by Ellen Wood
“My bonds sent to your agents in London!” repeated Lord Averil, in surprise. “What for?”
George coughed. “Some of our deposited deeds are kept there. Let me see?” he continued, again plunging into thought. “Yes — yours were amongst those that went up, I remember.”
“But why not have told me this before?” asked Lord Averil. “Had you written me word, it would have saved me the journey down.”
“To be sure,” acquiesced George. “To tell you the truth, I never thought much about it, or where they were, until now.”
“Mr. Hurde told me they were here,” said Lord Averil.
“No doubt he thought so. They were here until recently.”
“I shall have my journey back again, then!” cried his lordship. “Will the town bankers give them up to me on my simple demand, or must they have your authority?”
“I will write to them,” responded George.
The viscount rose. Not a shade of suspicion had crossed his mind. But he could not help thinking that he should have made a better man of business than handsome George. “I wish you had told me!” he involuntarily repeated. “But I suppose,” he good-naturedly added, “that my poor bonds are too insignificant to have much place in the thoughts of a man surrounded by hundreds of thousands.”
George laughed. He was walking with Lord Averil to the front door. They stood together when it was reached, the street before them. Lord Averil asked after Mr. Godolphin.
“He seems a little better,” replied George. “Certainly no worse.”
“I am glad to hear it. Very glad indeed. You will not forget to write to town, Mr. George?”
“All right,” replied George Godolphin.
CHAPTER XII. “I SEE IT: BUT I CANNOT EXPLAIN IT.”
The light of the setting sun streamed upon the fair hair of Cecil Godolphin. She had strolled out from the dining-room to enjoy the beauty of the late spring evening, or to indulge her own thoughts, as might be. To the confines of the grounds strayed she, as far as those surrounding Lady Godolphin’s Folly; and there she sat down on a garden bench.
Not to remain long alone. She was interrupted by the very man upon whom — if the disclosure must be made — her evening thoughts had centred. He was coming up with a quick step on the road from Prior’s Ash. Seeing Cecil, he turned off to accost her, his heart beating.
Beating with the slight ascent, or with the sight of Cecil? He best knew. Many a man’s heart has beaten at a less lovely vision. She wore her favourite attire, white, set off with blue ribbons, and her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight. She almost exclaimed with surprise. She had been thinking of him, it is true, but as one who was miles and miles away. In spite of his stormy and not long-past rejection, Lord Averil went straight up to her and held out his hand. Did he notice that her blue eyes dropped beneath his, as she rose to answer his greeting; that the soft colour on her cheeks changed to a glowing damask?
“I fear I have surprised you,” said Lord Averil.
“A little,” acknowledged Cecil. “I did not know you were at Prior’s Ash. Thomas will be glad to see you.”
She turned to walk with him to the house, as in courtesy bound. Lord Averil offered her his arm, and Cecil condescended to put the tips of her fingers within it. Neither broke the silence; perhaps neither could break it; and they reached the large porch of Ashlydyat. Cecil spoke then.
“Are you going to make a long stay in the country?”
“A very short one. A party of friends are departing for Canada, and they wish me to make one of them. I think I shall do so.”
“To Canada!” echoed Cecil. “So far away!”
Lord Averil smiled. “It sounds farther than it really is. I am an old traveller, you know.”
Cecil opened the dining-room door. Thomas was alone. He had left the table, and was seated in his armchair at the window. A glad smile illumined his face when he saw Lord Averil. Lord Averil was one of the very few of whom Thomas Godolphin could make a close friend. These close friends! Not above one, or two, can we meet with in a lifetime. Acquaintances many; but friends — those to whom the heart can speak out its inmost thoughts, who may be as our own soul — how few!
Cecil left them alone. She ran off to tell Janet that Lord Averil had come, and would perhaps take tea with them, were he invited to do so. Thomas, with more hospitable ideas, was pressing dinner upon him. It could be brought back at once.
“I have dined at the Bell,” replied Lord Averil. “Not any, thank you,” he added, as Thomas was turning to the wine. “I have taken all I require.”
“Have you come to make a long stay?” inquired Thomas — as Cecil had done.
“I shall go back to town to-morrow. Having nothing to do with myself this evening, I thought I could not spend it better than with you. I am pleased to see that you are looking yourself.”
“The warm weather seems to be doing me good,” was Thomas Godolphin’s reply, a consciousness within him how little better he really was. “Why are you making so short a stay?”
“Well, as it turns out, my journey has been a superfluous one. Those bonds that you hold of mine brought me down,” continued Lord Averil, little thinking that he was doing mischief by mentioning the subject to Mr. Godolphin. “I am going to sell out, and came down to get them.”
“Why did you not write?” said Thomas. “We could have sent them to you.”
“I did write, a week or ten days ago, and your brother wrote me word in answer that the bonds should be sent — or something to that effect. But they never came. Having nothing much to do, I thought I would run down for them. I also wanted to see Max. But he is away.”
“I believe he is,” replied Thomas. “Have you got the bonds?”
“It has proved a useless journey, I say,” replied Lord Averil. “The bonds, I find, are in town, at your agents’.”
Thomas Godolphin looked up with surprise. “They are not in town,” he said. “What should bring them in town? Who told you that?”
“Your brother George.”
“George told you the bonds were in town?” repeated Thomas, as if he could not believe his ears.
“He did indeed: not three hours ago. Why? Are they not in town?”
“Most certainly not. The bonds are in our strong-room, where they were first deposited. They have never been moved from it. What could George have been thinking of?”
“To tell you the truth, I did not fancy he appeared over-certain himself, where they were, whether here or in town,” said Lord Averil. “At length he remembered that they were in town: he said they had gone up with other deeds.”
“He makes a mistake,” said Thomas. “He must be confounding your bonds with some that we sent up the other day of Lord Cavemore’s. And yet, I wonder that he should do so! Lord Cavemore’s went up for a particular purpose, and George himself took the instructions. Lord Cavemore consulted him upon the business altogether.”
“Then — if my bonds are here — can I have them at once?” asked Lord Averil.
“You can have them the instant the Bank opens to-morrow morning. In fact, you might have them to-night if George should happen to be at home. I am sorry you should have had any trouble about it.”
Lord Averil smiled. “Speaking frankly, I do not fancy George is so much a man of business as you are. When I first asked for the bonds, nearly a month ago, he appeared to be quite at sea about them; not to know what I meant, or to remember that you held bonds of mine.”
“Did you ask for the bonds a month ago?” exclaimed Thomas.
“About that time. It was when you were in London. George at last remembered.”
“Did he not give them to you?”
“No. He said —— I almost forget what he said. That he did not know where to put his hands upon them, I think, in your absence.”
Thomas felt vexed. He wondered what could have possessed George to behave in so unbusiness-like a way: or how it was possible for him to have blundered so about the bonds. But he wou
ld not blame his brother to Lord Averil. “You shall have the bonds the first thing in the morning,” he said. “I will drop a note to George, reminding him where they are, in case I am not at the Bank early enough for you.”
Unusually well felt Thomas Godolphin that evening. He proceeded with Lord Averil to the drawing-room to his sisters; and a very pleasant hour or two they all spent together. Bessy laughed at Lord Averil a great deal about his proposed Canadian expedition, telling him she did not believe he seriously entertained it.
It was a genial night, soft, warm, and lovely, the moon bright again. The church clocks at Prior’s Ash were striking ten when Lord Averil rose to leave Ashlydyat. “If you will wait two minutes for me, I will go a little way with you,” said Thomas Godolphin.
He withdrew to another room, penned a line, and despatched it by a servant to the Bank. Then he rejoined Lord Averil, passed his arm within his lordship’s, and went out with him.
“Is this Canada project a joke?” asked he.
“Indeed, no. I have not quite made up my mind to go. I think I shall do so. If so, I shall be away in a week from this. Why should I not go? I have no settled home, no ties.”
“Should you not — I beg your pardon, Averil — be the happier for a settled home? You might form ties. I think a roving life must be the least desirable one of all.”
“It is one I was never fitted for. My inclination would lead me to home, to domestic happiness. But, as you know, I put that out of my power.”
“For a time. But that is over. You might marry again.”
“I do not suppose I ever shall,” returned Lord Averil, feeling half prompted to tell his unsuspicious friend that his own sister was the barrier to his doing so. “You have never married,” he resumed, allowing the impulse to die away.
Thomas Godolphin shook his head. “The cases are different,” he said. “In your wife you lost one whom you could not regret — —”
“Don’t call her by that name, Godolphin!” burst forth Lord Averil.
“And in Ethel I lost one who was all the world to me; who could never be replaced,” Thomas went on, after a pause. “The cases are widely different.”
“Ay, widely different,” assented Lord Averil.
They walked on in silence, each buried in his own thoughts. At the commencement of the road, Lord Averil stopped and took Thomas Godolphin’s hand in his.
“You shall not come any farther with me.”
Thomas stopped also. He had not intended to go farther. “You will really start for Canada?”
“I believe I shall.”
“Take my blessing with you then, Averil. We may never meet again in this world.”
“What?” exclaimed Lord Averil.
“The medical men entertain hopes that my life may not be terminated so speedily: I believe that a few months will end it. I may not live to welcome you home.”
It was the first intimation Lord Averil had received of Thomas Godolphin’s fatal malady. Thomas explained it to him. He was overwhelmed.
“Oh, my friend! my friend! Cannot death be defied, or coaxed to spare you?” he called out in his pain. How many have vainly echoed the same cry!
A few more words, a long grasp of the lingering hands, and they parted. Thomas with a God-speed; Lord Averil with a different prayer — a God-save — upon his lips. The peer turned to Prior’s Ash; Thomas Godolphin towards home.
Not by the path he had come. He had brought Lord Averil down the broad entrance to Ashlydyat: he turned to go round the path by the ash-trees in front of the Dark Plain. Possibly he had a mind to see whether the Shadow was abroad to-night.
Before he had well turned the corner of the trees, or had given more than a glance to the black Shadow — for there it was — he heard hasty footsteps behind him. Looking round, he beheld Lord Averil. Softened by the parting, by the tidings he had heard, an impulse had taken Lord Averil that he would speak of Cecil: and he turned back to do so.
“Godolphin, I —— What’s that?”
The great black Shadow, stretching out there in the distance, had attracted the attention of Lord Averil. He stood with his forefinger extended, pointed towards it.
“That is what they call the Shadow of Ashlydyat,” quietly replied Thomas Godolphin.
Lord Averil had never before seen it. He had heard enough of it. Attentively regarding it, he did not for some time speak.
“Do you believe in it?” he asked at length.
“Believe in it?” repeated Thomas Godolphin. “I believe that a Shadow does appear there on occasions. I cannot believe otherwise, with that ocular demonstration before me.”
“And how do you account for it?” asked Lord Averil.
“I have been all my life trying to do so. And have come to the conclusion that it is not to be accounted for.”
“But I have always treated the report as the most perfect folly,” rejoined Lord Averil.
“Ay. No doubt. As I should do but for that” — and Thomas Godolphin nodded towards the Shadow, on which the peer’s eyes were fixed with an intense gaze. “You and I are rational beings, Averil, not likely to be led away by superstitious folly; we live in an enlightened age, little tolerant of such things. And yet, here we stand, gazing with dispassionate eyes on that Shadow, in full possession of our sober judgment. It is there; we see it: and that is all we can tell about it. The Shadow of Ashlydyat is ridiculed from one end of the county to the other: spoken of — when spoken of at all — as an absurd superstition of the Godolphins. But there the Shadow is: and not all the ridicule extant can do away with the plain fact. I see it: but I cannot explain it.”
“What do you do about it?”
Lord Averil asked the question in his bewilderment. A smile crossed Thomas Godolphin’s lips as he answered.
“We do nothing. We can do nothing. We cannot prevent its coming; we cannot send it away when it comes; we cannot bring it if it does not come of its own accord. If I reason about it for a month, Averil, I could give you no better explanation than this.”
Lord Averil drew a deep breath, as one awaking from a reverie. As Thomas Godolphin said: there was the Shadow, visible to his eyes, his senses: but of explanation as to its cause, there was none. The little episode had driven away the impulse to speak of Cecil: and, after another hand pressure, he finally turned away, and pursued his walk to Prior’s Ash.
Another was also pursuing his walk to Prior’s Ash; indeed, had nearly gained it; and that was Thomas Godolphin’s messenger. Approaching the Bank residence, he distinguished some one standing at the entrance, and found that it was Mr. George Godolphin.
“What’s this?” asked George. “A letter?”
“My master sent me down with it, sir.”
George turned it about in his hand. “Does it require an answer, do you know, Andrew?”
“No, sir. My master said I need not wait.”
The man departed, and George carried the note into the dining-room. Maria sat there reading, underneath the chandelier. She looked pleased to see her husband, and closed the book. George had been out all the evening. He stood opposite to Maria, and tore the note open.
“Dear George,
“Lord Averil’s bonds are in his case in the strong-room. How could you make so great a mistake as to tell him they had gone up to town? I send you word, lest he should call for them in the morning before I reach the Bank.
“Ever yours,
“Thomas Godolphin.”
Then the disclosure must come! With a word, that was very like a groan, George crushed the paper in his hand. Maria heard the sound.
“What is it, George?”
“Nothing. What? This? Only a note from Thomas.”
He began whistling lightly, to cover his real feelings, and took up the book Maria had closed. “Is it entertaining?” asked he, turning over its pages.
“Very. It is a charming book. But that I had it to read, I should have been lying on the sofa. I have a very bad headache to-night.”
&n
bsp; “Go to bed,” responded George.
“I think I must. Perhaps you will not care to come so early?”
“Never mind me. I have an hour or two’s work to do in the Bank to-night.”
“Oh, George!”
“My dear, it need not keep you up.”
“George, I cannot think how it is that you have night-work to do!” she impulsively exclaimed, after a pause. “I am sure Thomas would not wish you to do it. I think I shall ask him.”
George turned round and grasped her shoulder, quite sharply. “Maria!”
His grasp, I say, was sharp, his look and voice were imperatively stern. Maria felt frightened: she scarcely knew why. “What have I done?” she asked, timidly.
“Understand me, please, once for all. What I choose to do, does not regard my brother Thomas. I will have no tales carried to him.”
“Why do you mistake me so?” she answered, when she had a little recovered her surprise. “It cannot be well for you, or pleasant for you, to have so much work to do at night, and I thought Thomas would have told you not to do it. Tales! George, you know I should never tell them of you.”
“No, no; I know you would not, Maria. I have been idle of late, and am getting up my work; that’s all: but it would not do to let Thomas know it. You — you don’t tell Isaac that I sit up at the books?” he cried, almost in an accent of terror.
She looked up at him wonderingly, through her wet eyelashes. “Surely, no! Should I be likely to speak to Isaac of what you do? or to any one?”
George folded her in his arms, kissing the tears from her face. “Go to bed at once, darling, and sleep your headache off,” he fondly whispered. “I shall be up soon; as soon as I can.”
He lighted her candle and gave it to her. As Maria took it, she remembered something she wished to say to him. “When will it be convenient to you to give me some money, George?”
“What for?”
“Oh, you know. For housekeeping. The bills are getting so heavy, and the tradespeople are beginning to ask for their money. The servants want their wages, too. Would it not be better to pay regularly, as we used to do, instead of letting things run on so long?”
