by Ellen Wood
The evening passed on. Some of the gentlemen were solacing themselves with a cup of coffee, when the butler slipped a note into his master’s hand. “The man waits for an answer, sir,” he whispered. And George glided out of the room, and opened the note.
“Dear Godolphin,
“I am ill and lonely, and have halted here midway in my journey for a night’s rest before going on again, which I must do at six in the morning. Come in for half an hour — there’s a good fellow! I don’t know when we may meet again. The regiment embarks to-morrow; and can’t embark without me. Come at once, or I shall be gone to bed.
“G. St. Aubyn.”
One burning, almost irrepressible desire had hung over George all the evening — that he could run up to Verrall’s and learn the cause of his absence. Mr. Verrall’s absence in itself would not in the least have troubled George; but he had a most urgent reason for wishing to see him: hence his anxiety. To leave his guests to themselves would have been scarcely the thing to do: but this note appeared to afford just the excuse wanted. At any rate, George determined to make it an excuse. The note was dated from the principal inn of the place.
“One of the waiters brought this, I suppose, Pierce?” he said to the butler.
“Yes, sir.”
“My compliments, and I will be with Captain St. Aubyn directly.”
George went into the room again, and drew his brother aside.
“Thomas, you’ll be host for me for half an hour,” he whispered. “St. Aubyn has just sent me an urgent summons to go and see him at the Bell. He was passing through Prior’s Ash, and is forced to halt and lie up: he’s very ill. I’ll soon be back again.”
Away he went. Thomas felt unusually well that evening, and exerted himself for his brother. Once out of the house, George hesitated. Should he dash up to Lady Godolphin’s Folly first, and ease his mind, or should he go first to the Bell? The Bell was very near, but in the opposite direction to Ashlydyat. He turned first to the Bell, and was soon in the presence of Captain St. Aubyn, an old friend, now bound for Malta.
“I am sorry to have sent for you,” exclaimed Captain St. Aubyn, holding out his hand to George. “I hear you have friends this evening.”
“It is just the kindest thing you could have done,” impulsively answered George. “I would have given a five-pound note out of my pocket for a plea to absent myself; and your letter came and afforded it.”
What more he chose to explain was between themselves: it was not much: and in five minutes George was on his way to Lady Godolphin’s Folly. On he strode, his eager feet scarcely touching the ground. He lifted his hat and bared his brow, hot with anxiety, to the night air. It was a very light night, the moon high: and, as George pushed on through the dark grove of the Folly, he saw Charlotte Pain emerging from the same at a little distance, a dark shawl, or mantle, thrown completely over her head and figure, apparently for the purpose of disguise or concealment. Her face was turned for a moment towards the moonlight, and there was no mistaking the features of Charlotte Pain. Then she crouched down, and sped along under the friendly cover of the trees. George hastened to overtake her.
But when he got up with her, as he thought, there was no Charlotte there. There was no any one. Where had she crept to? How had she disappeared? She must have plunged into the trees again. But George was in too much haste then to see Mr. Verrall, to puzzle himself about Charlotte. He crossed to the terrace, and rang the bell.
Were the servants making merry? He had to ring again. A tolerable peal this time. Its echoes might have been heard at Ashlydyat.
“Is Mr. Verrall at home?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Pain is.”
“Mrs. Pain is not,” thought George to himself. But he followed the man to the drawing-room.
To his indescribable astonishment, there sat Charlotte, at work. She was in evening dress, her gown and hair interlaced with jewels. Calmly and quietly sat she, very quietly for her, her King Charley reposing upon a chair at her side, fast asleep. It was next to impossible to fancy, or believe, that she could have been outside a minute or two ago, racing in and out of the trees, as if dodging some one, perhaps himself. And yet, had it been necessary, George thought he could have sworn that the face he saw was the face of Charlotte. So bewildered did he feel, as to be diverted for a moment from the business which had brought him there.
“You may well be surprised!” cried Charlotte, looking at him; and George noticed as she spoke that there was some peculiar expression in her face not usual to it. “To see me at work is one of the world’s wonders. A crochet mat took my fancy to-day in a shop, and I bought it, thinking I would make one like it. Instead of making one, I have managed to unravel the other.”
She pointed to the ground as she spoke. There, half covered by her dress, lay a heap of crinkled cotton; no doubt the unravelled mat. Charlotte was plying her needle again with assiduity, her eyes studying the instructions at her elbow.
“How very quickly you must have come in!” exclaimed George.
“Come in from where?” asked Charlotte.
“As I went up to the door, I saw you stooping near the grove on the left, something dark over your head.”
“You dreamt it,” said Charlotte. “I have not been out.”
“But I certainly did see you,” repeated George. “I could not be mistaken. You — were I fanciful, Charlotte, I should say you were in mischief, and wanted to escape observation. You were stooping under the shade of the trees and running along quickly.”
Charlotte lifted her face and looked at him with wondering eyes. “Are you joking, or are you in earnest?” asked she.
“I never was more in earnest in my life. I could have staked my existence upon its being you.”
“Then I assure you I have not stirred out of this room since I came into it from dinner. What possessed me to try this senseless work, I cannot tell,” she added, flinging it across the floor in a momentary accession of temper. “It has given me a headache, and they brought me some tea.”
“You are looking very poorly,” remarked George.
“Am I? I don’t often have such a headache as this. The pain is here, over my left temple. Bathe it for me, will you, George?”
A handkerchief and some eau-de-Cologne were lying on the table beside her. George gallantly undertook the office: but he could not get over his wonder. “I’ll tell you what, Charlotte. If it was not yourself, it must have been your — —”
“It must have been my old blind black dog,” interrupted Charlotte. “He has a habit of creeping about the trees at night. There! I am sure that’s near enough. I don’t believe it was anything or any one.”
“Your double, I was going to say,” persisted George. “I never saw your face if I did not think I saw it then. It proves how mistaken we may be. Where’s Verrall? A pretty trick he played me this evening.”
“What trick?” repeated Charlotte. “Verrall’s gone to London.”
“Gone to London!” shouted George, his tone one of painful dismay. “It cannot be.”
“It is,” said Charlotte. “When I came in from our ride I found Verrall going off by train. He had received a telegraphic message, which took him away.”
“Why did he not call upon me? He knew — he knew — the necessity there was for me to see him. He ought to have come to me.”
“I suppose he was in a hurry to catch the train,” said Charlotte.
“Why did he not send?”
“He did send. I heard him send a verbal message by one of the servants, to the effect that he was summoned unexpectedly to London, and could not, therefore, attend your dinner. How early you have broken up!”
“We have not broken up. I left my guests to see after Verrall. No message was brought to me.”
“Then I will inquire,” began Charlotte, rising. George gently pushed her back.
“It is of little consequence,” he said. “It might have saved me some suspense; but I am glad I got dinner over without knowing it. I must s
ee Verrall.”
Charlotte carried her point, and rang the bell. “If you are glad, George, it is no extenuation for the negligence of the servants. They may be forgetting some message of more importance, if they are left unreproved now.”
But forgotten the message had not been. The servant, it appeared, had misunderstood his master, and carried the message to Ashlydyat, instead of to the Bank.
“How very stupid he must have been!” remarked Charlotte to George, when the explanation was given. “I think some people have only half their share of brains.”
“Charlotte, I must see Verrall. I received a letter this evening from London which I ought to have had yesterday, and it has driven me to my wits’ end.”
“About the old business?” questioned Charlotte.
“Just so. Look here.”
He took the letter from his pocket: the letter brought back to him by Isaac Hastings, and which he had assured Maria had not contained bad news: opened it, and handed it to Charlotte for her perusal. Better, possibly, for Mr. George Godolphin that he had made a bosom friend of his wife than of Charlotte Pain! Better for gentlemen in general, it may be, that they should tell their secrets to their wives than to their wives’ would-be rivals — however comprehensive the fascinations of these latter ladies may be. George, however, had made his own bed, as we all do; and George would have to lie upon it.
“What am I to do, Charlotte?”
Charlotte sat bending over the note, and pressing her forehead. Her look was one of perplexity; perplexity great as George’s.
“It is a dangerous position,” she said at length. “If not averted — —”
She came to a dead pause, and their eyes met.
“Ay!” he repeated— “if not averted! Nothing would remain for me but — —”
“Hush, George,” said she, laying her hand upon his lips, and then letting it fall upon his fingers, where it remained.
There they sat, it is hard to say how long, their heads together, talking earnestly. Charlotte was in his full confidence. Whatever may have been the nature, the depth of his perplexities, she fathomed them. At length George sprang up with a start.
“I am forgetting everything. I forgot those people were still at home, waiting for me. Charlotte, I must go.”
She rose, put her arm within his, and took a step with him, as if she would herself let him out. Perhaps she was in the habit of letting him out.
“Not there! not that way!” she abruptly said, for George was turning to unclose the shutters of the window. “Come into the next room, and I’ll open that.”
The next room was in darkness. They opened the window, and stood yet a minute within the room, talking anxiously still. Then he left her, and went forth.
He intended to take the lonely road homewards, as being the nearer; that dark, narrow road you may remember to have heard of, where the ash-trees met overhead, and, as report went, a ghost was in the habit of taking walking exercise by night. George had no thought for ghosts just then: he had a “ghost” within him, frightful enough to scare away a whole lane full of the others. Nevertheless, George Godolphin did take a step backward with a start, when, just within the Ash-tree Walk, after passing the turnstile, there came a dismal groan from some dark figure seated on a broken bench.
It was all dark together there. The ash-trees hid the moon; George had just emerged from where her beams shone bright and open; and not at first did he distinguish who was sitting there. But his eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity.
“Thomas!” he cried, in consternation. “Is it you?”
For answer, Thomas Godolphin caught hold of his brother, bent forward, and laid his forehead upon George’s arm, another deep groan breaking from him.
That George Godolphin would rather have been waylaid by a real ghost, than by his brother at that particular time and place, was certain. Better that the whole world should detect any undue anxiety for Mr. Verrall’s companionship just then, than that Thomas Godolphin should do so. At least, George thought so: but conscience makes cowards of us all. Nevertheless, he gave his earnest sympathy to his brother.
“Lean on me, Thomas. Let me support you. How have you been taken ill?”
Another minute, and the paroxysm was past. Thomas wiped the dew from his brow, and George sat down on the narrow bench beside him.
“How came you to be here alone, Thomas? Where is your carriage?”
“I ordered the carriage early, and it came just as you had gone out,” explained Thomas. “Feeling well, I sent it away as I had to wait, saying I would walk home. The pain overtook me just as I reached this spot, and but for the bench I should have fallen. But, George, what brings you here?” was the next very natural question. “You told me you were going to the Bell?”
“So I was; so I did,” said George, speaking volubly. “St. Aubyn I found very poorly; I told him he would be best in bed, and came away. It was a nice night; I felt inclined for a run, so I came up here to ask Verrall what had kept him from dinner. He was sent for to London, it seems, and the stupid servant took his apology to Ashlydyat, instead of to the Bank.”
Thomas Godolphin might well have rejoined, “If Verrall is away, where have you stopped?” But he made no remark.
“Have they all gone?” asked George, alluding to his guests.
“They have all gone. I made it right with them respecting your absence. My being there was almost the same thing: they appeared to regard it so. George, I believe I must have your arm as far as the house. See what an old man I am getting.”
“Will you not rest longer? I am in no hurry, as they have left. What can this pain be, that seems to be attacking you of late?”
“Has it never occurred to you what it may be?” quietly rejoined Thomas.
“No,” replied George. But he noticed that Thomas’s tone was, peculiar, and he began to run over in his own mind all the pharmacopoeia of ailments that flesh is heir to. “It cannot be rheumatism, Thomas?”
“It is something worse than rheumatism,” said Thomas, in his serene, ever-thoughtful way. “A short time, George, and you will be master of Ashlydyat.”
George’s heart seemed to stand still, and then bound onwards in a tumult. The words struck upon every chord of feeling he possessed — struck from more causes than one.
“What do you mean, Thomas? What do you fear may be the matter with you?”
“Do you remember what killed our mother?”
There was a painful pause. “Oh, Thomas!”
“It is so,” said Thomas, quietly.
“I hope you are mistaken! I hope you are mistaken!” reiterated George. “Have you had advice? You must have advice.”
“I have had it. Snow confirms my own suspicions. I desired the truth.”
“Who’s Snow?” returned George, disparagingly. “Go up to London, Thomas; consult the best man there. Or telegraph for one of them to come down to you.”
“For the satisfaction of you all, I may do so,” he replied. “But it cannot benefit me, George.”
“Good Heavens, what a dreadful thing!” returned George, with feeling. “What a blow to fall upon you!”
“You would regard it so, were it to fall upon you; and naturally. You are young, joyous; you have your wife and child. I have none of these attributes: and — if I had them all, we are in the hands of One who knows what is best for us.”
George Godolphin did not feel very joyous just then: had not felt particularly joyous for a long time. Somehow, his own inward care was more palpable to him than this news, sad though it was, imparted by his brother. He lifted his right hand to his temples and kept it there. Thomas suffered his right hand to fall upon George’s left, which rested on his knee. A more holy contact than that imparted by Mrs. Charlotte Pain’s.
“Don’t grieve, George. I am more than resigned. I think of it as a happy change. This world, taken at its best, is full of care: if we seem free from it one year, it only falls upon us more unsparingly the next. It is wisely ordered:
were earth made too pleasant for us, we might be wishing that it could be permanently our home.”
Heaven knew that George had enough care upon him. He knew it. But he was not weary of the world. Few do weary of it, whatever may be their care, until they have learned to look for a better.
“In the days gone by, I have felt tempted to wonder why Ethel should have been taken,” resumed Thomas Godolphin. “I see now how merciful was the fiat, George. I have been more thoughtful, more observant, perhaps, than many are; and I have learnt to see, to know, how marvellously all these fiats are fraught with mercy; full of gloom as they may seem to us. It would have been a bitter trial to me to leave her here unprotected; in deep sorrow; perhaps with young children. I scarcely think I could have been reconciled to go; and I know what her grief would have been. All’s for the best.”
Most rare was it for undemonstrative Thomas Godolphin thus to express his hidden sentiments. George never knew him to do so before. Time and place were peculiarly fitted for it: the still, light night, telling of peace; the dark trees around, the blue sky overhead. In these paroxysms of disease, Thomas felt brought almost face to face with death.
“It will be a blow to Janet!” exclaimed George, the thought striking him.
“She will feel it as one.”
“Thomas! can nothing be done for you?” was the impulsive rejoinder, spoken in all hearty good-feeling.
“Could it be done for my mother, George?”
“I know. But, since then, science has made strides. Diseases, once deemed incurable, yield now to skill and enlightenment. I wish you would go to London!”
“There are some few diseases which bring death with them, in spite of human skill: will bring it to the end of time,” rejoined Thomas Godolphin. “This is one of them.”
“Well, Thomas, you have given me my pill for to-night: and for a great many more nights, and days too. I wish I had not heard it! But that, you will say, is a wish savouring only of selfishness. It is a dreadful affliction for you! Thomas, I must say it — a dreadful affliction.”
“The disease, or the ending, do you mean?” Thomas asked, with a smile.