The Shadow of Ashlydyat. Henry Wood

you do intend to marry some time, George?”

      “I dare say I shall. It is a thing that comes to most of us as a matter of course; as measles or vaccination,” spoke irreverent George. “You mentioned Charlotte Pain, sir: I presume you have no urgent wish that my choice should fall upon her?”

      “If I had, would you comply with it?”

      George raised his blue eyes to his father. “I have never thought of Charlotte Pain as a wife.”

      “She is a fine girl, a wonderfully fine girl; and if, as is rumoured, she has a fortune, you might go further and fare worse,” remarked Sir George. “If you don’t like Charlotte Pain, find out some one else that you would like. Only, take care that there’s money with her.”

      “Money is desirable in itself. But it does not invariably bring happiness, sir.”

      “I never heard that it brought unhappiness, Master George. I cannot have you both marry portionless women. Thomas has chosen one who has nothing: it will not do for you to follow his example. The world is before you; choose wisely.”

      “If we choose portionless women, we are not portionless ourselves.”

      “We have a credit to keep up before the public, George. It stands high; it deserves to stand high; I hope it always will do so. But I consider it necessary that one of you should marry a fortune; I should have been glad that both had done so. Take the hint, George; and never expect my consent to your making an undesirable match, for it would not be given.”

      “But, if my inclination fixed itself upon one who has no money, what then, sir?” asked bold George carelessly.

      Sir George pushed from before him a dish of filberts, so hastily as to scatter them on the table. It proved to his sons, who knew him well, that the question had annoyed him.

      “Your inclinations are as yet free, George: I say the world is before you, and you may choose wisely. If you do not: if, after this warning, you suffer your choice to rest where it is undesirable that it should rest, you will do it in deliberate defiance of me. In that case I shall disinherit you: partially, if not wholly.”

      Something appeared to be on the tip of George’s tongue, but he checked it, and there ensued a pause.

      “Thomas is to be allowed to follow his choice,” he presently said.

      “I had not warned Thomas with regard to a choice; therefore he has been guilty of no disobedience. It is his having chosen as he has, that reminds me to caution you. Be careful, my boy.”

      “Well, sir, I have no intention of marrying yet, and I suppose you will not disinherit me for keeping single,” concluded George good-humouredly. He rose to leave the room as he spoke, throwing a merry glance towards Thomas as he did so, who had taken no part whatever in the conversation.

      The twilight of the evening had passed, but the moon shone bright and clear, rendering the night nearly as light as day. Janet Godolphin stood on the lawn with Miss Hastings, when George stepped out and joined them.

      “Moon-gazing, Janet!”

      “Yes,” she answered. “I am going on to the ash-trees.”

      George paused before he again spoke. “Why are you going thither?”

      “Because,” whispered Janet, glancing uneasily around, “they say the Shadow is there again.”

      George himself had heard that it was: had heard it, as you know, from Charlotte Pain. But he chose to make mockery of his sister’s words.

      “Some say the moon’s made of green cheese,” quoth he. “Who told you that nonsense?”

      “It has been told to me,” mysteriously returned Janet. “Margery saw it last night, for one.”

      “Margery sees double, sometimes. Do not go, Janet.”

      Janet’s only answer was to put the hood of her cloak over her head, and walk away. Bessy Godolphin ran up at this juncture.

      “Is Janet going to the ash-trees? She’ll turn into a ghost herself some time, believing all the rubbish Margery chooses to dream. I shall go and tell her so.”

      Bessy followed in the wake of her sister. George turned to Miss Hastings.

      “Have you a cloak also, Maria? Draw it round you, then, and let us go after them.”

      He caught her to him with a fond gesture, and they hastened on, down from the eminence where rose the Folly, to the lower ground nearer Ashlydyat. The Dark Plain lay to the right, and as they struck into a narrow, overhung walk, its gloom contrasted unpleasantly with the late brightness. Maria Hastings drew nearer to her companion with an involuntary shiver.

      “Why did you come this dark way, George?”

      “It is the most direct way. In the dark or in the light you are safe with me. Did you notice Sir George’s joke about Charlotte Pain?”

      The question caused her heart to beat wildly. “Was it a joke?” she breathed.

      “Of course it was a joke. But he has been giving me a lecture upon—upon–”

      “Upon what?” she inquired, helping out his hesitation.

      “Upon the expediency of sowing my wild oats and settling down into a respectable man,” laughed George. “I promised him it should be done some time. I cannot afford it just yet, Maria,” he added, his tone changing to earnestness. “But I did not tell him that.”

      Meanwhile, Janet Godolphin had gained the ash-trees. She quietly glided before them beneath their shade to reach the bench. It was placed back, quite amidst them, in what might almost be called a recess formed by the trees. Janet paused ere turning in, her sight thrown over the Dark Plain.

      “Heavens and earth! how you startled me. Is it you, Miss Godolphin?”

      The exclamation came from Charlotte Pain, who was seated there. Miss Godolphin was startled also; and her tone, as she spoke, betrayed considerable vexation.

      “You here, Miss Pain! A solitary spot, is it not, for a young lady to be sitting in alone at night?”

      “I was watching for that strange appearance which you, in this neighbourhood, call the Shadow,” she explained. “I saw it last evening.”

      “Did you?” freezingly replied Janet Godolphin, who had an unconquerable aversion to the supernatural sign being seen or spoken of by strangers.

      “Well, pray, and where’s the Shadow?” interrupted Bessy Godolphin, coming up. “I see nothing, and my eyes are as good as yours, Janet: better, I hope, than Margery’s.”

      “I do not see it to-night,” said Charlotte Pain. “Here are more footsteps! Who else is coming?”

      “Did you ever know the Shadow come when it was watched for?” cried Janet to Bessy, in a half-sad, half-resentful tone, as her brother and Maria Hastings approached. “Watch for it, and it does not come. It never yet struck upon the sight of any one, but it did so unexpectedly.”

      “As it did upon me last night,” said Charlotte Pain. “It was a strange-looking shadow: but, as to its being supernatural, the very supposition is ridiculous. I beg your pardon, if I offend your prejudices, Miss Godolphin.”

      “Child! why did you come?” cried Janet Godolphin to Maria.

      “I had no idea you did not wish me to come.”

      “Wish! It is not that. But you are little more than a child, and might be spared these sights.”

      There appeared to be no particular sight to spare any one. They stood in a group, gazing eagerly. The Dark Plain was stretched out before them, the bare patch of clear ground, the archway behind; all bright in the moonlight. No shadow or shade was to be seen. Charlotte Pain moved to the side of George Godolphin.

      “You told me I was fanciful this morning, when I said the Dark Plain put me in mind of a graveyard,” she said to him in a half-whisper. “See it now! Those low bushes scattered about look precisely like grave-mounds.”

      “But