A few more days went on, and they wrought1 a further change in Mrs. George Godolphin. She grew weaker and weaker: she grew—it was apparent now to Mr Snow as it was to Margery—nearer and nearer to that vault2 in the churchyard of All Souls’. There could no longer be any indecision or uncertainty3 as to her taking the voyage; the probabilities were, that before the ship was ready to sail, all sailing in this world for Maria would be over. And rumours4, faint, doubtful, very much discredited6 rumours of this state of things, began to circulate in Prior’s Ash.
Discredited because people were so unprepared for it. Mrs. George Godolphin had been delicate since the birth of her baby, as was known to every one, but not a soul, relatives, friends, or strangers, had felt a suspicion of danger. On the contrary, it was supposed that she was[435] about to depart on that Indian voyage: and ill-natured spirits tossed their heads and said it was fine to be Mrs. George Godolphin, to be set up again and go out to lead a grand life in India, after ruining half Prior’s Ash. How she was misjudged! how many more unhappy wives have been, and will be again, misjudged by the world!
One dreary7 afternoon, as dusk was coming on, Margery, not stopping, or perhaps not caring, to put anything upon herself, but having hastily wrapped up Miss Meta, went quickly down the garden path, leading that excitable and chattering8 demoiselle by the hand. Curious news had reached the ears of Margery. Their landlady’s son had come in, describing the town as being in strange commotion9, in consequence of something which had happened at Ashlydyat. Rumour5 set it down as nothing less than murder; and, according to the boy’s account, all Prior’s Ash was flocking up to the place to see and to hear.
Margery turned wrathful at the news. Murder at Ashlydyat! The young gentleman was too big to be boxed or shaken for saying it, but he persisted in his story, and Margery in her curiosity went out to see with her own eyes. “The people are running past the top of this road in crowds,” he said to her.
For some days past, workmen had been employed digging up the Dark Plain by the orders of Lord Averil. As he had told Cecil weeks before, his intention was to completely renew it; to do away entirely10 with its past character and send its superstition11 to the winds. The archway was being taken down, the gorse-bushes were being uprooted12, the whole surface, in fact, was being dug up. He intended to build an extensive summer-house where the archway had been, and to make the plain a flower-garden, a playground for children when they should be born to Ashlydyat: and it appeared that in digging that afternoon under the archway, the men had come upon a human skeleton, or rather upon the bones of what had once been a skeleton. This was the whole foundation for the rumour and the “murder.”
As Margery stood, about to turn home again, vexed13 for having been brought out in the cold for nothing more, and intending to give a few complimentary14 thanks for it to the young man who had been the means of sending her, she was accosted15 by Mr. Crosse, who had latterly been laid up in his house with gout. Not the slightest notice had he taken of George Godolphin and his wife since his return home, though he had been often with Thomas.
“How d’ye do, Margery?” he said, taking up Meta at the same time to kiss her. “Are you going to Ashlydyat with the rest?”
“Not I, the simpletons!” was Margery’s free rejoinder. “There’s my poor mistress alone in the house.”
“Is she ill?” asked Mr. Crosse.
“Ill!” returned Margery, not at all pleased at the question. “Yes, sir, she is ill. I thought everybody knew that.”
“When does she start for India?”
“She don’t start at all. She’ll be starting soon for a place a little bit nearer. Here! you run on and open the gate,” added Margery, whisking Meta from Mr. Crosse’s hand and sending her down the lane out of hearing. “She’ll soon be where Mr. Thomas Godolphin is, sir,[436] instead of being marched off in a ship to India,” continued the woman, turning to Mr. Crosse confidentially16.
He felt greatly shocked. In his own mind, he, as many others, had associated Maria with her husband, in regard to the summer’s work, in a lofty, scornful sort of way: but it did shock him to hear that she was in fear of death. It is most wonderful how our feelings towards others soften17 when we find that they and their shortcomings are about to be taken from us to a more merciful Judge.
“But what is the matter with her, Margery?” Mr. Crosse asked; for it happened that he had not heard the ominous18 rumours that were beginning to circulate in Prior’s Ash.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with her,” returned Margery. “I don’t believe old Snow knows, either. I suppose the worry and misfortunes have been too much for her; as they were for somebody else. Mr. Godolphin is in his grave, and now she’s going to hers.”
Mr. Crosse walked mechanically by the side of Margery down the lane. It was not his road, and perhaps he was unconscious that he took it; he walked by her side, listening.
“He’ll have to go by himself now—and me to have been getting up all my cotton gowns for the start! Serve him right! for ever thinking of taking out that dear little lamb amid elephants and savages19!”
Mr. Crosse was perfectly20 aware that Margery alluded21 to her master—his own bête noire since the explosion. But he did not choose to descant22 upon his gracelessness to Margery. “Can nothing be done for Mrs. George Godolphin?” he asked.
“I expect not, sir. There’s nothing the matter with her that can be laid hold of,” resentfully spoke23 Margery; “no malady24 to treat. Snow says he can’t do anything, and he brought Dr. Beale in the other day: and it seems he can’t do nothing, either.”
Meta had reached the gate, flung it open in obedience25 to orders, and now came running back. Mr. Crosse took her hand and went on with her. Was he purposing to pay a visit to George Godolphin’s wife? It seemed so.
It was quite dusk when they entered. Maria was lying on the sofa, with a warm woollen wrapper drawn26 over her. There was no light in the room except that given out by the fire, but its blaze fell directly on her face. Mr. Crosse stood and looked at it, shocked at its ravages27; at the tale it told. All kinds of unpleasant pricks28 were sending their darts29 through his conscience. He had been holding himself aloof30 in his assumed superiority, his haughty31 condemnation32, while she had been going to the grave with her breaking heart.
Had she wanted things that money could procure34? had she wanted food? Mr. Crosse actually began to ask himself the question, as the wan33 aspect of the white face grew and grew upon him: and in the moment he quite loathed35 the thought of his well-stored coffers. He remembered what a good, loving gentlewoman this wife of George Godolphin’s had always been, this dutiful daughter of All Souls’ pastor36: and for the first time Mr. Crosse began to separate her from her husband’s misdoings, to awaken37 to the conviction that the burden and sorrow laid upon her had been enough to bear, without the world meting38 out its harsh measure of blame by way of increase.
[437]He sat down quite humbly39, saying “hush40” to Meta. Maria had dropped into one of those delirious41 sleeps: they came on more frequently now, and would visit her at the twilight42 hour of the evening as well as at night: and the noise of their entrance had failed to arouse her. Margery, however, came bustling43 in.
“It’s Mr. Crosse, ma’am.”
Maria, a faint hectic44 of surprise coming into her cheeks, sat up and let him take her hand. “I am glad to have the opportunity of seeing you once again,” she said.
“Why did you not send and tell me how ill you were?” burst forth45 Mr. Crosse, forgetting how exceedingly ill such a procedure would have accorded with his own line of holding aloof in condemning46 superiority.
She shook her head. “I might, had things been as they used to be. But people do not care to come near me now.”
“I am going in the ship, Mr. Crosse. I am going to ride upon an elephant and to have parrots.”
He laid his hand kindly47 upon the chattering child: but he turned to Maria, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What shall you do with her? Shall you send her out without you?”
The question struck upon the one chord of her heart that for the last day or two, since her own hopeless state grew more palpable, had been strung to the utmost tension. What was to become of Meta—of the cherished child whom she must leave behind her? Her face grew moist, her bosom48 heaved, and she suddenly pressed her hands upon it as if they could still its wild and painful beating. Mr. Crosse, blaming himself for asking it, blaming himself for many other things, took her hands within his, and said he would come and see her in the morning: she seemed so fatigued49 then.
But, low as the question had been put, Miss Meta heard it; heard it and understood its purport50. She entwined her pretty arms within her mamma’s dress as Mr. Crosse went out, and raised her wondering eyes.
“What did he mean? You are coming too, mamma!”
She drew the little upturned face close to hers, she laid her white cheek upon the golden hair. The very excess of pain that was rending51 her aching heart caused her to speak with unnatural52 stillness. Not that she could speak at first: a minute or two had to be given to mastering her emotion.
“I am afraid not, Meta. I think God is going to take me.”
The child made no reply. Her earnest eyes were kept wide open with the same wondering stare. “What will papa do?” she presently asked.
Maria hastily passed her hand across her brow, as if that recalled another phase of the pain. Meta’s little heart began to swell53, and the tears burst forth.
“Don’t go, mamma! Don’t go away from papa and Meta! I shall be afraid of the elephants without you.”
She pressed the child closer and closer to her beating heart. Oh the pain, the pain!—the pain of the parting that was so soon to come!
They were interrupted by a noise at the gate. A carriage had bowled[438] down the lane and drawn up at it, almost with the commotion that used to attend the dashing visits to the Bank of Mrs. Charlotte Pain. A more sober equipage this, however, with its mourning appointments, although it bore a coronet on its panels. The footman opened the door, and one lady stepped out of it.
“It is Aunt Cecil,” called out Meta.
She rubbed the tears from her pretty cheeks, her grief forgotten, child-like, in the new excitement, and flew out to meet Lady Averil. Maria, trying to look her best, rose from the sofa and tottered54 forward to receive her. Meta was pounced55 upon by Margery and carried off to have her tumbled hair smoothed; and Lady Averil came in alone.
She threw back her crape veil to kiss Maria. She had come down from Ashlydyat on purpose to tell her the news of the bones being found: there could be little doubt that they were those of the ill-fated Richard de Commins, which had been so fruitlessly searched for: and Lady Averil was full of excitement. Perhaps it was natural that she should be so, being a Godolphin.
“It is most strange that they should be found just now,” she cried; “at the very time that the Dark Plain is being done away with. You know, Maria, the tradition always ran that so long as the bones remained unfound, the Dark Plain would retain the appearance of a graveyard56. Is it not a singular coincidence—that they should be discovered just at the moment that the Plain is being dug up? Were Janet here, she would say how startlingly all the old superstition is being worked out.”
“I think one thing especially strange—that they should not have been found before,” observed Maria. “Have they not been searched for often?”
“I believe so,” replied Cecil. “But they were found under the archway; immediately beneath it: and I fancy they had always been searched for in the Dark Plain. When papa had the gorse-bushes rooted up they were looked for then in all parts of the Dark Plain, but not under the archway.”
“How came Lord Averil to think of looking under the archway?” asked Maria.
“He did not think of it. They have been found unexpectedly, without being searched for. The archway is taken down, and the men were digging the foundation for the new summer-house, when they came upon them. The grounds of Ashlydyat have been like a fair all the afternoon with people coming up to see and hear,” added Cecil. “Lord Averil is going to consult Mr. Hastings about giving them Christian58 burial.”
“It does seem strange,” murmured Maria. “Have you written to tell Janet?”
“No, I shall write to her to-morrow. I hastened down to you. Bessy came over from the Folly59, but Lady Godolphin would not come. She said she had heard enough in her life of the superstition of Ashlydyat. She never liked it, you know, Maria; never believed in it.”
“Yes, I know,” Maria answered. “It used to anger her when it was spoken of. As it angered papa.”
“As George used to pretend that it angered him. I think it was only[439] pretence60, though. Poor Thomas, never. If he did not openly accord it belief, he never ridiculed61 it. How are your preparations getting on Maria?”
Maria was crossing the room with feeble steps to stir the fire into a blaze. As the light burst forth, she turned her face to Lady Averil with a sort of apology.
“I do not know what Margery is about that she does not bring in the lamp. I am receiving you very badly, Cecil.”
Cecil smiled. “I think our topic, the Ashlydyat superstition, is better discussed in such light as this, than in the full glare of lamp-light.”
But as Lady Averil spoke she was looking earnestly at Maria. The blaze had lighted up her wan face, and Cecil was struck aghast at its aspect. Was it real?—or was it only the effect of the firelight? Lady Averil had not heard of the ominous fears that were ripening62, and hoped it was the latter.
“Maria! are you looking worse this evening? Or is the light deceiving me?”
“I dare say I am looking worse. I am worse. I am very ill, Cecil.”
Maria simply shook her head. She was sitting now in an old-fashioned arm-chair, one white hand lying on her black dress, the other supporting her chin, while the firelight played on her wasted features.
“Would the little change to Ashlydyat benefit you, Maria? If so, if it would help to give you strength for your voyage, come to us at once. Now don’t refuse! It will give us so much pleasure. You do not know how Lord Averil loves and respects you. I think there is no one he respects as he respects you. Let me take you home with me now.”
Maria’s eyelashes were wet as she turned them on her. “Thank you, Cecil, for your kindness: and Lord Averil—will you tell him so for me—I am always thanking in my heart. I wish I could go home with you; I wish I could go with any prospect64 of it doing me good; but that is over. I shall soon be in a narrower home than this.”
Lady Averil’s heart stood still and then bounded on again. “No, no! Surely you are mistaken! It cannot be.”
“I have suspected it long, Cecil! but since the last day or two it has become certainty, and even Mr. Snow acknowledges it. About this time yesterday, he was sitting here in the twilight, and I bade him not conceal65 the truth from me. I told him that I knew it, and did not shrink from it; and therefore it was the height of folly for him to pretend ignorance to me.”
“Oh, Maria! And have you no regret at leaving us? I should think it a dreadful thing if I were going to die.”
“I have been battling with my regrets a long while,” said Maria, bending her head and speaking in low, subdued66 tones. “Leaving Meta is the worst. I know not who will take her, who will protect her: she cannot go with George, without—without a mother!”
“Give her to me,” feverishly67 broke from the lips of Lady Averil. “You don’t know how dearly I have ever loved that child Maria, she[440] shall never know the want of the good mother she has lost, as far as I can supply your place, if you will let her come to me. It is well that the only child of the Godolphins—and she is the only one—should be reared at Ashlydyat.”
Of all the world, Maria could best have wished Lady Averil to have Meta: and perhaps there had been moments when in her troubled imagination she had hoped it would be so. But she could not close her eyes to its improbabilities.
“You will be having children of your own, Cecil. And there’s Lord Averil to be considered!”
“Lord Averil is more than indulgent to me. I believe if I wished to adopt half a dozen children, he would only smile and tell me to prepare a nursery for them. I am quite sure he would like to have Meta.”
“Then—if he will—oh, Cecil, I should die with less regret.”
“Yes, yes, that is settled. He shall call and tell you so. But—Maria—is your own state so certain? Can nothing be done for you?—nothing be tried?”
“Nothing, as I believe. Mr. Snow cannot find out what is the matter with me. The trouble has been breaking my heart, Cecil: I know of nothing else. And since I grew alarmed about my own state, there has been the thought of Meta. Many a time have I been tempted68 to wish that I could have her with me in my coffin69.”
“Aunt Cecil! Aunt Cecil! How many summer-houses are there to be, Aunt Cecil?”
You need not ask whose interrupting voice it was. Lady Averil lifted the child to her knee, and asked whether she would come and pay her a long, long visit at Ashlydyat. Meta replied by inquiring into the prospect of swings and dolls’ houses, and Cecil plunged70 into promises as munificently71 as George could have done.
“Yes, I am beginning to think he ought to be now. I intend to write to him to-night; but I did not like to disturb him in his preparations. It will be a blow to him.”
“What! does he not know of it?”
“Not yet. He thinks I am getting ready to go out. I wish I could have done so!”
No, not until the unhappy fact was placed beyond all doubt, would Maria disturb her husband. And she did it gently at last. “I have been unwilling73 to alarm you, George, and I would not do so now, but that I believe it is all too certain. Will you come down and see what you think of me? Even Mr. Snow fears there is no hope for me now. Oh, if I could but have gone with you! have gone with you to be your ever-loving wife still in that new land!”
Lord Averil came in while she was addressing the letter. Greatly shocked, greatly grieved at what his wife told him, he rose from his dinner-table and walked down. Her husband excepted, there was no one whom Maria would have been so pleased to see as Lord Averil. He had not come so much to tell her that he heartily74 concurred75 in his wife’s offer with regard to the child, though he did say it—say that she should be done by entirely as though she were his own, and his honest[441] honourable76 nature shone out of his eyes as he spoke it—as to see whether nothing could be done for herself, to entreat77 her to have further advice called in.
“Dr. Beale has been here twice,” was her answer. “He says there is no hope.”
Lord Averil held her hand in his, as he had taken it in greeting; his grave eyes of sympathy were bent with deep concern on her face.
“Cecil thinks the trouble has been too much for you,” he whispered. “Is it so?”
A streak78 of hectic came into her cheek. “Yes, I suppose it is that. Turn to which side I would, there was no comfort, no hope. Throughout it all, I never had a friend, save you, Lord Averil: and you know, and God knows, what you did for us. I have not recompensed you: I don’t see how I could have recompensed you had I lived: but when I am gone, you will be happy in knowing that you took the greatest weight from one who was stricken by the world.”
“You have been writing to George?” he observed, seeing the letter on the table. “But it will not go to-night: it is too late.”
“It can go up by to-morrow’s day mail, and he will receive it in the evening. Perhaps you will post it for me as you walk home: it will save Margery’s going out.”
Lord Averil put the letter into his pocket. He stood looking at her as she lay a little back in her easy-chair, his arm resting on the mantelpiece, curious thoughts passing through his mind. Could he do nothing for her?—to avert79 the fate that was threatening her? He, rich in wealth, happy now in the world’s favour; she, going to the grave in sorrow, it might be in privation—what could he do to help her?
There are moments when we speak out of our true heart, when the conventionality that surrounds the best of us is thrown aside, all deceit, all form forgotten. Lord Averil was a good and true man, but never better, never truer than now, when he took a step forward and bent to Maria.
“Let me have the satisfaction of doing something for you; let me try to save you!” he implored80 in low earnest tones. “If that may not be, let me help to lighten your remaining hours. How can I best do it?”
She held out her hand to him: she looked up at him, the gratitude81 she could not speak shining from her sweet eyes. “Indeed there is nothing now, Lord Averil. I wish I could thank you as you deserve for the past.”
He held her hand for some time, but she seemed weak, exhausted82, and he said good night. Margery attended him to the outer gate, in spite of his desire that she should not do so, for the night air was cold and seemed to threaten snow.
“Your mistress is very ill, Margery,” he gravely said. “She seems to be in danger.”
“I’m afraid she is, my lord. Up to the last day or two I thought she might take a turn and get over it; but since then she has grown worse with every hour. Some folks can battle out things, and some folks can’t; she’s one of the last sort, and she has been tried in all ways.”
[442]Lord Averil dropped the letter into the post-office, looking mechanically at its superscription, George Godolphin, Esquire. But that he was preoccupied83 with his own thoughts, he might have seen by the very writing how weak she was, for it was scarcely recognizable as hers. Very, very ill she looked, as if the end were growing ominously84 near; and Lord Averil did not altogether like the tardy85 summons which the letter would convey. A night and a day yet before George could receive it. A moment’s communing with himself, and then he took the path to the telegraph office, and sent off a message:
“Viscount Averil to George Godolphin, Esquire.
“Your wife is very ill. Come down by first train.”
The snow came early. It was nothing like Christmas yet, and here was the ground covered with it. The skies had seemed to threaten it the previous night, but people were not prepared to find everything wearing a white aspect when they rose in the morning.
The Reverend Mr. Hastings was ill. A neglected cold was telling so greatly upon him that his daughter Rose had at length sent for Mr. Snow. Mrs. Hastings was away for a day or two, on a visit to some friends at a distance.
Mr. Hastings sat over the fire, dreamily watching David Jekyl, awaiting the visit of Mr. Snow, and thinking his own thoughts. David was busy in the garden. He had a bit of crape on his old felt hat for his recently-interred father. The crape led the Rector’s thoughts to the old man, and thence to the deprivation86 brought to the old man’s years, the loss to the sons, through George Godolphin. How many more, besides poor old Jekyl, had George Godolphin ruined! himself, that reverend divine, amongst the rest!
“A good thing when the country shall be rid of him!” spoke the Rector in his bitterness. “I would give all the comfort left in my life that Maria, for her own sake, had not linked her fate with his! But that can’t be remedied now. I hope he will make her happier there, in her new home, than he has made her here!”
By which words you will gather that Mr. Hastings had no suspicion of the change in his daughter’s state. It was so. Lord and Lady Averil were not alone in learning the tidings suddenly; at, as it may be said, the eleventh hour. Maria had not sent word to the Rectory that she was worse. She knew that her mother was absent, that her father was ill, that Rose was occupied; and that the change from bad to worse had come upon herself so imperceptibly, that she saw not its real danger—as was proved by her not writing to her husband. The Rector, as he sits there, has his mind full of Maria’s voyage, and its discomfort87: of her changed life in India: and he is saying to himself that he shall get out in the afternoon and call to see her.
The room faced the side of the house, but as Mr. Hastings sat he could catch a glimpse of the garden gate, and presently saw the well-known gig stop at it, and the surgeon descend88.
“Well, and who’s ill now?” cried Mr. Snow, as he let himself in at the hall-door, and thence to the room, where he took a seat in front of the Rector, examined his ailment89, and gossiped at the same time, as was his wont90; gossiped and grumbled91.
[443]“Ah, yes; just so: feel worse than you have felt for twenty years. You caught this cold at Thomas Godolphin’s funeral, and you have not chosen to pay attention to it.”
“I think I did. I felt it coming on the next day. I could not read the service in my hat, Snow, over him, and you know that rain was falling. Ah! There was a sufferer! But had it not been for the calamity92 that fell upon him, he might not have gone to the grave quite so soon.”
“He felt it too keenly,” remarked Mr. Snow. “And your daughter—there’s another sad victim. Ah me! Sometimes I wish I had never been a doctor, when I find all that I can do in the way of treatment comes to nothing.”
“If she can only get well through the fatigues93 of the voyage, she may be better in India. Don’t you think so? The very change from this place will put new life into her.”
Mr. Snow paused in surprise, and the truth flashed into his mind—that Mr. Hastings was as yet in ignorance of Maria’s danger: flashed with pain. Of course it was his duty to enlighten him, and he would rather have been spared the task. “When did you see her last?” he inquired.
“The day Mrs. Hastings left. I have not been well enough to go out much since. And I dare say Maria has been busy.”
“I am sorry then to have to tell you that she has not been busy; that she has not been well enough to be busy. She is much worse.”
There was a significance in the tone that spoke to the father more effectually than any words could have done. He was silent for a full minute, and then he rose from his chair and walked once up and down the room before he turned to Mr. Snow.
“The full truth, Snow? Tell it me.”
“Well—the truth is, that hope is over. That she will not very long be here. I had no suspicion that you knew it not.”
“I knew nothing of it. When I and her mother were with her last: it was, I tell you, the day Mrs. Hastings left: Maria was talking of going back to London with her husband the next time he came down to Prior’s Ash. I thought her looking better that morning; she had quite a colour; was in good spirits. When did you see her?”
“Now. I went up there before I came down to you. She grows worse and worse every hour. Lord Averil telegraphed for George Godolphin last night.”
“And I have not been informed of this!” burst forth the Rector. “My daughter dying—for I infer no less—and I to be left in ignorance of the truth!”
“Understand one thing, Mr. Hastings—that until this morning we saw no fear of immediate57 danger. Lord Averil says he suspected it last night; I did not see her yesterday in the after-part of the day. I have known some few cases precisely94 similar to Mrs. George Godolphin’s; where danger and death seem to have come on suddenly together.”
“And what is her disease?”
The surgeon threw up his arms. “I don’t know—unless the trouble has fretted95 her into her grave. Were I not a doctor, I might say she had died of a broken heart, but the faculty96 don’t recognize such a thing.”
[444]Half an hour afterwards, the Reverend Mr. Hastings was bending over his daughter’s dying bed. A dying bed, it too surely looked; and if Mr. Hastings had indulged a gleam of hope, the first glance at Maria’s countenance97 dispelled98 it. She lay wrapped in a shawl, the lace border of her nightcap shading her delicate face and its smooth brown hair, her eyes larger and softer and sweeter than of yore.
They were alone together. He held her hand in his, he gently laid his other hand on her white and wasted brow. “Child! child! why did you not send to me?”
“I did not know I was so ill, papa,” she panted. “I seem to have grown so much worse this last night. But I am better than I was an hour ago.”
“Maria,” he gravely said, “are you aware that you are in a state of danger?—that death may come to you.”
“Yes, papa, I know it. I have seen it coming a long while: only I was not quite sure.”
“And my dear child, are you——” Mr. Hastings paused. He paused and bit his lips, gathering99 firmness to suppress the emotion that was rising. His calling made him familiar with death-bed scenes; but Maria was his own child, and nature will assert her supremacy100. A minute or two and he was himself again: not a man living was more given to reticence101 in the matter of his own feelings than the Rector of All Souls’: he could not bear to betray emotion in the sight of his fellow-men.
“Are you prepared for death, Maria? Can you look upon it without terror?”
“I think I am,” she murmured. “I feel that I am going to God. Oh, papa, forgive, forgive me!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears of emotion, as she raised her hands to him in the moment’s excitement. “The trouble has been too much for me; I could not shake it off. All the sorrow that has been brought upon you through us, I think of it always: my heart aches with thinking of it. Oh, papa, forgive me before I die! It was not my fault; indeed, I did not know of it. Papa”—and the sobs102 became painfully hysterical103, and Mr. Hastings strove in vain to check them—“I would have sacrificed my life to bring good to you and my dear mamma: I would have sold myself, to keep this ill from you!”
“Child, hush! There has been nothing to forgive to you. In the first moment of the smart, if I cast an unkind thought to you, it did not last; it was gone almost as soon as it came. My dear child, you have ever been my loving and dutiful daughter. Maria, shall I tell it you?—I know not why, but I have loved you better than any of my other children.”
She had raised herself from the pillow, and was clasping his hand to her bosom, sobbing104 over it. Few daughters have loved a father as Maria had loved and venerated105 hers. The Rector’s face was preternaturally pale and calm, the effect of his powerfully suppressed emotion.
“It has been too much for me, papa. I have thought of your trouble, of the discomforts106 of your home, of the blighted107 prospects108 of my brothers, feeling that it was our work. I thought of it always, more perhaps than of other things: and I could not battle with the[445] pain it brought, and it has killed me. But, papa, I am resigned to go: I know that I shall be better off. Before these troubles came, I had not learned to think of God, and I should have been afraid to die.”
“It is through tribulation109 that we must enter the Kingdom,” interrupted the calm, earnest voice of the clergyman. “It must come to us here in some shape or other, my child; and I do not see that it matters how, or when, or through whom it does come, if it takes us to a better world. You have had your share of it: but God is a just and merciful Judge, and if He has given you a full share of sorrow, He will deal out to you His full recompense.”
“Yes,” she gently said, “I am going to God. Will you pray for me, papa?—that He will pardon me and take me for Christ’s sake. Oh, papa! it seems—it seems when we get near death as if the other world were so very near to this! It seems such a little span of time that I shall have to wait for you all before you come to me. Will you give my dear love to mamma if I should not live to see her, and say how I have loved her: say that I have only gone on first; that I shall be there ready for her. Papa, I dare say God will let me be ever waiting and looking for you.”
Mr. Hastings turned to search for a Book of Common Prayer. He saw Maria’s on her dressing-table—one which he had given her on her marriage, and written her name in—and he opened it at the “Visitation of the Sick.” He looked searchingly at her face as he returned: surely the signs of death were already gathering there!
“The last Sacrament, Maria?” he whispered. “When shall I come?”
“This evening,” she answered. “George will be here then.”
The Reverend Mr Hastings bent his eyebrows110 with a frown, as if he thought—— But no matter. “At eight o’clock, then,” he said to Maria, as he laid the book upon the bed and knelt down before it. Maria lay back on her pillow, and clasping her hands upon the shawl which covered her bosom, closed her eyes to listen.
It was strange that even then, as he was in the very act of kneeling, certain words which he had spoken to Maria years ago, should flash vividly111 into the Rector’s mind—words which had referred to the death of Ethel Grame.
“The time may come, Maria—we none of us know what is before us—when some of you young ones who are left, may wish you had died as she has. Many a one, battling for very existence with the world’s carking cares, wails112 out a vain wish that he had been taken from the evil to come.”
Had the gift of prevision been on the Rector of All Souls’ when he spoke those words to Maria Hastings? Poor child! lying there now on her early death-bed; with her broken heart! The world’s carking cares had surely done their work on Maria Godolphin!
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1
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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3
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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4
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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6
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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7
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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8
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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9
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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10
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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11
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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12
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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13
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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14
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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15
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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16
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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17
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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18
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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19
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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20
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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21
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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23
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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24
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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25
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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26
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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27
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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28
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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29
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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30
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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31
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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32
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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33
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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34
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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35
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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36
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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37
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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38
meting
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的现在分词 ) | |
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39
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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40
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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41
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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42
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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43
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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44
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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45
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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46
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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48
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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49
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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50
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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51
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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52
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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53
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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54
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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55
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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56
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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57
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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58
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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59
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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60
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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61
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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63
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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64
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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65
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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66
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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67
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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68
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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69
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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70
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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71
munificently
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72
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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73
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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74
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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75
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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76
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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77
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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78
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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79
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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80
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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82
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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83
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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84
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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85
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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86
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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87
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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88
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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89
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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90
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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91
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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92
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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93
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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94
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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95
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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96
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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97
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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98
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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100
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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101
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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102
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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103
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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104
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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105
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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107
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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108
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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109
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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110
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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111
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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112
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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