The Shadow of Ashlydyat. Henry Wood

“I should have finished that sketch, but for this mist.”

      “No saddle-horses!” went on Charlotte. “I shall forget how to ride. I never heard of such a thing as a country-house without saddle-horses. Where was the use of bringing my new cap and habit? Only to have them crushed!”

      Maria seemed to have relapsed into thought. She made no reply. Presently Charlotte began again.

      “I wish I had my dogs here! Lady Godolphin would not extend the invitation even to King Charlie. She said she did not like dogs. What a heathen she must be! If I could only see my darling pet, King Charlie! Kate never mentioned him once in her letter this morning!”

      The words aroused Maria to animation. “Did you receive a letter this morning from Prior’s Ash? You did not tell me.”

      “Margery brought it to my bedroom. It came last night, I fancy, and lay in the letter-box. I do not think Sir George ought to keep that letter-box entirely under his own control,” continued Charlotte. “He grows forgetful. Some evenings I know it is never looked at.”

      “I have not observed that Sir George is forgetful,” dissented Maria.

      “You observe nothing. I say that Sir George declines daily: both bodily and mentally. I see a great difference in him, even in the short time that we have been here. He is not the man he was.”

      “He has his business letters regularly; and answers them.”

      “Quite a farce to send them,” mocked handsome Charlotte. “Thomas Godolphin is ultra-filial.”

      “What news does Mrs. Verrall give you?” inquired Maria.

      “Not much. Sarah Anne Grame is out of immediate danger, and the fever has attacked two or three others.”

      “In Lady Sarah’s house?”

      “Nonsense! No. That sickly girl, Sarah Anne, took it because I suppose she could not help it: but there’s not much fear of its spreading to the rest of the house. If they had been going to have it, it would have shown itself ere this. It has crept on to those pests of cottages by the Pollards. The Bonds are down with it.”

      “The worst spot it could have got to!” exclaimed Maria. “Those cottages are unhealthy at the best of times.”

      “They had a dinner-party on Saturday,” continued Charlotte.

      “At the cottages!”

      Charlotte laughed. “At Ashlydyat. The Godolphins were there. At least, she mentioned Bessy, and your chosen cavalier, Mr. George.”

      Maria’s cheek flushed crimson. Charlotte Pain was rather fond of this kind of satire. Had she believed there was anything serious between George Godolphin and Maria, she would have bitten her tongue out rather than allude to it. It was not Charlotte’s intention to spare him to Maria Hastings.

      Charlotte Pain at length settled herself to her desk. Maria drew nearer to the fire, and sat looking into it, her cheek leaning on her hand: sat there until the dusk of the winter’s afternoon fell upon the room. She turned to her companion.

      “Can you see, Charlotte?”

      “Scarcely. I have just finished.”

      A few minutes, and Charlotte folded her letters. Two. The one was directed to Mrs. Verrall; the other to Rodolf Pain, Esquire.

      “I shall go up to dress,” she said, locking her desk.

      “There’s plenty of time,” returned Maria. “I wonder where Sir George and Lady Godolphin are? They did not intend to stay out so late.”

      “Oh, when those ancient codgers get together, talking of their past times and doings, they take no more heed how time goes than we do at a ball,” carelessly spoke Charlotte.

      Maria laughed. “Lucky for you, Charlotte, that Lady Godolphin is not within hearing. ‘Ancient codgers!’”

      Charlotte left the room, carrying her letters with her. Maria sat on, some time longer—and then it occurred to her to look at her watch. A quarter to five.

      A quarter to five! Had she been asleep? No, only dreaming. She started up, threw wide the door, and was passing swiftly into the dark ante-chamber. The house had not been lighted, and the only light came from the fire behind Maria—revealing her clearly enough, but rendering that ante-chamber particularly dark. Little wonder, then, that she gave a scream when she found herself caught in some one’s arms, against whom she had nearly run.

      “Is it you, Sir George? I beg your pardon.”

      Not Sir George. Sir George would not have held her to him with that impassioned fervour. Sir George would not have taken those fond kisses from her lips. It was another George, just come in from his long day’s journey. He pressed his face, cold from the fresh night air, upon her warm one. “My dearest! I knew you would be the first to welcome me!”

      Dark enough around, it was still; but a light as of some sunny Eden, illumined the heart of Maria Hastings. The shock of joy was indeed great. Every vein was throbbing, every pulse tingling, and George Godolphin, had he never before been sure that her deep and entire love was his, must have known it then.

      A servant was heard approaching with lights. George Godolphin turned to the fire, and Maria turned and stood near him.

      “Did any of you expect me?” he inquired.

      “Oh no!” impulsively answered Maria. “I can scarcely now believe that it is you in reality.”

      He looked at her and laughed; his gay laugh: as much as to say that he had given her a tolerable proof of his reality. She stood, in her pretty, timid manner, before the fire, her eyelids drooping, and the flame lighting up her fair face.

      “Is my father at home?” he asked, taking off his overcoat. He had walked from the railway station, a mile or two distant.

      “He went out with Lady Godolphin this morning to pay a visit to some old friends. I thought they would have returned long before this.”

      “Is he getting strong, Maria?”

      Maria thought of what Charlotte Pain had said, and hesitated. “He appears to me to be better than when we left Prior’s Ash. But he is far from strong.”

      The servant finished lighting the chandelier and retired. George Godolphin watched the door close, and then drew Maria before him, gazing down at her.

      “Let me look at you, my darling! Are you glad to see me?”

      Glad to see him! The tears nearly welled up with the intensity of her emotion. “I had begun to think you were not coming at all,” she said, in a low tone. “Charlotte Pain received a letter from Mrs. Verrall this morning, in which you were mentioned as–”

      Charlotte herself interrupted the conclusion of the sentence. She came in, dressed for dinner. George turned to greet her, his manner warm; his hands outstretched.

      “Margery said Mr. George was here! I did not believe her!” cried Charlotte, resigning her hands to him. “Did you come on the telegraph-wires?”

      “They would not have brought me quickly enough to your presence,” cried Mr. George.

      Charlotte laughed gaily. “I was just prophesying you would not come at all. Mrs. Verrall did not inform me that you were about to start, amidst her other items of intelligence. Besides, I know that you are rather addicted to forgetting your promises.”

      “What items had Mrs. Verrall to urge against me?” demanded George.

      “I forget them now. Nothing I believe. Is Prior’s Ash alive still?”

      “It was, when I left it.”

      “And the fever, George?” inquired Maria.

      “Fever? Oh, I don’t know much about it.”

      “As if fevers were in his way!” ironically cried Charlotte Pain. “He troubles himself no more about fevers than does Lady Godolphin.”

      “Than Lady Godolphin would like to do, I suppose