"I pray G.o.d that your union may be more happy than some other unions have been," he said. "That, in a great degree, rests with you, Lord Averil. Take care of her."

Her eyes filled with tears, but the viscount grasped his hand warmly. "I will; I will."

The beadle was rapping his stick on sundry heads with great effect, and the excited crowd pushed and danced round that travelling carriage, but they made their way to it. To hand in Cecil and take his place beside her seemed to be but the work of a moment, so quickly did it pa.s.s, and Lord Averil, a pleasant smile upon his face, bowed to the shouts on either side as the carriage threaded its way through the throng. The three ladies next stepped into their carriage, and Thomas G.o.dolphin turned into the Rectory. Mrs. Hastings, grey, worn, old--ten years older than she had been six months before--came forward to greet him, commiseration in every line of her countenance.

"I thought I would say good-bye to you," he said, as he held her hands in his. "It will be my only opportunity. I expect this is my last quitting of Ashlydyat."

"Say good-bye?" she faltered. "Are you--are you--so near----"

"Look at me," quietly said Thomas, answering her unfinished sentence.

But there was an interruption. Bustling little feet and a busy little tongue came upon them. Miss Meta had broken from Rose and run in alone, throwing her straw hat aside as she entered.

"Uncle Thomas! Uncle Thomas! I saw you at the wedding, Uncle Thomas."

He sat down and took the child upon his knee. "And I saw Meta," he answered. "How is mamma? I am going to see her presently."

"Mamma's not well," said Meta, shaking her head. "Mamma cries often. She was crying this morning. Uncle Thomas"--lowering her voice and speaking slowly--"mamma says she's going to heaven."

There was a startled pause. Thomas broke it by laying his hand upon the golden-haired head.

"I trust we are all going there, Meta. A little earlier or a little later, as G.o.d shall will. It will not much matter which."

A few minutes' conversation, and Thomas G.o.dolphin went out to the fly which had been brought for him. Bexley, who was with it, helped him in.

"To Mrs. George G.o.dolphin's."

The attentive old retainer--older by twenty years than Thomas, but younger in health and vigour--carefully a.s.sisted his master up the path.

Maria saw the approach from the window. Why it was she knew not, but she was feeling unusually ill that day: scarcely able to rise to a sitting position on the sofa. Thomas was shocked at the alteration in her, and involuntarily thought of the child's words, "Mamma says she's going to heaven."

"I thought I should like to say farewell to you, Maria," he said, as he drew a chair near her. "I did not expect to find you looking so ill."

She had burst into tears. Whether it was the unusual depression of her own spirits, or his wan face, emotion overcame her.

"It has been too much for both of us," he murmured, holding her hands.

"We must forgive him, Maria. It was done in carelessness, perhaps, but not wilfulness. Why do you not come to Ashlydyat sometimes? You know we should be glad to see you."

She shook her head. "I cannot go out, Thomas. Indeed, I am not strong enough for it now."

"But Maria, you should not give way to this grief; this weakness. You are young; you have no incurable complaint, as I have."

"I don't know," she sighed. "At times I feel as though I should never be well again. I--I--have been so reproached, Thomas; so much blame has been cast on me by all people; it has been as if _I_ had made away with their money; and you know that I was as innocent as they were. And there have been other things. If--if----"

"If what?" asked Thomas, leaning over her.

She was sitting back upon the sofa, her fair young face wan and colourless, her delicate hands clasped together, as in apathy. "If it were not for leaving Meta, I should be glad to die!"

"Hush, Maria! Rather say you are glad to live for her sake. George may by some means or other become prosperous again, and you may once more have a happy home. You are young, I say; you must bear up against this weakness."

"If I could only pay all we owe; our personal debts!" she whispered, unconsciously giving utterance to the vain longing that was ever working in her heart. "Papa's nine thousand pounds--and Mrs. Bond's ten pounds--and the Jekyls--and the tradespeople!"

"If _I_ could only have paid!" he rejoined in a voice broken by emotion.

"If I could--if I could--I should have gone easier to the grave. Maria, we have a G.o.d, remember, who sees all our pangs, all our bitter sorrow: but for Him, and my trust in Him, I should have died long ago of the pain."

Maria covered her face with her hand. Thomas rose.

"You are not going?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, for I must hasten home. This has been a morning of exertion, and I find there's no strength left in me. G.o.d bless you, Maria!"

"Are we never to meet again?" she asked, as he held her thin hands in his, and she looked up at him through her blinding tears.

"I hope we shall meet again, Maria, and be together for ever and for ever. The threshold of the next world is opening to me: this is closing.

Fare you well, child; fare you well."

Bexley came to him as he opened the parlour door. Thomas asked for Margery: he would have said a kind word to her. But Margery had gone out.

Maria stood at the window, and watched him through her tears as he walked down the path to the fly, supported by Bexley. The old man closed the door on his master and took his seat by the driver. Thomas looked forth as they drove away, and smiled a last farewell.

A farewell in the deepest sense of the word. It was the last look, the last smile, that Maria would receive in this life, from Thomas G.o.dolphin.

CHAPTER III.

FOR THE LAST TIME.

In the old porch at Ashlydyat, of which you have heard so much, sat Thomas G.o.dolphin. An invalid chair had been placed there, and he lay back on its pillows in the sun of the late autumn afternoon. A warm, sunny autumn had it been; a real "Ete de St. Martin." He was feeling wondrously well; almost, but for his ever-present sensation of weakness, quite well. His fatigue of the previous day--that of Cecil's wedding--had left no permanent effects upon him, and had he not known thoroughly his own hopeless state, he might have fancied this afternoon that he was about to get well all one way.

Not in looks. Pale, wan, ghastly were they; the shadow of the grim, implacable visitor that was so soon to come was already on them; but the face in its stillness told of ineffable peace: the brunt of the storm had pa.s.sed.

The white walls of Lady G.o.dolphin's Folly glittered brightly in the distance; the dark-blue sky was seen through the branches of the trees, growing bare and more bare against the coming winter; the warm sun rays fell on Thomas G.o.dolphin. Margery came up, and he held out his hand.

"My mistress told me you'd have said good-bye to me yesterday, Mr.

Thomas, and it was just my ill-luck to be out. I had gone to take the child's shoes to be mended--she wears them out fast. But you are not going to leave us yet, sir?"

"I know not how soon it may be, Margery: very long it cannot be. Sit down."

She stood yet, however, looking at him, disregarding the bench to which he had pointed; stood with a saddened expression and compressed lips.

Margery's was an experienced eye, and it may be that she saw the shadow which had taken up its abode on his face.

"You are going to see my old master and mistress, sir," she burst forth, dashing some rebellious moisture from her eyes. "Mr. Thomas, do you recollect it?--my poor mistress sat here in this porch the very day she died."

"I remember it well, Margery. I am dying quietly, thank G.o.d, as my mother died."

"And what a blessing it is when folks can die quietly, with their conscience and all about 'em at peace!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Margery. "I wonder how Mr. George would have took it, if _he'd_ been called instead of you, sir?"