Prior’s Ash lingered at its doors and windows, curious to witness the outer signs of Cecilia Godolphin’s wedding. The arrangements for it were to them more a matter of speculation1 than of certainty, since various rumours3 had gone afloat, and were eagerly caught up, although of the most contradictory4 character. All that appeared certain as yet was—that the day was charming and the bells were ringing.
How the beadle kept the gates that day, he alone knew. That staff of his was brought a great deal more into requisition than was liked by the sea of heads collected there. And when the first carriage came, the excitement in the street was great.
The first carriage! There were only two; that and another. Prior’s Ash turned up its disappointed nose, and wondered, with Rose Hastings, what the world was coming to.
It was a chariot drawn5 by four horses. The livery of the postillions and the coronet on the panels proclaimed it to be Lord Averil’s. He sat within it with Thomas Godolphin. The carriage following it was Lady Godolphin’s; it appeared to contain only ladies, all wearing bonnets6 and coloured gowns. The exasperated8 gazers, who had bargained for something very different, set up a half-groan9.
They set up a whole one, those round the gates, when Lord Averil and his friend alighted. But the groan was not one of exasperation10, or of anger. It was a low murmur11 of sorrow and sympathy, and it was[406] called forth12 by the appearance of Thomas Godolphin. It was some little time now since Thomas Godolphin had been seen in public, and the change in him was startling. He walked forward, leaning on the arm of Lord Averil, lifting his hat to the greeting that was breathed around; a greeting of sorrow meant, as he knew, not for the peer, but for him and his fading life. The few scanty13 hairs stood out to their view as he uncovered his head, and the ravages14 of the disease that was killing15 him were all too conspicuous16 on his wasted features.
“God bless him! He’s very nigh the grave.”
Who said it, of the crowd, Thomas Godolphin could not tell, but the words and their accent, full of rude sympathy, came distinctly upon his ear. He quitted the viscount’s arm, turned to them, and raised his hands with a solemn meaning.
“God bless you all, my friends. I am indeed near the grave. Should there be any here who have suffered injury through me, let them forgive me for it. It was not intentionally17 done, and I may almost say that I am expiating18 it with my life. May God bless you all, here and hereafter!”
Something like a sob19 burst from the astonished crowd. But that he had hastened on with Lord Averil, they might have fallen on their knees and clung to him in their flood-tide of respect and love.
The Reverend Mr. Hastings stood in his surplice at the altar. He, too, was changed. The keen, vigorous, healthy man had now a grey, worn look. He could not forgive the blow; minister though he was, he could not forgive George Godolphin. He was not quite sure that he forgave Thomas for not having looked more closely after his brother and the Bank generally: had he done so, the calamity20 might never have occurred. Every hour of the day reminded Mr. Hastings of his loss, in the discomforts21 which had necessarily fallen upon his home, in the position of his daughter Maria. George Godolphin had never been a favourite of his: he had tried to like him in vain. The Rector of All Souls’ was a man of severe judgment22, and rumour2 had made free with gay George’s name.
Lord Averil was the first to enter. Cecilia Godolphin came next with Thomas. She wore a light-grey silk robe, and a plain white bonnet7, trimmed with orange-blossoms. The Honourable23 Miss Averil and Bessy Godolphin followed; their silk gowns of a darker shade of grey, and their white bonnets without orange-blossoms. Lady Godolphin came next, more resplendent than any, in a lemon brocaded silk, that stood on end with richness.
Did the recollection of the last wedding service he had performed for a Godolphin cause the Rector of All Souls’ voice to be subdued24 now, as he read? Seven years ago he had stood there as he was standing25 to-day, George and Maria before him. How had that promising26 union ended? And for the keeping of his sworn vows27?—George best knew what he had kept and what he had broken. The Rector was thinking of that past ceremony now.
This one was soon over. The promises were made, the register signed, and Lord Averil was leading Cecilia from the church, when the Rector stepped before them and took her hand.
“I pray God that your union may be more happy than some other[407] unions have been,” he said. “That, in a great degree, rests with you, Lord Averil. Take care of her.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but the viscount grasped his hand warmly. “I will; I will.”
The beadle was rapping his stick on sundry28 heads with great effect, and the excited crowd pushed and danced round that travelling carriage, but they made their way to it. To hand in Cecil and take his place beside her seemed to be but the work of a moment, so quickly did it pass, and Lord Averil, a pleasant smile upon his face, bowed to the shouts on either side as the carriage threaded its way through the throng29. The three ladies next stepped into their carriage, and Thomas Godolphin turned into the Rectory. Mrs. Hastings, grey, worn, old—ten years older than she had been six months before—came forward to greet him, commiseration30 in every line of her countenance31.
“I thought I would say good-bye to you,” he said, as he held her hands in his. “It will be my only opportunity. I expect this is my last quitting of Ashlydyat.”
“Look at me,” quietly said Thomas, answering her unfinished sentence.
But there was an interruption. Bustling33 little feet and a busy little tongue came upon them. Miss Meta had broken from Rose and run in alone, throwing her straw hat aside as she entered.
“Uncle Thomas! Uncle Thomas! I saw you at the wedding, Uncle Thomas.”
He sat down and took the child upon his knee. “And I saw Meta,” he answered. “How is mamma? I am going to see her presently.”
“Mamma’s not well,” said Meta, shaking her head. “Mamma cries often. She was crying this morning. Uncle Thomas”—lowering her voice and speaking slowly—“mamma says she’s going to heaven.”
There was a startled pause. Thomas broke it by laying his hand upon the golden-haired head.
“I trust we are all going there, Meta. A little earlier or a little later, as God shall will. It will not much matter which.”
A few minutes’ conversation, and Thomas Godolphin went out to the fly which had been brought for him. Bexley, who was with it, helped him in.
“To Mrs. George Godolphin’s.”
The attentive34 old retainer—older by twenty years than Thomas, but younger in health and vigour—carefully assisted his master up the path. Maria saw the approach from the window. Why it was she knew not, but she was feeling unusually ill that day: scarcely able to rise to a sitting position on the sofa. Thomas was shocked at the alteration35 in her, and involuntarily thought of the child’s words, “Mamma says she’s going to heaven.”
“I thought I should like to say farewell to you, Maria,” he said, as he drew a chair near her. “I did not expect to find you looking so ill.”
She had burst into tears. Whether it was the unusual depression of her own spirits, or his wan36 face, emotion overcame her.
“It has been too much for both of us,” he murmured, holding her[408] hands. “We must forgive him, Maria. It was done in carelessness, perhaps, but not wilfulness37. Why do you not come to Ashlydyat sometimes? You know we should be glad to see you.”
She shook her head. “I cannot go out, Thomas. Indeed, I am not strong enough for it now.”
“But Maria, you should not give way to this grief; this weakness. You are young; you have no incurable38 complaint, as I have.”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “At times I feel as though I should never be well again. I—I—have been so reproached, Thomas; so much blame has been cast on me by all people; it has been as if I had made away with their money; and you know that I was as innocent as they were. And there have been other things. If—if——”
“If what?” asked Thomas, leaning over her.
She was sitting back upon the sofa, her fair young face wan and colourless, her delicate hands clasped together, as in apathy39. “If it were not for leaving Meta, I should be glad to die!”
“Hush, Maria! Rather say you are glad to live for her sake. George may by some means or other become prosperous again, and you may once more have a happy home. You are young, I say; you must bear up against this weakness.”
“If I could only pay all we owe; our personal debts!” she whispered, unconsciously giving utterance40 to the vain longing41 that was ever working in her heart. “Papa’s nine thousand pounds—and Mrs. Bond’s ten pounds—and the Jekyls—and the tradespeople!”
“If I could only have paid!” he rejoined in a voice broken by emotion. “If I could—if I could—I should have gone easier to the grave. Maria, we have a God, remember, who sees all our pangs42, all our bitter sorrow: but for Him, and my trust in Him, I should have died long ago of the pain.”
Maria covered her face with her hand. Thomas rose.
“You are not going?” she exclaimed.
“Yes, for I must hasten home. This has been a morning of exertion43, and I find there’s no strength left in me. God bless you, Maria!”
“Are we never to meet again?” she asked, as he held her thin hands in his, and she looked up at him through her blinding tears.
“I hope we shall meet again, Maria, and be together for ever and for ever. The threshold of the next world is opening to me: this is closing. Fare you well, child; fare you well.”
Bexley came to him as he opened the parlour door. Thomas asked for Margery: he would have said a kind word to her. But Margery had gone out.
Maria stood at the window, and watched him through her tears as he walked down the path to the fly, supported by Bexley. The old man closed the door on his master and took his seat by the driver. Thomas looked forth as they drove away, and smiled a last farewell.
A farewell in the deepest sense of the word. It was the last look, the last smile, that Maria would receive in this life, from Thomas Godolphin.
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1
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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2
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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8
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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10
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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expiating
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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27
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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28
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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29
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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31
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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32
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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35
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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36
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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37
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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39
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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40
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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41
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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42
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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