagreeable scrape over there, and it has taken a hundred pounds or two to clear him. Of course they came upon us for it.”
Maria’s countenance fell. “Reginald is very unlucky. He seems always to be getting into scrapes.”
“He always is,” said Mrs. Hastings. “We thought he could not get into mischief at sea: but it appears that he does. The ship was at Calcutta still, but they were expecting daily to sail for home.”
“What is it that he has been doing?” asked Maria.
“I do not quite understand,” replied Mrs. Hastings. “I saw his letter, but that was not very explanatory. What it chiefly contained were expressions of contrition, and promises of amendment. The captain wrote to your papa: and that letter he would not give me to read. Your papa’s motive was a good one, no doubt,—to save me vexation. But, my dear, he forgets that uncertainty causes the imagination to conjure up fears, worse, probably, than the reality.”
“As Reginald grows older, he will grow steadier,” remarked Maria. “And, mamma, whatever it may be, your grieving over it will not mend it.”
“True,” replied Mrs. Hastings. “But,” she added, with a sad smile, “when your children shall be as old as mine, Maria, you will have learnt how impossible it is to a mother not to grieve. Have you forgotten the old saying? ‘When our children are young they tread upon our toes; but when they are older they tread upon our hearts.’”
Little Miss Meta was treading upon her toes, just then. The child’s tiny shoes were dancing upon grandmamma’s in her eagerness to get close to her; to tell her that Donatan was going to give her a great big handful of roses, as soon as they were out, with thethornscut off.
“Come to me, Meta,” said Maria. She saw that her mamma was not in a mood to be troubled with children, and she drew the child on to her own knee. “Mamma, I am going for a drive presently,” she continued. “Would it not do you good to accompany me?”
“I don’t know that I could spare the time this morning,” said Mrs. Hastings. “Are you going far?”
“I can go far or not, as you please,” replied Maria. “We have anew carriage, and George told me at breakfast that I had better try it, and see how I liked it.”
“A new carriage!” replied Mrs. Hastings, her accent betraying surprise. “Had you not enough carriages already, Maria?”
“In truth, I think we had, mamma. This new one is one that George took a fancy to when he was in London last week; and he bought it.”
“Child—though of course it is no business of mine—you surely did not want it. What sort of carriage is it?”
“It is a large one: a sort of barouche. It will do you good to go out with me. I will order it at once, if you will do so, mamma.”
Mrs. Hastings did not immediately reply. She appeared to have fallen into thought. Presently she raised her head and looked at Maria.
“My dear, I have long thought of mentioning to you a certain subject; and I think I will do so now. Strictly speaking, it is, as I say, no business of mine, but I cannot help being anxious for your interests.”
Maria felt somewhat alarmed. It appeared a formidable preamble.
“I and your papa sometimes talk it over, one with another. And we say”—Mrs. Hastings smiled, as if to disarm her words of their serious import—“that we wish we could put old heads upon young shoulders. Upon yours and your husband’s.”
“But why?—in what way?” cried Maria.
“My dear, if you and he had old heads, you would, I think, see how very wrong it is—I speak the word only in your interests, Maria—to maintain so great and expensive an establishment. It must cost you and George, here, far more than it costs them at Ashlydyat.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” said Maria.
“We do not know what your husband’s income is——”
“I do not know, either,” spoke Maria, for Mrs. Hastings had paused and looked at her, almost as though she would give opportunity for the information to be supplied. “George never speaks to me upon money matters or business affairs.”
“Well, whatever it is,” resumed Mrs. Hastings, “we should judge that he must be living up to every farthing of it. How much better it would be if you were to live more moderately, and put something by!”
“I dare say it would,” acquiesced Maria. “To tell you the truth, mamma, there are times when I fall into a thoughtful mood, and feel half frightened at our expenditure. But then again I reflect that George knows his own affairs and his own resources far better than I do. The expense is of his instituting: not of mine.”
“George is proverbially careless,” significantly spoke Mrs. Hastings.
“But, mamma, if at the end of one year, he found his expenses heavier than they ought to be, he would naturally retrench them the next. His not doing it proves that he can afford it.”
“I am not saying, or thinking, that he cannot afford it, Maria, in one sense; I do not suppose he outruns his income. But you might live at half your present expense and be quite as comfortable, perhaps more so. Servants, carriages, horses, dress, dinner-parties!—I know you must spend enormously.”
“Well, so we do,” replied Maria. “But, mamma, you are perhaps unaware that George has an equal share with Thomas. He has indeed. When Mr. Crosse retired, Thomas told George it should be so for the future.”
“Did he? There are not many like Thomas Godolphin. Still, Maria, whatever may be your income, I maintain my argument, that you keep up unnecessary style and extravagance. Remember, my dear, that you had no marriage settlement. And, the more you save, the better for your children. You may have many yet.”
“I think I will talk to George about it,” mused Maria.
Of course the past seven years had not been without their changes. Mr. Crosse had retired from the Bank, and Thomas Godolphin, in his generosity, immediately constituted his brother an equal partner. He had not been so previously. Neither had it been contemplated by Sir George in his lifetime that it was so to be, yet awhile. The state maintained at Ashlydyat took more to keep it up than the quiet way in which it was supposed George would live at the Bank, and Thomas wastherepresentative Godolphin. But Thomas Godolphin was incapable of any conduct bordering in the remotest degree upon covetousness or meanness: they were the sons of one father; and though there was the difference in their ages, and he was chief of the Godolphins, he made George’s share equal to his own.
It was well perhaps that he did so. Otherwise George might have plunged into shoals and quicksands. He appeared to have no idea of living quietly; had he possessed the purse of Fortunatus, which was always full of gold, we are told, he could not have been much more careless of money. Rumour went, too, that all Mr. George’s wild oats (bushels of which, you may remember to have heard, Prior’s Ash gave him credit for) were not yet sown; and wild oats run away with a great deal of money. Perhaps the only person in all Prior’s Ash who believed George Godolphin to be a saint, or next door to one, was Maria. Best that she should think so! But, extravagant as George was, a suspicion that he lived beyond his income, was never glanced at. Sober people, such as the Rector of All Souls’ and Mrs. Hastings, would say in private what a pity it was that George did not think of saving for his family. Ample as the income, present and future, arising from the Bank might be, it could not be undesirable to know that a nest-egg was accumulating. Thomas might have suggested this to George: gossips surmised that he did so, and that George let the suggestion go for nothing. They were wrong. Whatever lectures Janet may have seen well to give him, Thomas gave him none. Thomas was not one to interfere, or play the mentor: and Thomas had a strong silent conviction within him, that ere very long George would come into Ashlydyat. The conviction was born of his suspected state of health. He might be wrong: but he believed he was not. Ashlydyat George’s; the double income from the Bank George’s—where was the need to tell him to save now?
The Reverend Mr. Hastings had had some trouble with his boys: insomuch as that they had turned their faces against the career he had marked out for them. Isaac, the eldest, destined for the Church, had declined to qualify himself for it when he came to years of discretion. After some uncertainty, and what Mr. Hastings called “knockingabout”—which meant that he was doing nothing when he ought to have been at work: and that state of affairs lasted for a year or two—Isaac won Maria over to his side. Maria, in her turn, won over George: and Isaac was admitted into the Bank. He held a good post in it now: the brother of Mrs. George Godolphin was not left to rise by chance or priority. A handsome young man of three and twenty was he; steady; and displaying an aptitude for business beyond his years. Many a one deemed that Isaac Hastings, in a worldly point of view, had done well in quitting the uncertain prospects offered by the Church, for a clerkship in the house of Godolphin. He might rise some time to be a partner in it. Reginald had also declined the career marked out for him. Some government appointment had been promised him: in fact, had been given him: but Reginald would hear of nothing but the sea. It angered Mr. Hastings much. One of the last men, was he, to force a boy into the Church; nay, to allow a boy to enter it, unless he showed a special liking for it; therefore Isaac had, on that score, got off pretty freely; but he was not one of the last men to force a boy to work, who displayed a taste for idleness. Reginald argued that he should lead a far more idle life in a government office, than he should have a chance of doing if he went to sea. He was right, so far. Mrs. Hastings had a special horror of the sea. Mothers, as a general rule, have. She set her face—and Mr. Hastings had also set his—against Reginald’s sea visions; which, truth to say, had commenced with his earliest years.
However, Reginald and inclination proved too strong for opposition. The government post had to be declined with thanks; and to sea he went. Not into the navy: the boy had become too old for it: but into the merchant service. A good service, the firm he entered: but an expensive one. The premium was high; the outfit was large; the yearly sum that went in expenses while he was what is called a midshipman was considerable. But he quitted that service in a pique, and had since been trying different ships on his own account. Altogether, Mr. Hastings had trouble with him. Harry was keeping his first term at College. He had chosen the Church of his own free will: and was qualifying for it. Grace was married. And Rose was growing up to be as pretty as Maria.
“Maria,” said Mrs. Hastings, “if I am to go out with you to-day, why should we not call upon Mrs. Averil? I have wanted to see her for some time.”
“I will call with pleasure,” was Maria’s answer. “As well take a long drive as a short one. Then we should start at once.”
She rang the bell as she spoke. To order the carriage, and for Margery to come for Miss Meta. The latter, who had played the trick before, suddenly broke from Margery, and dashed into the Bank parlour. She had learned to open the door.
George by good luck happened to be alone. He affected great anger, and Margery also scolded sharply. George had been sitting at a table, bending over account books, his spirit weary, his brow knit. His assumed anger was wasted: for he caught up the child the next moment and covered her face with kisses. Then he carried her into the dining-room to Maria.
“What am I to do with this naughty child, mamma? She came bursting in upon me like a great fierce lion. I must buy a real lion and keep him in the closet, and let him loose if she does it again. Meta won’t like to be eaten up.”
Meta laughed confidentially. “Papa won’t let a lion eat Meta.”
“You saucy child!” But George’s punishment consisted only of more kisses.
“Is Meta going with you?” asked George, when Maria told him of the contemplated visit to Mrs. Averil.
Meta interposed. “Yes, she should go,” she said.
“If I take Meta, I must take you also, Margery,” observed Maria. “I cannot have the trouble of her in the carriage.”
“Ishan’t hinder time,” was Margery’s response. “My bonnet and shawl’s soon put on, ma’am. Come along, child. I’ll dress you at once.”
She went off with Meta, waiting for no further permission. George stepped out on the terrace, to see what Jonathan and David were about. Maria took the opportunity to tell him of the sixty pounds which had come to old Jekyl, and that she had advised its being brought to the Bank to be taken care of.
“What money is it? Where does it come from?” inquired George of the men.
“It’s the money, sir, as was left to father this three years ago, from that dead uncle of ourn,” returned Jonathan. “But the lawyers, sir, they couldn’t agree, and it was never paid over. Now there has been a trial over it, something about the will; and father has had notice that it’s ready for him, all the sixty pound.”
“We will take care of it for him, and pay him interest, tell him, if he chooses to leave it here,” said George.
“I’ll tell him, sure enough, sir. He’s safe to bring it.”
The carriage was at the door in due course, and they were ready. A handsome carriage; acknowledged to be so by even Mrs. Hastings. George came out to hand them in. Miss Meta, a pretty little dressed-up fairy; Margery, plain and old-fashioned; Mrs. Hastings, quiet and ladylike; Maria, beautiful. Her hand lingered in her husband’s.
“I wish you were coming, George,” she bent from the carriage to whisper.
“I am too busy to-day, my dearest.”
Although nearly seven years a wife, the world still contained no idol for Maria like George Godolphin. She loved, respected, reverenced him. Nothing, as yet, had shaken her faith in her husband. The little tales, making free with Mr. George’s name, which would now and then be flying about Prior’s Ash, had never reached the ears of Maria.
They had a seven-mile drive. The Honourable Mrs. Averil, who was growing in years, and had become an invalid, was delighted to see them. She kept them for two or three hours, and wanted to keep them for the day. It was late in the afternoon when they returned to Prior’s Ash.
They met a cavalcade on entering the town. A riding-party, consisting of several ladies and one or two gentlemen, followed by somegrooms. Somewhat apart from the rest, midway between the party and the grooms, rode two abreast, laughing, animated, upon the best of terms with each other. The lady sat her horse unusually well. She was slightly larger, but not a whit less handsome, than on the day you first saw her at the meet of the hounds: Charlotte Pain. He, gay George—for it was no other—was riding carelessly, half turning on his horse, his fair curls bending towards Charlotte.
“Papa! papa!” shrieked out Meta, joyously.
George turned hastily, but the carriage had then passed. So occupied had he been in making himself agreeable that he had positively not seen it. Charlotte had. Charlotte had bowed. Bowed to Maria with a look of cool assurance of triumph—as much as to say, You are sitting alone, and your husband is with me. At least, it might have worn that appearance to one given to flights of fancy, which Maria was not; and she returned the bow with a pleasant smile. She caught George’s eye when he turned, and a flush of pleasure lighted her face. George nodded to her cordially, and raised his hat, sending back a smile at the idea of his not having seen her.
“It was papa, was it not, darling!” said Maria, gleefully, bending over to her little girl.
But Maria did not notice that Margery’s head had given itself a peculiar toss at sight of George’s companion; or that a severe expression had crossed the face of Mrs. Hastings. An expression which she instantly smoothed away, lest Maria should see it.
The fact was, that gossiping Prior’s Ash had for some time coupled together the names of George Godolphin and Charlotte Pain in its usual free manner. No need, one would think, for Mrs. Hastings or Margery to give heed to such tattle: for they knew well what the stories of Prior’s Ash were worth.
The drawing-rooms at Lady Godolphin’s Folly were teeming with light, with noise, with company. The Verralls lived in it still. Lady Godolphin had never given them their dismissal: but they did not spend so much time in it as formerly. London, or elsewhere, appeared to claim them for the greater portion of the year. One year they did not come to it at all. Sometimes only Mrs. Verrall would be sojourning at it; her husband away: indeed, their residence there was most irregular. Mrs. Verrall was away at present: it was said at the seaside.
A dinner-party had taken place that day. A gentleman’s party. It was not often that Mr. Verrall gave one: but when he did so, it was thoroughly well done. George Godolphin did not give better dinners than did Mr. Verrall. The only promised guest who had failed in his attendance was Thomas Godolphin. Very rarely indeed did he accept invitations to the Folly. If there was one man in all the county to whom Mr. Verrall seemed inclined to pay court, to treat with markedconsideration and respect, that man was Thomas Godolphin. Thomas almost always declined; declined courteously; in a manner which could not afford the slightest loophole for offence. He was of quiet habits, not strong in health of late, and though he had to give dinner-parties himself, and attended some of George’s in the way of business, his friends were nearly all kind enough to excuse his frequenting theirs in return.
This time, however, Thomas Godolphin had yielded to Mr. Verrall’s pressing entreaties, made in person, and promised to be present. A promise which was not—as it proved—to be kept. All the rest of the guests had assembled, and they were only waiting the appearance of Mr. Godolphin to sit down, when a hasty note arrived from Janet. Mr. Godolphin had been taken ill in dressing, and was utterly unable to attend. So they dined without him.
Dinner was over now. And the guests, most of them; had gone to the drawing-rooms; teeming, I say, with light, with the hum of many voices—with heat. A few had gone home; a few had taken cigars and were strolling outside the dining-room windows in the moonlight: some were taking coffee; and some were flirting with Charlotte Pain.
Mrs. Pain now, you remember. But Charlotte has worn weeds for her husband since you last saw her, and is free again. About four years after their marriage, the death of Rodolf Pain appeared in the county papers. None of the Verralls were at the Folly at the time; but Charlotte in her widow’s dress came to it almost immediately afterwards, to sob out her sorrow in retirement. Charlotte emerged from her widowhood gayer than before. She rode more horses, she kept more dogs, she astonished Prior’s Ash with her extraordinary modes of attire, she was altogether “faster” than ever. Charlotte had never once visited the neighbourhood during her married life; but she appeared to be inclined to make up for it now, for she chiefly stayed in it. When the Verralls, one or both, would be away, Charlotte remained at the Folly, its mistress. She held her court; she gave entertainments; she visited on her own score. Rumour went that Mrs. Pain had been left very well off: and that she shared with Mr. Verrall the expense of the Folly.
Charlotte managed to steer tolerably clear of ill-natured tongues. Latterly, indeed, people had got to say that Mr. George Godolphin was at the Folly more than he need be. But, it was certain that George and Mr. Verrall were upon most intimate terms: and Mr. Verrall had been staying at the Folly a good deal of late. George of course would have said that his visits there were paid to Mr. Verrall. Charlotte was popular in the neighbourhood, rather than otherwise; with the ladies as well as with the gentlemen.
Resplendent is Charlotte to-night, in a white silk dress with silver spots upon it. It is a really beautiful dress: but one of a quieter kind would have been more suited to this occasion. Charlotte had not appeared at dinner, and there was not the least necessity for embellishing herself in this manner to receive them in the drawing-room. Charlotte was one, however, who did as she pleased; in the matter of dress, as in other things, setting custom and opinion at defiance. Herhair is taken from her face and wound round and round her head artistically, in conjunction with a white and silver wreath. White and silver ornaments are on her neck and arms, and a choice bouquet of white hot-house flowers serves her to toy with. Just now, however, the bouquet is discarded, and lies on the table near her elbow, for her elbow is resting there as she sits. She is coquetting with a white and silver fan, gently wafting it before her face; her sparkling eyes glancing over its rim at a gentleman, who stands, coffee-cup in hand, bending down to her.
It is not George Godolphin. So do not let your imagination run off to him. For all the world saw, George and Charlotte were as decorous in behaviour with each other as need be: and where Prior’s Ash was picking up its ill-natured scandal from, Prior’s Ash best knew. Others talked and laughed with Charlotte as much as George did; rode with her, admired her.
The gentleman, bending down to her now, appears to admire her. A tall, handsome man of eight-and-thirty years, with clearly-cut features, and dark luminous eyes. He is the nephew of that Mrs. Averil to whom Maria and Mrs. Hastings went to pay a visit. He has been away from the neighbourhood, until recently, for nearly three years; and this is the first time he has seen Charlotte at Prior’s Ash since she was Mrs. Pain.
What does Charlotte promise herself by thus flirting with him—by laying out her charms to attract him?—as she is evidently doing. Is she thinking to make a second marriage? to win him, as she once thought to win George Godolphin? Scarcely. One gentleman in the vicinity, who had thrown himself and his fortune at Charlotte’s feet—and, neither fortune nor gentleman could be reckoned despicable—had been rejected with an assurance that she would never marry again; and she spoke it with an earnestness that left no doubt of her sincerity. Charlotte liked her own liberty too well. She was no doubt perfectly aware that every husband would not feel inclined to accord it to her as entirely as had poor Rodolf Pain. He—the one with the coffee-cup in hand, talking to her—is plunging into a sea of blunders. As you may hear, if you listen to what he is saying.
“Yes, I have come back to find many things changed,” he was observing; “things and people. Time, though but a three years’ flight, leaves its mark behind it, Mrs. Pain. If you will allow me to remark it, I would say that you are almost the only one whom it has not changed—except for the better.”
“Your lordship has not lost your talent for flattery, I perceive,” was Charlotte’s rejoinder.
“Nay, but I speak no flattery; I mean what I say,” was the peer’s reply, given in an earnest spirit. He was an admirer of beauty; he admired Charlotte’s: but to flatter was not one of the failings of Lord Averil. Neither had he any ulterior object in view, save that of passing ten minutes of the evening agreeably with Charlotte’s help, ere he took his departure. If Charlotte thought he had, she was mistaken. Lord Averil’s affections and hopes were given to one very different from Charlotte Pain.
“But it must be considerably more than three years since I saw you,”resumed Lord Averil. “It must be—I should think—nearer seven. You did not return to Prior’s Ash—if I remember rightly—after you left it on your marriage.”
“I did not return to it,” replied Charlotte: “but you have seen me since then, Lord Averil. Ah! your memory is treacherous. Don’t you recollect accosting me in Rotten Row? It was soon after you lost your wife.”
Did Charlotte intend that as a shaft? Lord Averil’s cheek burnt as he endeavoured to recall the reminiscence. “I think I remember it,” he slowly said. “It was just before I went abroad. Yes, I do remember it,” he added, after a pause. “You were riding with a young, fair man. And—did you not—really I beg your pardon if I am wrong—did you not introduce him to me as Mr. Pain?”
“It was Mr. Pain,” replied Charlotte.
“I hope he is well. He is not here probably? I did not see him at table, I think.”
Charlotte’s face—I mean its complexion—was got up in the fashion. But the crimson that suffused it would have penetrated all the powder and cosmetics extant, let them have been laid on ever so profusely. She was really agitated: could not for the time speak. Another moment and she turned deadly pale. Let us admire her at any rate, for this feeling shown to her departed husband.
“My husband is dead, Lord Averil.”
Lord Averil felt shocked at his blunder. “You must forgive me,” he said in a gentle voice, his tone, his manner, showing the deepest sympathy. “I had no idea of it. No one has mentioned it to me since my return. The loss, I infer, cannot be a very recent one?”
In point of fact, Mr. Pain’s demise had occurred immediately after the departure of Lord Averil from England. Charlotte is telling him so. It could not, she thinks, have been more than a week or two subsequent to it.
“Then he could not have been ill long,” remarked his lordship. “What was the cause——?”
“Oh pray do not make me recall it!” interrupted Charlotte in a tone of pain. “He died suddenly: but—it was altogether very distressing. Distressing to me, and distressing in its attendant circumstances.”
An idea flashed over the mind of Lord Averil that the circumstances of the death must have been peculiar: in short, that Mr. Pain might have committed suicide. If he was wrong, Charlotte’s manner was to blame. It was from that he gathered the thought. That the subject was a most unwelcome one, there could be no doubt; she palpably shrank from it.
Murmuring again a few clear words of considerate apology, Lord Averil changed the conversation, and presently said adieu to Charlotte.
“You surely are not thinking of going yet?” cried Charlotte, retaining his hand, and recovering all her lightness of manner. “They are setting out the whist-tables.”
“I do not play. I have a visit to pay yet to a sick friend,” he added, glancing at his watch. “I shall still be in time.”
“But I do not think your carriage is here,” urged Charlotte, who would fain have detained him.
“I am sure it is not here,” was the peer’s answer. “I did not order it to come for me. It is a fine night, and I shall walk to Prior’s Ash.”
He looked round for Mr. Verrall. He could not see him. In at one room, in at another, looked he; out upon the terrace, before the dining-room window, amidst the smokers. But there was no Mr. Verrall: and Lord Averil, impatient to be gone, finally departed without wishing his host good night.
Mr. Verrall had strolled out into the moonlight, and was in low, earnest conversation with George Godolphin. They had got as far as that stream on which you saw George rowing the day of Mrs. Verrall’s fête, when he so nearly caught his death. Standing on the arched wooden bridge, which crossed it to the mock island, they leaned forward, their arms on the rails. Mr. Verrall was smoking; George Godolphin appeared to be too ill at ease to smoke. His brow was knit; his face hot with care. As fast as he wiped the drops from his brow they gathered there again.
“Don’t worry, lad,” said Mr. Verrall. “It always has come right, and it will come right now. Never fear. You will receive news from London to-morrow; there’s little doubt of it.”
“But it ought to have come to-day, Verrall.”
“It will come to-morrow, safe enough. And—you know that you may always count upon me.”
“I know I may. But look at the awful cost, Verrall.”
“Pooh, pooh! What has put you in this mood to-night?”
“I don’t know,” said George, wiping the damp from his brow. “Not hearing from town, I think. Verrall!”
“What?”
“Suppose, when I do hear, it should not be favourable? I feel in a fever when I think of it.”
“You took too much of that heating port this evening,” said Mr. Verrall.
“I dare say I did,” returned George. “A man at ease may let the wine pass him: but one worried to death is glad of it to drown care.”
“Worried to death!” repeated Mr. Verrall in a reproving tone.
“Next door to it. Look there! They have tracked us and are coming in search.”
Two or three dark forms were discerned in the distance, nearer the Folly. Mr. Verrall passed his arm within George Godolphin’s and led him towards the house.
“I think I’ll go home,” said George. “I am not company for a dog to-night.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Verrall. “The tables are ready. I want to give you your revenge.”
For once in his life—and it was a notable exception—George Godolphin actually resisted the temptation of the “tables;” the chance of “revenge.” He had a heavy trouble upon him; a great fear; perhaps more than Mr. Verrall knew of. Ay, he had! But who would have suspected it of gay, careless George, who had been so brilliant at the dinner-table? He forswore for that one night the attractions of the Folly, including syren Charlotte, and went straight home.
It was not much past ten when he reached the Bank. Maria wasastonished: the Verrall dinner-parties were generally late affairs. She was sitting alone, reading. In her glad surprise she ran to him with an exclamation of welcome.
George pressed her tenderly to him, and his manner was gay and careless again. Whatever scandal Prior’s Ash might choose to talk of George, he had not yet begun to neglect his wife.
“It was rather humdrum, darling, and I got tired,” he said in answer to her questions. “What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been alone all the evening?”
“Since mamma left. She went home after tea. George, I want to tell you something mamma has been talking of; has been suggesting.”
George stretched himself on the sofa, as if he were weary. Maria edged herself on to it, and sat facing him, holding his hand while she talked.
“It was the new carriage that brought the subject up, George. Mamma introduced it this morning. She says we are living at too great an expense; that we ought not to spend more than half as much as we do——”
“What?” shouted George, starting up from the sofa as if he had been electrified.
Maria felt electrified; electrified by the sudden movement, the word, the tone of anger. Nay, it was not anger alone that it bore, but dismay; fear—she could hardly tell what sound. “George,” she gasped, “what is the matter?”
“Tell me what it is that Mrs. Hastings has been saying?”
“George, I think you must have mistaken my words,” was all that Maria could reply in the first moment, feeling truly uncomfortable. “Mamma said this morning that it was a pity we did not live at less expense, and save money; that it would be desirable for the sake of Meta and any other children we may have. I said I thought it would be desirable, and that I would suggest it to you. That was all.”
George gazed at Maria searchingly for the space of a minute or two. “Has Prior’s Ash been saying this?”
“Oh no.”
“Good. Tell Mrs. Hastings, Maria, that we are capable of managing our own affairs without interference. I do not desire it, nor will I admit it.”
Maria sat down to the table with her book; the one she had been reading when George came in. She put up her hands, as if absorbed in reading, but her tears were falling. She had never had an ill word with her husband; had never had any symptom of estrangement with him; and she could not bear this. George lay on the sofa, his lips compressed. Maria rose, in her loving, affectionate nature, and stood before him.
“George, I am sure mamma never meant to interfere; she would not do such a thing. What she said arose from anxiety for our interests. I am so sorry to have offended you,” she added, the tears falling fast.
A repentant fit had come over him. He drew his wife’s face down on his own and kissed its tears away. “Forgive me, my dearest; I was wrong to speak crossly toyou. A splitting headache has put meout of sorts, and I was vexed to hear that people were commenting on our private affairs. Nothing could annoy me half so much.”
Maria wondered why. But she fully resolved that it should be the last time she would hint at such a thing as economy. Of course her husband knew his own business best.
We must turn to Ashlydyat, and go back to a little earlier in the evening. Miss Godolphin’s note to the Folly had stated that her brother had been taken ill while dressing for Mr. Verrall’s dinner-party. It was correct. Thomas Godolphin was alone in his room, ready, when he was attacked by a sharp internal paroxysm of agony. He hastily sat down: a cry escaped his lips, and drops of water gathered on his brow.
Alone he bore it, calling for no aid. In a few minutes the pain had partially passed, and he rang for his servant. An old man now, that servant: he had for years attended on Sir George Godolphin.
“Bexley, I have been ill again,” said Thomas, quietly. “Will you ask Miss Godolphin to write a line to Mr. Verrall, saying that I am unable to attend.”
Bexley cast a strangely yearning look on the pale, suffering face of his master. He had seen him in these paroxysms once or twice. “I wish you would have Mr. Snow called in, sir!” he cried.
“I think I shall. He may give me some ease, possibly. Take my message to your mistress, Bexley.”
The effect of the message was to bring Janet to the room. “Taken ill! a sharp inward pain!” she was repeating, after Bexley. “Thomas, what sort of a pain is it? It seems to me that you have had the same before lately.”
“Write a few words the first thing, will you, Janet? I should not like to keep them waiting for me.”
Janet, punctilious as Thomas, considerate as he was for others, sat down and wrote the note, despatching it at once by Andrew, one of the serving men. Few might have set about and done it so calmly as Janet, considering that she had a great fear thumping at her heart. A fear which had never penetrated it until this moment. With something very like sickness, had flashed into her memory their mother’s pain. A sharp, agonizing pain had occasionally attackedher, the symptom of the inward malady of which she had died. Was the same fatal malady attacking Thomas? The doctors had expressed their fears then that it might prove hereditary.
In the corridor, as Janet was going back to Thomas’s room, the note despatched, she encountered Bexley. The sad, apprehensive look in the old man’s face struck her. She touched his arm, and beckoned him into an empty room.
“What is it that is the matter with your master?”
“I don’t know,” was the answer: but the words were spoken in a tone which caused Janet to think that the old man was awake to the same fears that she was. “Miss Janet, I am afraid to think what it may be.”
“Is he often ill like this?”
“I know but of a time or two, ma’am. But that’s a time or two too many.”
Janet returned to the room. Thomas was leaning back in his chair, his face ghastly, his hands fallen, prostrate altogether from the effects of the agony. Things were coming into her mind one by one: how much time Thomas had spent in his own room of late; how seldom, comparatively speaking, he went to the Bank; how often he had the brougham, instead of walking, when he did go to it. Once—why, it was only this very last Sunday!—he had not gone near church all day long. Janet’s fears grew into certainties.
She took a chair, drawing it nearer to Thomas. Not speaking of her fears, but asking him in a soothing tone how he felt, and what had caused his illness. “Have you had the same pain before?” she continued.
“Several times,” he answered. “But it has been worse to-night than I have previously felt it. Janet, I fear it may be the forerunner of my call. I did not think to leave you so soon.”
Except that Janet’s face went almost as pale as his, and that her fingers entwined themselves together so tightly as to cause pain, there was no outward sign of the grief that laid hold of her heart.
“Thomas, what is the complaint that you are fearing?” she asked, after a pause. “The same that—that——”
“That my mother had,” he quietly answered, speaking the words that Janet would not speak.
“It may not be so,” gasped Janet.
“True. But I think it is.”
“Why have you never spoken of this?”
“Because, until to-night, I have doubted whether it was so, or not. A suspicion, that it might be so, certainly was upon me: but it amounted to no more than suspicion. At times, when I feel quite well, I argue that I must be wrong.”
“Have you consulted Mr. Snow?”
“I am going to do so now. I have desired Bexley to send for him.”
“It should have been done before, Thomas.”
“Why? If it is as I suspect, neither Snow nor all his brethren can save me.”
Janet clasped her hands upon her knee, and sat with her head bent. She was feeling the communication in all its bitter force. It seemed that the only one left on earth with whom she could sympathize was Thomas: and now perhaps he was going! Bessy, George, Cecil, all were younger, all had their own pursuits and interests; George had his new ties; but she and Thomas seemed to stand alone. With the deep sorrow for him, the brother whom she dearly loved, came other considerations, impossible not to occur to a practical, foreseeing mind such as Janet’s. With Thomas they should lose Ashlydyat. George would come into possession: and George’s ways were so different from theirs,that it would seem to be no longer in the family. What would George make of it? A gay, frequented place, as the Verralls—when they were at home—made of Lady Godolphin’s Folly? Janet’s cheeks flushed at the idea of such degeneracy for stately Ashlydyat. However it might be, whether George turned it into an ever-open house, or shut it up as a nunnery, it would be alike lost to all the rest of them. She and her sisters must turn from it once again and for ever; George, his wife, and his children, would reign there.
Janet Godolphin did not rebel at this; she would not have had it otherwise. Failing Thomas, George was the fit and proper representative of Ashlydyat. But the fact could but strike upon her now with gloom. All things wore a gloomy hue to her in that unhappy moment.
It would cause changes at the Bank, too. At least, Janet thought it probable that it might do so. Could George carry on that extensive concern himself? Would the public be satisfied with gay George for its sole head?—would they accord him the confidence they had given Thomas? These old retainers, too! If she and her sisters quitted Ashlydyat, they must part with them: leave them to serve George.
Such considerations passed rapidly through her imagination. It could not well be otherwise. Would they really come to pass? She looked at Thomas, as if seeking in his face the answer to the doubt.
His elbow on the arm of his chair, and his temples pressed upon his hand, sat Thomas; his mind in as deep a reverie as Janet’s. Where was it straying to? To the remembrance of Ethel?—of the day that he had stood over her grave when they were placing her in it? Had the time indeed come, or nearly come, to which he had, from that hour, looked forward?—the time of his joining her? He had never lost the vision: and perhaps the fiat, death, could have come to few who would meet it so serenely as Thomas Godolphin. It would scarcely be right to saywelcomeit; but, certain it was that the prospect was one of pleasantness rather than of pain to him. To one who has lived near to God on earth, the anticipation of the great change can bring no dismay. It brought none to Thomas Godolphin.
But Thomas Godolphin had not done with earth and its cares yet.
Bessy Godolphin was away from home that week. She had gone to spend it with some friends at a few miles’ distance. Cecil was alone when Janet returned to the drawing-room. She had no suspicion of the sorrow that was overhanging the house. She had not seen Thomas go to the Folly, and felt surprised at his tardiness.
“How late he will be, Janet!”
“Who? Thomas! He is not going. He is not very well this evening,” was the reply.
Cecil thought nothing of it. How should she? Janet buried her fears within her, and said no more.
One was to dine at Lady Godolphin’s Folly that night, who absorbed all Cecil’s thoughts. Cecil Godolphin had had her romance in life; as so many have it. It had been partially played out years ago. Not quite. Its sequel had still to come. She sat there listlessly; her pretty hands resting inertly on her knee, her beautiful face tinged with the setting sunlight; sat there thinking of him—Lord Averil.
A romance it had really been. Cecil Godolphin had paid a long visit to the Honourable Mrs. Averil, some three or four years ago. She, Mrs. Averil, was in health then, fond of gaiety, and her house had many visitors. Amidst others, staying there, was Lord Averil: and before he and Cecil knew well what they were about, they had learned to love each other. Lord Averil was the first to awake from the pleasant dream: to know what it meant; and he discreetly withdrew himself out of harm’s way. Harm only to himself, as he supposed: he never suspected that the same love had won its way to Cecil Godolphin. A strictly honourable man, he would have been ready to kill himself in self-condemnation had he suspected that it had. Not until he had gone, did it come out to Cecil that he was a married man. When only eighteen years of age he had been drawn into one of those unequal and unhappy alliances that can only bring a flush to the brow in after-years. Many a hundred times had it dyed that of Lord Averil. Before he was twenty years of age, he had separated from his wife; when pretty Cecil was yet a child: and the next ten years he had spent abroad, striving to outlive its remembrance. His own family, you may be sure, did not pain him by alluding to it, then, or after his return. He had no residence now in the neighbourhood of Prior’s Ash: he had sold it years ago. When he visited the spot, it was chiefly as the guest of Colonel Max, the master of the fox-hounds: and in that way he had made the acquaintance of Charlotte Pain. Thus it happened, when Cecil met him at Mrs. Averil’s, that she knew nothing of his being a married man. On Mrs. Averil’s part, she never supposed that Cecil did not know it. Lord Averil supposed she knew it: and little enough in his own eyes has he looked in her presence, when the thought would flash over him, “How she must despise me for my mad folly!” He had learned to love her; to love her passionately: never so much as glancing at the thought that it could be reciprocated. He, a married man! But this folly was no less mad than the other had been, and Lord Averil had the sense to remove himself from it.
A day or two after his departure, Mrs. Averil received a letter from him. Cecil was in her dressing-room when she read it.
“How strange!” was the comment of Mrs. Averil. “What do you think, Cecil?” she added, lowering her voice. “When he reached town there was a communication waiting for him at his house, saying that his wife was dying, and praying him to go and see her.”
“His wife?” echoed Cecil. “Whose wife?”
“Lord Averil’s. Have you forgotten that he had a wife? I wish we could all really forget it. It has been the blight of his life.”
Cecil had discretion enough left in that unhappy moment not to betray that she had been ignorant of the fact. When her burning cheeks had a little cooled, she turned from the window where she had been hiding them, and escaped to her own room. The revelation had betrayed to her the secret of her own feelings for Lord Averil; and in her pride and rectitude, she thought she should have died.
A day or two more, and Lord Averil was a widower. He suffered some months to elapse, and then came to Prior’s Ash, his object being Cecil Godolphin. He stayed at an hotel, and was a frequent visitor at Ashlydyat. Cecil believed that he meant to ask her to be his wife;and Cecil was not wrong. She could give herself up now to the full joy of loving him.
Busy tongues, belonging to some young ladies who boasted more wit than discretion, hinted something of this to Cecil. Cecil, in her vexation at having her private feelings suspected, spoke slightingly of Lord Averil. “Did they thinkshewould stoop to a widower; to one who had made himself so notorious by his first marriage?” she asked. And this, word for word, was repeated to Lord Averil.
It was repeated to him by those false friends, and Cecil’s haughty manner, as she spoke it, offensively commented upon. Lord Averil fully believed it. He judged that he had no chance with Cecil Godolphin; and, without speaking to her of what had been his intentions, he again left.
But now, no suspicion of this conversation having been repeated to him, ever reached Cecil. She deemed his behaviour very bad. Whatever restraint he may have placed upon his manner towards her, when at Mrs. Averil’s, he had been open enough since: and Cecil could only believe his conduct unjustifiable—the result of fickleness. She resolved to forget him.
But she had not done so yet. All this long time since, nearly three years, had Cecil been trying to do it, and it was not yet accomplished. She had received an offer from a young and handsome earl; it would have been a match in every way desirable: but poor Cecil found that Lord Averil was too deeply seated in her heart for her to admit thought of another. And now Lord Averil was back again at Prior’s Ash; and, as Cecil had heard, was to dine that day at Lady Godolphin’s Folly. He had called at Ashlydyat since his return, but she was out.
She sat there, thinking of him: her feeling against him chiefly that of anger. She believed to this hour that he had used her ill; that his behaviour had been unbecoming a gentleman.
Her reflections were disturbed by the appearance of Mr. Snow. It was growing dusk then, and she wondered what brought him there so late: in fact, what brought him there at all. She turned and asked the question of Janet.
“He has come to see Thomas,” replied Janet. And Cecil noticed that her sister was sitting in a strangely still attitude, her head bowed down. But she did not connect it with its true cause. It was nothing unusual to see Janet lost in deep thought.
“What is the matter with Thomas, that Mr. Snow should come now?” inquired Cecil.
“He did not feel well, and sent for him.”
It was all that Janet answered. And Cecil continued in blissful ignorance of anything being wrong, and resumed her reflections on Lord Averil.
Janet saw Mr. Snow before he went away. Afterwards she went to Thomas’s room, and remained in it. Cecil stayed in the drawing-room, buried in her dream. The room was lighted, but the blinds were not drawn. Cecil was at the window, looking out into the bright moonlight.
It must have been growing quite late when she discerned some one approaching Ashlydyat, on the road from Lady Godolphin’s Folly.From the height she fancied at first that it might be George; but as the figure drew nearer, her heart gave a bound, and she saw that it was he upon whom her thoughts had been fixed.
Yes, it was Lord Averil. When he mentioned to Charlotte Pain that he had a visit yet to pay to a sick friend, he had alluded to Thomas Godolphin. Lord Averil, since his return, had been struck with the change in Thomas Godolphin. It was more perceptible to him than to those who saw Thomas habitually. And when the apology came for Mr. Godolphin’s absence, Lord Averil determined to call upon him that night. Though, in talking to Mrs. Pain, he almost let the time for it slip by.
Cecil rose up when he entered. In broad daylight he might have seen beyond doubt her changing face, telling of emotion. Was he mistaken, in fancying that she was agitated? His pulses quickened at the thought: for Cecil was as dear to him as she had ever been.
“Will you pardon my intrusion at this hour?” he asked, taking her hand, and bending towards her with his sweet smile. “It is later than I thought it was”—in truth, ten was striking that moment from the hall clock. “I was concerned to hear of Mr. Godolphin’s illness, and wished to ascertain how he was, before returning to Prior’s Ash.”
“He has kept his room this evening,” replied Cecil. “My sister is sitting with him. I do not think it is anything serious. But he has not appeared very well of late.”
“Indeed I trust it is nothing serious,” warmly responded Lord Averil.
Cecil fell into silence. She supposed they had told Janet of the visit, and that she would be coming in. Lord Averil went to the window.
“The same charming scene!” he exclaimed. “I think the moonlight view from this window most beautiful. The dark trees, and the white walls of Lady Godolphin’s Folly, rising there, remain on my memory as a painted scene.”
He folded his arms and stood there, gazing still. Cecil stole a look up at him: at his pale, attractive face, with its expression of care. She had wondered once why that look of care should be conspicuous there; but not after she became acquainted with his domestic history.
“Have you returned to England to remain, Lord Averil?”
The question awoke him from his reverie. He turned to Cecil, and a sudden impulse prompted him to stake his fate on the die of the moment. It was not a lucky throw.
“I would remain if I could induce one to share my name and home. Forgive me, Cecil, if I anger you by thus hastily speaking. Will you forget the past, and helpmeto forget it?—will you let me make you my dear wife?”
In saying “Will you forget the past,” Lord Averil had alluded to his first marriage. In his extreme sensitiveness upon that point, he doubted whether Cecil might not object to succeed the dead Lady Averil: he believed those hasty and ill-natured words, reported to him as having been spoken by her, bore upon that sore point alone. Cecil, on the contrary, assumed that her forgetfulness was asked for his own behaviour to her, in so far as that he had gone away and left her withoutword or explanation. She grew quite pale with anger. Lord Averil resumed, his manner earnest, his voice low and tender.
“I have loved you, Cecil, from the first day that I saw you at Mrs. Averil’s. I dragged myself away from the place, because I loved you, fearing lest you might come to see my folly. It was worse than folly then, for I was not a free man. I have gone on loving you more and more, from that time to this. I went abroad this last time hoping to forget you; striving to forget you; but I cannot do it, and the love has only become stronger. Forgive, I say, my urging it upon you in this moment’s impulse.”
Poor Cecil was all at sea. “Went abroad, hoping to forget her; striving to forget her!” It was worse and worse. She flung his hand away.
“Oh, Cecil! can you not love me?” he exclaimed in agitation. “Will you not give me hope that you will sometime be my wife?”
“No, I cannot love you. I will not give you hope. I would rather marry any one in the world than you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Lord Averil!”
Not a very dignified rejoinder. And Cecil, what with anger, what withlove, burst into even less dignified tears, and left the room in a passion. Lord Averil bit his lips to pain.
Janet entered, unsuspicious. He turned from the window, and smoothed his brow, gathering what equanimity he could, as he proceeded to inquire after Mr. Godolphin.