Again another funeral in All Souls’ Church, another opening of the vault1 of the Godolphins! But it was not All Souls’ Rector to officiate this time; he stood at the grave with George. Isaac Hastings had come down from London, Harry2 had come from his tutorship; Lord Averil was again there, and Mr. Crosse had asked to attend. Prior’s Ash looked out on the funeral with regretful eyes, saying one to another, what a sad thing it was for her, only twenty-eight, to die.
George Godolphin, contriving3 to maintain an outward calmness, turned away when it was over. Not yet to the mourning-coach that waited for him, but through the little gate leading to the Rectory. He was about to leave Prior’s Ash for good that night, and common courtesy demanded that he should say a word of farewell to Mrs. Hastings.
In the darkened drawing-room with Grace and Rose, in their new mourning attire4, sat Mrs. Hastings: George Godolphin half started back as they rose to greet him. He did not stay to sit: he stood by the fireplace, his hat in his hand, its flowing crape almost touching5 the ground.
“I will say good-bye to you, now, Mrs. Hastings.”
“You really leave to-night?”
“By the seven o’clock train. Will you permit me to express my hope that a brighter time may yet dawn for you; to assure you that no effort on my part shall be spared to conduce to it?”
He spoke6 in a low, quiet, meaning tone, and he held her hand between his. Mrs. Hastings could not misunderstand him—that he was hinting at a hope of reimbursing7 somewhat of their pecuniary8 loss.
“Thank you for your good wishes,” she said, keeping down the tears. “You will allow me—you will speak to Lady Averil to allow me to have the child here for a day sometimes?”
“Need you ask it?” he answered, a generous warmth in his tone. “Cecil, I am quite sure, recognizes your right in the child at least in an equal degree with her own, and is glad to recognize it. Fare you well; fare you well, dear Mrs. Hastings.”
He went out, shaking hands with Grace and Rose as he passed, thinking how much he had always liked Mrs. Hastings, with her courteous9 manners and gentle voice, so like those of his lost wife. The Rector met him in the passage, and George held out his hand.
“I shall not see you again, sir. I leave to-night.”
The Rector took the hand. “I wish you a safe voyage!” he said. “I hope things will be more prosperous with you in India than they have been latterly here!”
“We have all need to wish that,” was George’s answer. “Mr. Hastings, promises from me might be regarded as valueless, but this[467] much I wish to say ere we part: that I carry the weight of my debt to you about me, and I will lessen10 it should it be in my power. You will”—dropping his voice—“you will see that the inscription11 is properly placed on the tombstone?”
“I will. Have you given orders for it?”
“Oh yes. Farewell, sir. Farewell, Harry,” he added, as the two sons came in. “Isaac, I shall see you in London.”
He passed swiftly out to the mourning-coach, and was driven home. Above everything on earth, George hated this leave-taking: but there were two or three to whom it had to be spoken.
Not until dusk did he go up to Ashlydyat. He called in at Lady Godolphin’s Folly12 as he passed it: she was his father’s widow, and Bessy was there. My lady was very cool. My lady told him that it was his place to give the refusal of Meta to her: and she should never forgive the slight. From the very moment she heard that Maria’s life was in danger, she made up her mind to break through her rules of keeping children at a distance, and to take the child. She should have reared her in every luxury as Miss Godolphin of Ashlydyat, and have left her a handsome fortune: as it was, she washed her hands of her. George thanked her for her good intention as a matter of course; but his heart leaped within him at the thought that Meta was safe and secure with Cecil: he would have taken her and Margery out to make acquaintance with the elephants, rather than have left Meta to Lady Godolphin.
“She’ll get over the smart, George,” whispered Bessy, as she came out to bid him God-speed. “I shall be having the child here sometimes, you know. My lady’s all talk: she never cherishes resentment13 long.”
He entered the old home, Ashlydyat, and was left alone with Meta at his own request. She was in the deepest black: crape tucks on her short frock; not a bit of white to be seen about her, except her socks and the tips of her drawers; and Cecil had bought her a jet necklace of round beads14, with a little black cross hanging from it on her neck. George sat down and took her on his knee. What with the drawn15 blinds and the growing twilight16, the room was almost dark, and he had to look closely at the little face turned to him. She was very quiet, rather pale, as if she had grieved a good deal in the last few days.
“Meta,” he began, and then he stopped to clear his husky voice—“Meta, I am going away.”
She made no answer. She buried her face upon him and began to cry softly. It was no news to her, for Cecil had talked to her the previous night. But she clasped her arms tightly round him as if she could not let him go, and began to tremble.
“Meta!—my child!”
“I want mamma!” burst from the little full heart. “I want mamma to be with me again. Is she gone away for ever? Is she put down in the grave with Uncle Thomas? Oh, papa! I want to see her!”
A moment’s struggle with himself, and then George Godolphin gave way to the emotion which he had so successfully restrained in the churchyard. They sobbed17 together, the father and child: her face[468] against his, the sobs18 bursting freely from his bosom19. He let them come; loud, passionate20, bitter sobs; unchecked, unsubdued. Do not despise him for it! they are not the worst men who can thus give way to the vehemence22 of our common nature.
It spent itself after a time; such emotion must spend itself; but it could not wholly pass yet. Meta was the first to speak: the same vain wish breaking from her, the sane23 cry.
“I want mamma! Why did she go away for ever?”
“Not for ever, Meta. Only for a time. Oh, child, we shall go to her: we shall go to her in a little while. Mamma’s gone to be an angel; to keep a place for us in heaven.”
“How long will it be?”
“Not a moment of our lives but it will draw nearer and nearer. Meta, it may be well for us that those we love should go on first, or we might never care to go thither24 ourselves.”
She lay more quietly. George laid his hand upon her head, unconsciously playing with her golden hair, his tears dropping on it.
“You must think of mamma always, Meta. Think that she is looking down at you, on all you do, and try and please her. She was very good: and you must be good, making ready to go to her.”
A renewed burst of sobs came from the child. George waited, and then resumed.
“When I come back—if I live to come back; or when you come to me in India; at any rate when I see you again, Meta, you will probably be grown up; no longer a child, but a young lady. If I shall only find you like mamma was in all things, I shall be happy. Do you understand, darling?”
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“Good, and gentle, and kind, and lady-like,—and remembering always that there’s another world, and that mamma has gone on to it. I should like to have kept you with me, Meta, but it cannot be: I must go out alone. You will not quite forget me, will you?”
She put up her hand and her face to his, and moaned in her pain. George laid his aching brow on hers. He knew that it might be the last time they should meet on earth.
“I shall write to you by every mail, Meta, and you must write to me. You can put great capital letters together now, and that will do to begin with. And,” his voice faltered25, “when you walk by mamma’s grave on Sundays—and see her name there—you will remember her—and me. You will think how we are separated: mamma in heaven; I, in a far-off land; you here: but you know the separation will not be for ever, and each week will bring us nearer to its close—its close in some way. If—if we never meet again on earth, Meta——”
“Oh don’t, papa! I want you to come back to me.”
He choked down his emotion. He took the little face in his hands and kissed it fervently26: in that moment, in his wrung27 feelings, he almost wished he had no beloved child to abandon.
“You must be called by your own name now. I should wish it. Meta was all very well,” he continued, half to himself, “when she was here; that the names should not interfere28 with each other. Be a good[469] child, my darling. Be very obedient to Aunt Cecil, as you used to be to mamma.”
“No, my darling, but she will be to you as mamma, and she and Lord Averil will love you very much. I wish—I wish I could have kept you with me, Meta!”
She wished it also. If ever a child knew what an aching heart was, she knew it then.
“And now I must go,” he added—for indeed he did not care to prolong the pain. “I shall write to you from London, Meta, and I shall write you quite a packet when I am on board ship. You must get on well with your writing, so as to be able soon to read my letters yourself. Farewell, farewell, my darling child!”
How long she clung to him; how long he kept her clinging, he gave no heed30. When the emotion on both sides was spent, he took her by the right hand and led her to the next room. Lady Averil came forward.
“Cecil,” he said, his voice quiet and subdued21, “she must be called Maria now—in remembrance of her mother.”
“Yes,” said Cecil eagerly. “We should all like it. Sit down, George. Lord Averil has stepped out somewhere, but he will not be long.”
“I cannot stay. I shall see him outside, I dare say. If not, he will come to the station. Will you say to him——”
A low burst of tears from the child interrupted the sentence. George, in speaking to Cecil, had loosed her hand, and she laid her head down on a sofa to cry. He took her up in his arms, and she clung to him tightly: it was only the old scene over again, and George felt that they were not alone now. He imprinted31 a last kiss upon her face, and gave her to his sister.
“She had better be taken away, Cecil.”
Lady Averil, with many loving words, carried her outside the door, sobbing32 as she was, and called to her maid. “Be very kind to her,” she whispered. “It is a sad parting. And—Harriet—henceforth she is to be called by her proper name—Maria.”
“She will get over it in a day or two, George,” said Lady Averil, returning.
“Yes, I know that,” he answered, his face turned from Cecil. “Cherish the remembrance of her mother within her as much as you possibly can, Cecil: I should wish her to grow up like Maria.”
“If you would only stay a last hour with us!”
“I can’t; I can’t: it is best that I should go. I do not know what the future may bring forth,” he lingered to say, “Whether I shall come home—or live to come home, or she, when she is older, come out to me: it is all uncertain.”
“Were I you, George, I would not indulge the thought of the latter. She will be better here—as it seems to me.”
“Yes—there’s no doubt of it. But the separation is a cruel one. However—the future must be left. God bless you, Cecil! and thank you ever for your kindness.”
The tears rolled down her cheeks as he bent33 to kiss her. “George,” she whispered timidly—“if I might only ask you one question.”
[470]“Ask me anything.”
“Is—have you any intention—shall you be likely to think of—of replacing Maria by Charlotte Pain—of making her your wife?”
“Replacing Maria by her!” he echoed, his face flushing. “Heaven forgive you for thinking it!”
The question cured George’s present emotion more effectually than anything else could have done. But his haughty34 anger against Cecil was unreasonable35, and he felt that it was so.
“Forgive me, my dear: but it sounded so like an insult to my dear wife. Be easy: she will never replace Maria.”
In the porch, as George went out, he met Lord Averil hastening in. Lord Averil would have put his arm within George’s to walk with him through the grounds, but George drew back.
“No, not to-night: let me go alone. I am not fit for companionship. Good-night. Good-bye,” he added, his voice hoarse36. “I thought to say a word of gratitude37 to you, for the past, for the present, but I cannot. If I live——”
“Don’t say ‘if,’ George: go away with a good heart, and take my best wishes with you. A new land and a new life! you may yet live down the past.”
Their hands lingered together in a firm pressure, and George turned away from Ashlydyat for the last time. Ashlydyat that might have been his.
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1
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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2
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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3
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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5
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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6
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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7
reimbursing
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| v.偿还，付还( reimburse的现在分词 ) | |
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8
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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9
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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10
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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11
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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12
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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13
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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14
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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15
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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16
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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17
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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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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20
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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21
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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22
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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25
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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26
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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27
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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28
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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29
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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30
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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31
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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32
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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33
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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34
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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35
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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36
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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37
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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