Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Oh, if she could only redeem the past, so far as they were concerned! It seemed that that would be enough. If she could only restore peace and comfort to their home, refund to her father what he had lost, how thankful she should be! She would move heaven and earth if that might accomplish it, — she would spend her own days in the workhouse, — pass them by a roadside hedge, and think nothing of it — if by those means she could remove the wrong done. She lifted her eyes to the blue sky, almost asking that a miracle might be wrought, to repair the injury which had been dealt out to her father. Ah me! if Heaven repaired all the injuries inflicted by man upon man, it would surely have no time for other works of mercy!

  CHAPTER XXV. IN THE STREETS OF PRIOR’S ASH.

  Barely had Maria departed and closed the Rectory gate behind her, when she encountered a stylish vehicle dashing along at an alarming pace, with a couple of frantic dogs behind it. It was that “turn-out” you have heard of, belonging to Mrs. Charlotte Pain. Mrs. Charlotte Pain was in it, resplendent as the sun, dazzling the admiring eyes of Prior’s Ash in a gown of pink moiré antique, and a head-gear which appeared to be composed of pink and white feathers and a glittering silver aigrette, its form altogether not unlike a French gendarme’s hat, if you have the pleasure of being familiar with that awe-imparting article. At the sight of Maria she pulled the horses up with a jerk: on which ensued some skirmishing and scattering abroad of dust, the animals, both horses and dogs, not approving of so summary a check; but Charlotte was resolute, and her whip effective. She then flung the reins to the groom who sat beside her, jumped down, and held out her hand to Maria.

  Maria accepted it. The revelation gratuitously bestowed on her by Margery was beating its words upon her memory; and her brow, face and neck had flushed to a glowing crimson. Some might have flung the offered hand aside, and picked up their skirts with a jerk, and sailed away with an air; but Maria was a gentlewoman.

  “How well you look!” exclaimed Charlotte, regarding her in some surprise. “Perhaps you are warm? I say, Mrs. George” — dropping her voice to a whisper— “whither do you think I am bound?”

  “I cannot tell.”

  “To see Lord Averil. He is back again, and stopping at old Max’s. I am going to badger him out of a promise not to hurt George Godolphin — about those rubbishing bonds, you know. I won’t leave him until I get it.”

  “Yes,” said Maria.

  “I will have it. Or — war to the knife, my lord! I should like to see him, or anybody else, attempt to refuse me anything I stood out for,” she added, with a triumphant glance, meant for the absent viscount. “Poor George has nobody here to fight his battles for him, and he can’t return to enter on them in person; so it’s well that some friend should do it. They are saying in the town this morning, that Averil has returned for the purpose of prosecuting: I mean to cut his prosecuting claws off.”

  “It is a mistake,” said Maria. “Lord Averil has no intention of prosecuting.”

  “How do you know?” bluntly asked Charlotte.

  “I have just seen him.”

  “You don’t mean to say you have been over to old Max’s?” exclaimed Charlotte, opening her brilliant black eyes very widely.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “You quiet slyboots! You have never walked there and back?”

  “I don’t feel very tired. I have been resting with mamma for half an hour.”

  “And he’s safe — Averil?” eagerly continued Charlotte.

  “Quite safe. Remember his long friendship with Thomas Godolphin.”

  “Oh, my dear, men forget friendship when their pockets are in question,” was the light remark of Charlotte. “You are sure, though, Averil’s not deceiving you? I don’t much think he is one to do a dirty trick of that sort, but I have lived long enough to learn that you must prove a man before you trust him.”

  “Lord Averil is not deceiving me,” quietly answered Maria. “He has given me a message for my husband.”

  “Then there’s no necessity for my going to him,” said Charlotte. “Let me drive you home, Mrs. George Godolphin. I am sure you are fatigued. I never saw any one change countenance as you do. A few minutes ago you looked vulgarly hot, and now you are pale enough for the grave. Step in. James, you must change to the back seat.”

  Step into that formidably high thing, and sit by Mrs. Charlotte Pain’s side, and dash through Prior’s Ash! Maria wondered whether the gossips of Prior’s Ash — who, as it seemed, had made so free with gay George’s name — or Margery, would stare the most. She declined the invitation.

  “You are afraid,” cried Charlotte. “Well, it’s a great misfortune, these timid temperaments: but I suppose they can’t be cured. Kate Verrall’s another coward: but she’s not as bad as you. Toss me my parasol, James.”

  James handed his mistress a charming toy of pink moiré antique silk and point lace, mounted on a handle of carved ivory. Charlotte put it up before her face, and turned to accompany Maria.

  Maria put her parasol up before her face, thankful that it might serve to shield it, if only partially, from the curious eyes of Prior’s Ash. Remembering the compliments that Prior’s Ash had been kind enough to pass on her “blind simplicity,” she would not exactly have chosen her present companion to walk through the streets with. Dame Bond, with her unsteady steps and her snuffy black gown, would have been preferable of the two.

  “But,” thought Maria in her generosity, striving to thrust that other unpleasant feeling down deep into her heart, and to lose sight of it, “it is really kind of Mrs. Pain to be seen thus publicly with me. Other ladies would be ashamed of me now, I suppose.”

  They stepped on. Maria with her parasol so close to her face that there was danger of her running against people; Charlotte turning herself from side to side, flirting the costly little pink toy as one flirts a fan, bowing and scraping to all she met. The dogs snarled and barked behind her; the carriage pranced and curvetted by their side; the unhappy James, his hands full with the horses, which refused to recognize any mastership except that of Mrs. Charlotte Pain. Altogether, it was a more conspicuous progress than Maria would have chosen. Thus they arrived at the Bank, and Maria held out her hand to Charlotte. She could not be otherwise than courteous, no matter to whom.

  “I am coming in,” said Charlotte bluntly. “Take care what you are about with the horses, James.”

  Maria led the way to the dining-room. All was as it used to be in that charming room; furniture, pictures, elegant trifles for show or for use; all was the same: except — that those things belonged now not to Maria and her husband, but were noted down as the property of others. Soon, soon to be put up for sale! Charlotte’s rich moiré antique came to an anchor on a sofa, and she untied the string of the gendarme hat, and pushed it back on her head.

  “I am going to leave Prior’s Ash.”

  “To leave Prior’s Ash!” repeated Maria. “When?”

  “Within a week of this. Lady Godolphin’s coming back to the Folly.”

  “But — Lady Godolphin cannot come back to it without giving you due notice to quit?” debated Maria.

  “It’s all arranged,” said Charlotte, opening her mouth with a loud yawn. “Lady Godolphin wrote to Verrall, and the arrangements have been agreed upon amicably. Lady Godolphin foregoes a certain portion of rent, and we go out immediately. I am very glad, do you know. I had made my mind up not to stay. As to the Verralls, it may be said that they virtually took leave of the Folly long ago. Uncommonly glad I shall be to leave it,” repeated Charlotte with emphasis.

  “Why?”

  “Who’d care to stay at Prior’s Ash, after all this bother? You and George will be leaving it for London, you know — and I hope it won’t be long first. You must make me useful up there, Mrs. George. I’ll — —”

  “Who told you we were going to leave for London?” interrupted Maria in astonishment.

  “Nobody told me. But of course you will. Do you suppose George Godolphin will care to stop amongs
t this set? Not he. He’d see Prior’s Ash go promenading first. What tie has he here, now Ashlydyat’s gone? Verrall talks of buying a hunting-box in Leicestershire.”

  “Does he?” replied Maria mechanically, her thoughts buried elsewhere.

  “Buying or hiring one. I should hire; and then there’s no bother if you want to make a flitting. But Verrall is one who takes nobody’s counsel but his own. What a worry it will be!” added Charlotte, after a pause.

  Maria raised her eyes. She did not understand the remark.

  “Packing up the things at the Folly,” exclaimed Charlotte. “We begin to-morrow morning. I must be at the head of it, for it’s of no use trusting that sort of work entirely to servants. Bon jour, petite coquette! Et les poupées?”

  The diversion was caused by the flying entrance of Miss Meta. The young lady was not yet particularly well up in the Gallic language, and only half understood. She went straight up to Mrs. Pain, threw her soft sweet eyes right into that lady’s flashing black ones, rested her pretty arms upon the moiré antique, and spoke out with her accustomed boldness.

  “Where are the dogs now?”

  “Chained down in the pit-hole,” responded Mrs. Pain.

  “Margery says there is no pit-hole, and the dogs were not chained down,” asserted Meta.

  “Margery’s nothing but an old woman. Don’t you believe her. If she tells stories again, we’ll chain her down with the dogs.”

  “Two of the dogs are outside,” said Meta.

  “Not the same dogs, child,” returned Mrs. Pain with cool equanimity. “They are street dogs, those are.”

  “They are with the carriage,” persisted Meta. “They are barking round it.”

  “Are they barking? They can see Margery’s face at the nursery window, and are frightened at it. Dogs always bark at ugly old women’s faces. You tell Margery so.”

  “Margery’s not ugly.”

  “You innocent little simpleton! She’s ugly enough to frighten the crows.”

  How long the colloquy might have continued it is hard to say: certainly Meta would not be the one to give in: but it was interrupted by Margery herself. A note had just been delivered at the house for Mrs. George Godolphin, and Margery, who probably was glad of an excuse for entering, brought it in. She never looked at all towards Mrs. Pain; she came straight up to her mistress, apparently ignoring Charlotte’s presence, but you should have seen the expression of her face. The coronet on the seal imparted a suspicion to Maria that it came from Lord Averil, and her heart sank within her. Could he be withdrawing his promise of clemency?

  “Who brought this?” she asked in a subdued tone.

  “A servant on horseback, ma’am.”

  Charlotte had started up, catching at her feathers, for Pierce was at the dining-room door now, saying that the horses were alarmingly restive. “Good afternoon, Mrs. George Godolphin,” she called out unceremoniously, as she hastened away. “I’ll come and spend a quiet hour with you before I leave for town. Adieu, petite diablesse! I’d have you up to-morrow for a farewell visit, but that I’m afraid you might get nailed down with the furniture in some of the packing-cases.”

  Away she went. Meta was hastening after her, but was caught up by Margery with an angry sob — as if she had been saving her from some imminent danger. Maria opened the letter with trembling fingers.

  “My dear Mrs. Godolphin,

  “It has occurred to me since I parted from you, that you may wish to have the subject of our conversation confirmed in writing. I hereby assure you that I shall take no legal proceedings whatever against your husband on account of my lost bonds, and you may tell him from me that he need not, on that score, remain away from Prior’s Ash.

  “I hope you have reached home without too much fatigue.

  “Believe me, ever sincerely yours,

  “Averil.”

  “How kind he is!” came involuntarily from Maria’s lips.

  The words were drowned in a noise outside. Charlotte had contrived to ascend to her seat in spite of the prancing horses. She stood up in the high carriage, as George Godolphin had once done at the same door, and by dint of strength and skill, subdued them to control. Turning their fiery heads, scattering the assembled multitude right and left, nodding pleasantly to the applause vouchsafed her, Mrs. Charlotte Pain and the turn-out disappeared with a clatter, amidst the rolling of wheels, the barking of dogs, and the intense admiration of the gaping populace.

  On this same evening, Miss Godolphin sat at a window facing the west in their home at Ashlydyat. Soon to be their home no more. Her cheek rested pensively on her fingers, as she thought — oh, with what bitterness! — of the grievous past. She had been universally ridiculed for giving heed to the superstitious traditions attaching to the house, and yet how strangely they appeared to be working themselves out. It had begun — Janet seemed to think the ruin had begun — with the departure of her father, Sir George, from Ashlydyat: and the tradition went that when the head of the Godolphins should voluntarily abandon Ashlydyat, the ruin would follow.

  Had Sir George’s departure brought on the ruin — been the first link in the chain that led to it? Janet was debating the question in her mind. That she was prone to indulging superstitious fancies to a degree many would pronounce ridiculously absurd cannot be denied: but in striving to solve that particular problem she was relinquishing the by-paths of the supernatural for the broad road of common sense. From the facts that were being brought to light by the bankruptcy, turning up by degrees one after another, it was easy to see that George Godolphin had been seduced into a hornet’s nest, and so been eased of his money. Whether the process had been summary or slow — whether he had walked into it head foremost in blind simplicity — or whether he had only succumbed to it under the most refined Machiavellian craft, it was of no consequence to inquire. It is of no consequence to us. He had fallen into the hands of a company of swindlers, who ensnared their victims and transacted their business under the semblance of bill-discounting: and they had brought George to what he was.

  Head and chief of this apparently reputable firm was Verrall: and Verrall, there was not a doubt, had been chief agent in George Godolphin’s undoing. But for Sir George Godolphin’s quitting Ashlydyat and putting it up in the market to let, Verrall might never have come near Prior’s Ash; never have met Mr. George Godolphin. In that case the chances are that Mr. George would have been a flourishing banker still. Gay he would have been; needlessly extravagant; scattering his wild oats by the bushel — but not a man come to ruin and to beggary.

  Janet Godolphin was right: it was the quitting Ashlydyat by her father, and the consequent tenancy of Mr. Verrall, which had been the first link in the chain, terminating in George’s disgrace, in their ruin.

  She sat there, losing herself in regret after regret. “If my father had not left it! — if he had never married Mrs. Campbell! — if my own dear mother had not died!” — she lost herself, I say, in these regrets, bitter as they were vain.

  How many of these useless regrets might embitter the lives of us all! How many do embitter them! If I had only done so-and-so! — if I had only taken the left turning when I took the right! — if I had only known what that man was from the first, and shunned his acquaintance! — if I had only chosen that path in life instead of this one! — if I had, in short, only done precisely the opposite to what I did do! Vain, vain repinings! — vain, useless, profitless repinings! The only plan is to keep them as far as possible from our hearts. If we could foresee the end of a thing from its beginning, — if we could buy a stock of experience at the outset of life, — if we could, in point of fact, become endowed with the light of Divine wisdom, what different men and women the world would contain!

  But we cannot. We cannot undo the past. It is ours with all its folly, its short-sightedness, perhaps its guilt. Though we stretch out our yearning and pitiful hands to Heaven in their movement of agony — though we wail aloud our bitter cry, Lord, pardon me — heal me — help me!
— though we beat on our remorseful bosom and lacerate its flesh in bitter repentance, we cannot undo the past. We cannot undo it. The past remains to us unaltered; and must remain so for ever.

  Janet left the room. Thomas, who had been seated opposite to her, was buried in thought, when Bexley appeared, showing in Lord Averil.

  He hastened forward to prevent Thomas Godolphin’s rising. Laying one hand upon his shoulder and the other on his hands, he pressed him down and would not let him rise.

  “How am I to thank you?” were the first words spoken by Thomas — in reference to the clemency shown to his brother, as promised that day to Maria.

  “Hush!” said Lord Averil. “My dear friend, you are allowing these things to affect you more than they ought. I see the greatest change in you, even in this short time.”

  The rays of the declining sun were falling on the face of Thomas Godolphin, lighting up its fading vitality. The cheeks were thinner, the weak hair seemed scantier, the truthful grey eyes had acquired an habitual expression of pain. Lord Averil leaned over him and noted it all.

  “Sit down,” said Thomas, drawing a chair nearer to him.

  Lord Averil accepted the invitation, but did not release the hand. “I understand you have been doubting me,” he said. “You might have known me better. We have been friends a long time.”

  Thomas Godolphin only answered by a pressure of the hand he held. Old and familiar friends though they were, understanding each other’s hearts almost, as these close friends should do, it was yet a most painful point to Thomas Godolphin. On the one side there was his brother’s crime: on the other there was the loss of that large sum to Lord Averil. Thomas had to do perpetual battle with pain now: but there were moments when the conflict was nearer and sharper than at others. This was one of them.