standing on the covered terrace outside the dining-room at the bank, in all the warm beauty of the late and lovely spring morning, surrounded by the perfume of flowers, the green lawn stretching out before her, the pleasant sitting-room behind her, its large window open and its paintings on the walls conspicuous, was maria godolphin. she wore a morning dress, simple and pretty as of yore, and her fair face had lost none of its beauty, scarcely any of its youth. looking at her you would not think that a month had elapsed since she came there, to her home, after her marriage; and yet the time, since then, would not be counted by months, but by years. six years and a half, it is, since her marriage took place, and the little girl, whom maria is holding by the hand, is five years old. just now maria’s face is all animation. she is talking to the child, and talking also to jonathan and david jekyl: but if you saw her at an unoccupied moment, her face in repose, you might detect an expression of settled sadness in it. it arose from the loss of her children. three had died in succession, one after another; and this one, the eldest, was the only child remaining to her. a wondrously pretty little girl, her bare legs peeping between her frilled drawers and her white socks; with the soft brown eyes of her mother, and the golden saxon curls of her father. with her mother’s eyes the child had inherited her mother’s gentle temperament: and margery—who had found in her heart to leave ashlydyat and become nurse to george’s children—was wont to say that she never had to do with so sweet-tempered a child. she had been named maria; but the name, for home use, had been corrupted into meta: not to interfere with maria’s. she held her mother’s hand, and, by dint of stretching up on her toes, could just bring her eyes above the marble top of the terrace balustrade.
“donatan, why don’t you get that big ting, to-day?”
jonathan looked up, a broad smile on his face. he delighted in little children. he liked to hear them call him “donatan:” and the little lady before him was as backward in the sound of the “th,” as if she had been french. “she means the scythe, ma’am,” said jonathan.
“i know she does,” said maria. “the grass does not want mowing to-day, meta. david, do you not think those rose-trees are very backward?”
david gave his usual grunt. “i should wonder if they were for’ard.[167] there ain’t no rose-trees for miles round but what is back’ard, except them as have been nursed. with the cutting spring we’ve had, how are the rose-trees to get on, i’d like to know?”
jonathan looked round, his face quite sunshine compared with david’s: his words also. “they’ll come on famous now, ma’am, with this lovely weather. ten days of it, and we shall have them all out in bloom. little miss shall have a rare posy then, and i’ll cut off the thorns first.”
“a big one, mind, donatan,” responded the young lady, beginning to dance about in anticipation. the child had an especial liking for roses, which jonathan remembered. she inherited her mother’s great love for flowers.
“david, how is your wife?” asked maria.
“i’ve not heard that there’s anything the matter with her,” was david’s phlegmatic answer, without lifting his face from the bed. he and jonathan were both engaged almost at the same spot: david, it must be confessed, getting through more work than jonathan.
they had kept that garden in order for mr. crosse, when the bank was his residence. also for thomas godolphin and his sisters, the little time they had lived there: and afterwards for george. george had now a full complement of servants—rather more than a complement, indeed—and one of them might well have attended to that small garden. janet had suggested as much: but easy george continued to employ the jekyls. it was not often that the two attended together; as they were doing to-day.
“david,” returned maria, in answer to his remark, “i am sure you must know that your wife is often ailing. she is anything but strong. only she is always merry and in good spirits, and so people think her better than she is. she is quite a contrast to you, david,” maria added, with a smile. “you don’t talk and laugh much.”
“talking and laughing don’t get on with a man’s work, as ever i heerd on,” returned david.
“is it true that your father slipped yesterday, and sprained his ankle?” continued maria. “i heard that he did.”
“true enough,” growled david.
“’twas all along of his good fortune, ma’am,” said sunny jonathan. “he was so elated with it that he slipped down gaffer thorpe’s steps, where he was going to tell the news, and fell upon his ankle. the damage ain’t of much account. but that’s old father all over! prime him up with a piece of good fortune, and he is all cock-a-hoop about it.”
“what is the good fortune?” asked maria.
“it’s that money come to him at last, ma’am, what he had waited for so long. i’m sure we had all given it up for lost; and father stewed and fretted over it, wondering always what was going to become of him in his old age. ’tain’t so very much, neither.”
“sixty pound is sixty pound,” grunted david.
“well, so it is,” acquiesced jonathan. “and father looks to it to make him more comfortable than he could be from his profits; his honey, and his garden, and that. he was like a child last night, ma’am, planning what he’d do with it. i told him he had better take care not to lose it.”
[168]“let him bring it to the bank,” said maria. “tell him i say so, jonathan. it will be safe here. he might be paid interest for it.”
“i will, ma’am.”
maria spoke the words in good faith. her mind had conjured up a vision of old jekyl keeping his sixty pounds in his house, at the foot of some old stocking: and she thought how easily he might be robbed of it. “yes, jonathan, tell him to bring it here: don’t let him keep it at home, to lose it.”
maria had another auditor, of whose presence she was unconscious. it was her mother. mrs. hastings had been admitted by a servant, and came through the room to the terrace unheard by maria. the little girl’s ears—like all children’s—were quick, and she turned, and broke into a joyous cry of “grandma!” maria looked round.
“on, mamma! i did not know you were here. are you quite well?” hastily added maria, fancying that her mother looked dispirited.
“we have had news from reginald this morning, and the news is not good,” was the reply. “he has been getting into some disagreeable scrape over there, and it has taken a hundred pounds or two to clear him. of course they came upon us for it.”
maria’s countenance fell. “reginald is very unlucky. he seems always to be getting into scrapes.”
“he always is,” said mrs. hastings. “we thought he could not get into mischief at sea: but it appears that he does. the ship was at calcutta still, but they were expecting daily to sail for home.”
“what is it that he has been doing?” asked maria.
“i do not quite understand,” replied mrs. hastings. “i saw his letter, but that was not very explanatory. what it chiefly contained were expressions of contrition, and promises of amendment. the captain wrote to your papa: and that letter he would not give me to read. your papa’s motive was a good one, no doubt,—to save me vexation. but, my dear, he forgets that uncertainty causes the imagination to conjure up fears, worse, probably, than the reality.”
“as reginald grows older, he will grow steadier,” remarked maria. “and, mamma, whatever it may be, your grieving over it will not mend it.”
“true,” replied mrs. hastings. “but,” she added, with a sad smile, “when your children shall be as old as mine, maria, you will have learnt how impossible it is to a mother not to grieve. have you forgotten the old saying? ‘when our children are young they tread upon our toes; but when they are older they tread upon our hearts.’”
little miss meta was treading upon her toes, just then. the child’s tiny shoes were dancing upon grandmamma’s in her eagerness to get close to her; to tell her that donatan was going to give her a great big handful of roses, as soon as they were out, with the thorns cut off.
“come to me, meta,” said maria. she saw that her mamma was not in a mood to be troubled with children, and she drew the child on to her own knee. “mamma, i am going for a drive presently,” she continued. “would it not do you good to accompany me?”
“i don’t know that i could spare the time this morning,” said mrs. hastings. “are you going far?”
“i can go far or not, as you please,” replied maria. “we have a[169] new carriage, and george told me at breakfast that i had better try it, and see how i liked it.”
“a new carriage!” replied mrs. hastings, her accent betraying surprise. “had you not enough carriages already, maria?”
“in truth, i think we had, mamma. this new one is one that george took a fancy to when he was in london last week; and he bought it.”
“child—though of course it is no business of mine—you surely did not want it. what sort of carriage is it?”
“it is a large one: a sort of barouche. it will do you good to go out with me. i will order it at once, if you will do so, mamma.”
mrs. hastings did not immediately reply. she appeared to have fallen into thought. presently she raised her head and looked at maria.
“my dear, i have long thought of mentioning to you a certain subject; and i think i will do so now. strictly speaking, it is, as i say, no business of mine, but i cannot help being anxious for your interests.”
maria felt somewhat alarmed. it appeared a formidable preamble.
“i and your papa sometimes talk it over, one with another. and we say”—mrs. hastings smiled, as if to disarm her words of their serious import—“that we wish we could put old heads upon young shoulders. upon yours and your husband’s.”
“but why?—in what way?” cried maria.
“my dear, if you and he had old heads, you would, i think, see how very wrong it is—i speak the word only in your interests, maria—to maintain so great and expensive an establishment. it must cost you and george, here, far more than it costs them at ashlydyat.”
“yes, i suppose it does,” said maria.
“we do not know what your husband’s income is——”
“i do not know, either,” spoke maria, for mrs. hastings had paused and looked at her, almost as though she would give opportunity for the information to be supplied. “george never speaks to me upon money matters or business affairs.”
“well, whatever it is,” resumed mrs. hastings, “we should judge that he must be living up to every farthing of it. how much better it would be if you were to live more moderately, and put something by!”
“i dare say it would,” acquiesced maria. “to tell you the truth, mamma, there are times when i fall into a thoughtful mood, and feel half frightened at our expenditure. but then again i reflect that george knows his own affairs and his own resources far better than i do. the expense is of his instituting: not of mine.”
“george is proverbially careless,” significantly spoke mrs. hastings.
“but, mamma, if at the end of one year, he found his expenses heavier than they ought to be, he would naturally retrench them the next. his not doing it proves that he can afford it.”
“i am not saying, or thinking, that he cannot afford it, maria, in one sense; i do not suppose he outruns his income. but you might live at half your present expense and be quite as comfortable, perhaps more so. servants, carriages, horses, dress, dinner-parties!—i know you must spend enormously.”
[170]“well, so we do,” replied maria. “but, mamma, you are perhaps unaware that george has an equal share with thomas. he has indeed. when mr. crosse retired, thomas told george it should be so for the future.”
“did he? there are not many like thomas godolphin. still, maria, whatever may be your income, i maintain my argument, that you keep up unnecessary style and extravagance. remember, my dear, that you had no marriage settlement. and, the more you save, the better for your children. you may have many yet.”
“i think i will talk to george about it,” mused maria.
of course the past seven years had not been without their changes. mr. crosse had retired from the bank, and thomas godolphin, in his generosity, immediately constituted his brother an equal partner. he had not been so previously. neither had it been contemplated by sir george in his lifetime that it was so to be, yet awhile. the state maintained at ashlydyat took more to keep it up than the quiet way in which it was supposed george would live at the bank, and thomas was the representative godolphin. but thomas godolphin was incapable of any conduct bordering in the remotest degree upon covetousness or meanness: they were the sons of one father; and though there was the difference in their ages, and he was chief of the godolphins, he made george’s share equal to his own.
it was well perhaps that he did so. otherwise george might have plunged into shoals and quicksands. he appeared to have no idea of living quietly; had he possessed the purse of fortunatus, which was always full of gold, we are told, he could not have been much more careless of money. rumour went, too, that all mr. george’s wild oats (bushels of which, you may remember to have heard, prior’s ash gave him credit for) were not yet sown; and wild oats run away with a great deal of money. perhaps the only person in all prior’s ash who believed george godolphin to be a saint, or next door to one, was maria. best that she should think so! but, extravagant as george was, a suspicion that he lived beyond his income, was never glanced at. sober people, such as the rector of all souls’ and mrs. hastings, would say in private what a pity it was that george did not think of saving for his family. ample as the income, present and future, arising from the bank might be, it could not be undesirable to know that a nest-egg was accumulating. thomas might have suggested this to george: gossips surmised that he did so, and that george let the suggestion go for nothing. they were wrong. whatever lectures janet may have seen well to give him, thomas gave him none. thomas was not one to interfere, or play the mentor: and thomas had a strong silent conviction within him, that ere very long george would come into ashlydyat. the conviction was born of his suspected state of health. he might be wrong: but he believed he was not. ashlydyat george’s; the double income from the bank george’s—where was the need to tell him to save now?
the reverend mr. hastings had had some trouble with his boys: insomuch as that they had turned their faces against the career he had marked out for them. isaac, the eldest, destined for the church, had declined to qualify himself for it when he came to years of discretion. after some uncertainty, and what mr. hastings called “knocking[171] about”—which meant that he was doing nothing when he ought to have been at work: and that state of affairs lasted for a year or two—isaac won maria over to his side. maria, in her turn, won over george: and isaac was admitted into the bank. he held a good post in it now: the brother of mrs. george godolphin was not left to rise by chance or priority. a handsome young man of three and twenty was he; steady; and displaying an aptitude for business beyond his years. many a one deemed that isaac hastings, in a worldly point of view, had done well in quitting the uncertain prospects offered by the church, for a clerkship in the house of godolphin. he might rise some time to be a partner in it. reginald had also declined the career marked out for him. some government appointment had been promised him: in fact, had been given him: but reginald would hear of nothing but the sea. it angered mr. hastings much. one of the last men, was he, to force a boy into the church; nay, to allow a boy to enter it, unless he showed a special liking for it; therefore isaac had, on that score, got off pretty freely; but he was not one of the last men to force a boy to work, who displayed a taste for idleness. reginald argued that he should lead a far more idle life in a government office, than he should have a chance of doing if he went to sea. he was right, so far. mrs. hastings had a special horror of the sea. mothers, as a general rule, have. she set her face—and mr. hastings had also set his—against reginald’s sea visions; which, truth to say, had commenced with his earliest years.
however, reginald and inclination proved too strong for opposition. the government post had to be declined with thanks; and to sea he went. not into the navy: the boy had become too old for it: but into the merchant service. a good service, the firm he entered: but an expensive one. the premium was high; the outfit was large; the yearly sum that went in expenses while he was what is called a midshipman was considerable. but he quitted that service in a pique, and had since been trying different ships on his own account. altogether, mr. hastings had trouble with him. harry was keeping his first term at college. he had chosen the church of his own free will: and was qualifying for it. grace was married. and rose was growing up to be as pretty as maria.
“maria,” said mrs. hastings, “if i am to go out with you to-day, why should we not call upon mrs. averil? i have wanted to see her for some time.”
“i will call with pleasure,” was maria’s answer. “as well take a long drive as a short one. then we should start at once.”
she rang the bell as she spoke. to order the carriage, and for margery to come for miss meta. the latter, who had played the trick before, suddenly broke from margery, and dashed into the bank parlour. she had learned to open the door.
george by good luck happened to be alone. he affected great anger, and margery also scolded sharply. george had been sitting at a table, bending over account books, his spirit weary, his brow knit. his assumed anger was wasted: for he caught up the child the next moment and covered her face with kisses. then he carried her into the dining-room to maria.
[172]“what am i to do with this naughty child, mamma? she came bursting in upon me like a great fierce lion. i must buy a real lion and keep him in the closet, and let him loose if she does it again. meta won’t like to be eaten up.”
meta laughed confidentially. “papa won’t let a lion eat meta.”
“you saucy child!” but george’s punishment consisted only of more kisses.
“is meta going with you?” asked george, when maria told him of the contemplated visit to mrs. averil.
meta interposed. “yes, she should go,” she said.
“if i take meta, i must take you also, margery,” observed maria. “i cannot have the trouble of her in the carriage.”
“i shan’t hinder time,” was margery’s response. “my bonnet and shawl’s soon put on, ma’am. come along, child. i’ll dress you at once.”
she went off with meta, waiting for no further permission. george stepped out on the terrace, to see what jonathan and david were about. maria took the opportunity to tell him of the sixty pounds which had come to old jekyl, and that she had advised its being brought to the bank to be taken care of.
“what money is it? where does it come from?” inquired george of the men.
“it’s the money, sir, as was left to father this three years ago, from that dead uncle of ourn,” returned jonathan. “but the lawyers, sir, they couldn’t agree, and it was never paid over. now there has been a trial over it, something about the will; and father has had notice that it’s ready for him, all the sixty pound.”
“we will take care of it for him, and pay him interest, tell him, if he chooses to leave it here,” said george.
“i’ll tell him, sure enough, sir. he’s safe to bring it.”
the carriage was at the door in due course, and they were ready. a handsome carriage; acknowledged to be so by even mrs. hastings. george came out to hand them in. miss meta, a pretty little dressed-up fairy; margery, plain and old-fashioned; mrs. hastings, quiet and ladylike; maria, beautiful. her hand lingered in her husband’s.
“i wish you were coming, george,” she bent from the carriage to whisper.
“i am too busy to-day, my dearest.”
although nearly seven years a wife, the world still contained no idol for maria like george godolphin. she loved, respected, reverenced him. nothing, as yet, had shaken her faith in her husband. the little tales, making free with mr. george’s name, which would now and then be flying about prior’s ash, had never reached the ears of maria.
they had a seven-mile drive. the honourable mrs. averil, who was growing in years, and had become an invalid, was delighted to see them. she kept them for two or three hours, and wanted to keep them for the day. it was late in the afternoon when they returned to prior’s ash.
they met a cavalcade on entering the town. a riding-party, consisting of several ladies and one or two gentlemen, followed by some[173] grooms. somewhat apart from the rest, midway between the party and the grooms, rode two abreast, laughing, animated, upon the best of terms with each other. the lady sat her horse unusually well. she was slightly larger, but not a whit less handsome, than on the day you first saw her at the meet of the hounds: charlotte pain. he, gay george—for it was no other—was riding carelessly, half turning on his horse, his fair curls bending towards charlotte.
“papa! papa!” shrieked out meta, joyously.
george turned hastily, but the carriage had then passed. so occupied had he been in making himself agreeable that he had positively not seen it. charlotte had. charlotte had bowed. bowed to maria with a look of cool assurance of triumph—as much as to say, you are sitting alone, and your husband is with me. at least, it might have worn that appearance to one given to flights of fancy, which maria was not; and she returned the bow with a pleasant smile. she caught george’s eye when he turned, and a flush of pleasure lighted her face. george nodded to her cordially, and raised his hat, sending back a smile at the idea of his not having seen her.
“it was papa, was it not, darling!” said maria, gleefully, bending over to her little girl.
but maria did not notice that margery’s head had given itself a peculiar toss at sight of george’s companion; or that a severe expression had crossed the face of mrs. hastings. an expression which she instantly smoothed away, lest maria should see it.
the fact was, that gossiping prior’s ash had for some time coupled together the names of george godolphin and charlotte pain in its usual free manner. no need, one would think, for mrs. hastings or margery to give heed to such tattle: for they knew well what the stories of prior’s ash were worth.
