Thomas Godolphin leaned against the wall in his agony. It was one of those moments that can fall only once in a lifetime; in many lives never; when the greatest limit of earthly misery1 bursts upon the startled spirit, shattering it for all time. Were Thomas Godolphin to live for a hundred years, he never could know another moment like this: the power so to feel would have left him.
It had not left him yet. Nay2, it had scarcely come to him in its full realization3. At present he was half stunned4. Strange as it may seem, the first impression upon his mind, was—that he was so much nearer to the next world. How am I to define this “nearer?” It was not that he was nearer to it by time; or in goodness: nothing of that sort. She had passed within its portals; and the great gulf5, which divides time from eternity6, seems to be only a span now to Thomas Godolphin: it was as if he, in spirit, had followed her in. From being a place far, far off, vague, indefinite, indistinct, it had been suddenly brought to him, close and palpable: or he to it: Had Thomas Godolphin been an atheist7, denying a hereafter,—Heaven in its compassion8 have mercy upon all such!—that one moment of suffering would have recalled him to a sense of his mistake. It was as if he looked above with the eye[86] of inspiration and saw the truth; it was as a brief, passing moment of revelation from God. She, with her loving spirit, her gentle heart, her simple trust in God, had been taken from this world to enter upon a better. She was as surely living in it, had entered upon its mysteries, its joys, its rest, as that he was living here; she, he believed, was as surely regarding him now and his great sorrow, as that he was left alone to battle with it. From henceforth Thomas Godolphin possessed10 a lively, ever-present link with that world; and knew that its gates would, in God’s good time, be opened for him.
These feelings, impressions, facts—you may designate them as you please—took up their place in his mind all in that first instant, and seated themselves there for ever. Not yet very consciously. To his stunned senses, in his weight of bitter grief, nothing could be to him very clear: ideas passed through his brain quickly, confusedly; as the changing scenes in a phantasmagoria. He looked round as one bewildered. The bed, prepared for occupancy, on which, on entering, he had expected to see the dead, but not her, was between him and the door. Sarah Anne Grame in her invalid11 chair by the fire, a table at her right hand, covered with adjuncts of the sick-room—a medicine-bottle with its accompanying wine-glass and tablespoon—jelly, and other delicacies12 to tempt13 a faded appetite—Sarah Anne sat there and gazed at him with her dark hollow eyes, from which the tears rolled slowly over her cadaverous cheeks. Lady Sarah stood before him; sobs14 choking her voice as she wrung15 her hands. Ay, both were weeping. But he——it is not in the presence of others that man gives way to grief: neither will tears come to him in the first leaden weight of anguish16.
Thomas Godolphin listened mechanically, as one who cannot do otherwise, to the explanations of Lady Sarah. “Why did you not prepare me?—why did you let it come upon me with this startling shock?” was his first remonstrance17.
“I did prepare you,” sobbed18 Lady Sarah. “I telegraphed to you last night, as soon as it had happened. I wrote the message with my own hand, and sent it off to the office before I turned my attention to any other thing.”
“I received the message. But you did not say—I thought it was,”—Thomas Godolphin turned his glance on Sarah Anne. He remembered her state, in the midst of his own anguish, and would not alarm her. “You did not mention Ethel’s name,” he continued to Lady Sarah. “How could I suppose you alluded19 to her? How could I suppose that she was ill?”
Sarah Anne divined his motive20 for hesitation21. She was uncommonly22 keen in penetration23: sharp, as the world says; and she had noted24 his words on entering, when he began to soothe25 Lady Sarah for the loss of a child; she had noticed his startled recoil26, when his eyes fell on her. She spoke27 up with a touch of her old querulousness, the tears arrested, and her eyes glistening28.
“You thought it was I who had died! Yes, you did, Mr. Godolphin, and you need not attempt to deny it. You would not have cared, so that it was not Ethel.”
Thomas Godolphin had no intention of contradicting her. He[87] turned from Sarah Anne in silence, to look inquiringly and reproachfully at her mother.
“Mr. Godolphin, I could not prepare you better than I did,” said Lady Sarah, “When I wrote the letter to you, telling of her illness——”
“What letter?” interrupted Thomas Godolphin. “I received no letter.”
“But you must have received it,” returned Lady Sarah in her quick, cross manner. Not cross with Thomas Godolphin, but from a rising doubt whether the letter had miscarried. “I wrote it, and I know that it was safely posted. You ought to have had it by last evening’s delivery, before you would receive the telegraphic despatch29.”
“I never had it,” said Thomas Godolphin. “When I waited in your drawing-room now, I was listening for Ethel’s footsteps to come to me.”
Thomas Godolphin knew, later, that the letter had arrived duly and safely at Broomhead, at the time mentioned by Lady Sarah. Sir George Godolphin either did not open the box that night; or, if he opened it, had overlooked the letter for his son. Charlotte Pain’s complaint, that the box ought not to be left to the charge of Sir George, had reason in it. On the morning of his son’s departure with the young ladies, Sir George had found the letter, and at once despatched it back to Prior’s Ash. It was on its road at this same hour when he was talking with Lady Sarah. But the shock had come.
He took a seat by the table, and covered his eyes with his hand as Lady Sarah gave him a detailed30 account of the illness and death. Not all the account, that she or any one else could give, would take one iota31 from the dreadful fact staring him in the face. She was gone; gone for ever from this world; he could never again meet the glance of her eye, or hear her voice in response to his own. Ah, my readers, there are griefs that change all our after-life! rending33 the heart as an earthquake will rend32 the earth: and, all that can be done is, to sit down under them, and ask of Heaven strength to bear them. To bear them as we best may, until time shall in a measure bring healing upon its wings.
On the last night that Thomas Godolphin had seen her, Ethel’s brow and eyes were heavy. She had wept much in the day, and supposed the pain in her head to arise from that circumstance; she had given this explanation to Thomas Godolphin. Neither she, nor he, had had a thought that it could come from any other source. More than a month since Sarah Anne was taken with the fever; fears for Ethel had died out. And yet those dull eyes, that hot head, that heavy weight of pain, were only the symptoms of approaching sickness! A night of tossing and turning, snatches of disturbed sleep, of terrifying dreams, and Ethel awoke to the conviction that the fever was upon her. About the time that she generally rose, she rang her bell for Elizabeth.
“I do not feel well,” she said. “As soon as mamma is up, will you ask her to come to me? Do not disturb her before then.”
Elizabeth obeyed her orders. But Lady Sarah, tired and wearied out with her attendance upon Sarah Anne, with whom she had been[88] up half the night, did not rise until between nine and ten. Then the maid went to her and delivered the message.
“In bed still! Miss Ethel in bed still!” exclaimed Lady Sarah. She spoke in much anger: for Ethel was wont34 to be up betimes and in attendance upon Sarah Anne. It was required of her to be so.
Throwing on a dressing-gown, Lady Sarah proceeded to Ethel’s room. And there she broke into a storm of reproach and anger; never waiting to ascertain35 what might be the matter with Ethel, anything or nothing. “Ten o’clock, and that poor child to have lain until now with no one near her but a servant!” she reiterated36. “You have no feeling, Ethel.”
Ethel drew the clothes from her flushed face, and turned her glistening eyes, dull last night, bright with fever now, upon her mother. “Oh, mamma, I am ill, indeed I am! I can hardly lift my head for the pain. Feel how it is burning! I did not think I ought to get up.”
“What is the matter with you?” sharply inquired Lady Sarah.
“I cannot quite tell,” answered Ethel. “I only know that I feel ill all over. I feel, mamma, as if I could not get up.”
“Very well! There’s that dear suffering angel lying alone, and you can think of yourself before you think of her! If you choose to remain in bed you must. But you will reproach yourself for your selfishness when she is gone. Another four and twenty hours and she may be no longer with us. Do as you think proper.”
Ethel burst into tears, and caught her mother’s robe as she was turning away. “Mamma, do not be angry with me! I trust I am not selfish. Mamma”—and her voice sank to a whisper—“I have been thinking that it may be the fever.”
The fever! For one moment Lady Sarah paused in consternation37, but the next she decided38 there was no fear of it. She really believed so.
“The fever!” she reproachfully said. “Heaven help you for a selfish and a fanciful child, Ethel! Did I not send you to bed with headache last night, and what is it but the remains39 of that headache that you feel this morning? I can see what it is; you have been fretting40 after this departure of Thomas Godolphin! Get up and dress yourself, and come in and attend upon your sister. You know she can’t bear to be waited on by any one but you. Get up, I say, Ethel.”
Will Lady Sarah Grame remember that little episode until death shall take her? I should, in her place. She suppressed all mention of it to Thomas Godolphin. “The dear child told me she did not feel well, but I only thought she had a headache, and that she would perhaps feel better up,” were the words in which she related it to him. What sort of a vulture was gnawing41 at her heart as she spoke them? It was true that, in her blind selfishness for that one undeserving child, she had lost sight of the fact that illness could come to Ethel; she had not allowed herself to entertain its probability; she, who had accused of selfishness that devoted42, generous girl, who was ready at all hours to sacrifice herself to her sister; who would have sacrificed her very life to save Sarah Anne’s.
Ethel got up. Got up as she best could; her limbs aching, her head[89] burning. She went into Sarah Anne’s room, and did for her what she was able, gently, lovingly, anxiously, as of yore. Ah, child! let those, who are left, be thankful that it was so: it is well to be stricken down in the path of duty, working until we can work no more.
She did so. She stayed where she was until the day was half gone; bearing up, it was hard to say how. She could not touch breakfast; she could not take anything. None saw how ill she was. Lady Sarah was wilfully43 blind; Sarah Anne had eyes and thoughts for herself alone. “What are you shivering for?” Sarah Anne once fretfully asked her. “I feel cold, dear,” was Ethel’s unselfish answer: not a word said she further of her illness. In the early part of the afternoon, Lady Sarah was away from the room for some time upon domestic affairs; and when she returned to it Mr. Snow was with her. He had been prevented from calling earlier in the day. They found that Sarah Anne had dropped into a doze44, and Ethel was stretched on the floor before the fire, moaning. But the moans ceased as they entered.
Mr. Snow, regardless of waking the invalid, strode up to Ethel, and turned her face to the light. “How long has she been like this?” he cried out, his voice shrill45 with emotion. “Child! child! why did they not send for me?”
Alas46! poor Ethel was, even then, growing too ill to reply. Mr. Snow carried her to her room with his own arms, and the servants undressed her and laid her in the bed from which she was never more to rise. The fever attacked her violently: but not more so than it had attacked Sarah Anne; scarcely as badly; and danger, for Ethel, was not imagined. Had Sarah Anne not got over a similar crisis, they would have feared for Ethel: so are we given to judge by collateral47 circumstances. It was only on the third or fourth day that highly dangerous symptoms declared themselves, and then Lady Sarah wrote to Thomas Godolphin the letter which had not reached him. There was this much of negative consolation48 to be derived49 from its miscarriage50: that, had it been delivered to him on the instant of its arrival, he could not have been in time to see her.
“You ought to have written to me as soon as she was taken ill,” he observed to Lady Sarah.
“I would have done so had I apprehended52 danger,” she repentantly answered. “But I never did apprehend51 it. Mr. Snow did not do so. I thought how pleasant it would be to get her safe through the danger and the illness, before you should know of it.”
“Did she not wish me to be written to?”
The question was put firmly, abruptly53, after the manner of one who will not be cheated of his answer. Lady Sarah dared not evade54 it. How could she equivocate55, with her child lying dead in the house.
“It is true. She did wish it. It was on the first day of her illness that she spoke. ‘Write, and tell Thomas Godolphin.’ She never said it but that once.”
“Do not reproach me! do not reproach me!” cried Lady Sarah, clasping her hands in supplication57, while the tears fell in showers from her eyes. “I did it for the best. I never supposed there was danger:[90] I thought what a pity it was to bring you back, all that long journey: putting you to so much unnecessary trouble and expense.”
Trouble and expense, in such a case! She could speak of expense to Thomas Godolphin! But he remembered how she had had to battle both with expense and trouble her whole life long; that for her these must wear a formidable aspect: and he remained silent.
“I wish now I had written,” she resumed, in the midst of her choking sobs. “As soon as Mr. Snow said there was danger, I wished it. But”—as if she would seek to excuse herself—“what with the two upon my hands, she upstairs, Sarah Anne here, I had not a moment for proper reflection.”
“Did you tell her you had not written?” he asked. “Or did you let her lie waiting for me, hour after hour, day after day, blaming me for my careless neglect?”
“She never blamed any one; you know she did not,” wailed58 Lady Sarah: “and I believe she was too ill to think even of you. She was only sensible at times. Oh, I say, do not reproach me, Mr. Godolphin! I would give my own life to bring her back again! I never knew her worth until she was gone. I never loved her as I love her now.”
There could be no doubt that Lady Sarah Grame was reproaching herself far more bitterly than any reproach could tell upon her from Thomas Godolphin. An accusing conscience is the worst of all evils. She sat there, her head bent59, swaying herself backwards60 and forwards on her chair, moaning and crying. It was not a time, as Thomas Godolphin felt, to say a word of her past heartless conduct, in forcing Ethel to breathe the infection of Sarah Anne’s sick-room. And, all that he could say, all the reproaches, all the remorse61 and repentance62, would not bring Ethel back to life.
“Would you like to see her?” whispered Lady Sarah, as he rose to leave.
“Yes.”
She lighted a candle, and preceded him upstairs. Ethel had died in her own room. At the door, Thomas Godolphin took the candle from Lady Sarah.
“I must go in alone.”
He passed on into the chamber63, and closed the door. On the bed, laid out in her white night-dress, lay what remained of Ethel Grame. Pale, still, pure, her face was wonderfully like what it had been in life, and a calm smile rested upon it.—But Thomas Godolphin wished to be alone.
Lady Sarah stood outside, leaning against the opposite wall, and weeping silently, the glimmer64 from the hall-lamp below faintly lighting65 the corridor. Once she fancied that a sound, as of choking sobs, struck upon her ears, and she caught up a small black shawl that she wore, for grief had chilled her, flung it over her shoulders, and wept the faster.
He came out by-and-by, calm and quiet as he ever was. He did not perceive Lady Sarah standing66 there in the shade, and went straight down, the wax-light in his hand. Lady Sarah caught him up at the door of Sarah Anne’s room, and took the light from him.
“She looks very peaceful, does she not?” was her whisper.
[91]“She could not look otherwise.”
He went on down alone, wishing to let himself out. But Elizabeth had heard his steps, and was already at the door. “Good night, Elizabeth,” he said, as he passed her.
The girl did not answer. She slipped out into the garden after him. “Oh, sir! and didn’t you know of it?” she whispered.
“No.”
“If anybody was ever gone away to be an angel, sir, it’s that sweet young lady,” continued Elizabeth, letting her tears and sobs come forth9 as they would. “She was just one here! and she’s gone to her own fit place above.”
“Ay. It is so.”
“You should have been in this house throughout the whole of the illness, to have see the difference between them, sir! Nobody would believe it. Miss Grame, angry and snappish, and not caring who suffered, or who was ill, or who toiled67, so that she was served: Miss Ethel, lying like a tender lamb, patient and meek68, thankful for all that was done for her. It does seem hard, sir, that we should lose her for ever.”
“Not for ever, Elizabeth,” he answered.
“And that’s true, too! But, sir, the worst is, one can’t think of that sort of consolation just when one’s troubles are fresh. Good night to you, sir.”
“No, no,” he murmured to himself; “not for ever.”
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1
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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6
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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7
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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16
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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39
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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41
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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42
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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43
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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44
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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45
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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46
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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47
collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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48
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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50
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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51
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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52
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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53
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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54
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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55
equivocate
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| v.模棱两可地，支吾其词 | |
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56
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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57
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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58
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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60
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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61
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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62
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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63
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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65
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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66
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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67
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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