Prior’s Ash lingered at its doors and windows, curious to witness the outer signs of Cecilia Godolphin’s wedding. The arrangements for it were to them more a matter of speculation than of certainty, since various rumours had gone afloat, and were eagerly caught up, although of the most contradictory character. All that appeared certain as yet was—that the day was charming and the bells were ringing.

How the beadle kept the gates that day, he alone knew. That staff of his was brought a great deal more into requisition than was liked by the sea of heads collected there. And when the first carriage came, the excitement in the street was great.

The first carriage! There were only two; that and another. Prior’s Ash turned up its disappointed nose, and wondered, with Rose Hastings, what the world was coming to.

It was a chariot drawn by four horses. The livery of the postillions and the coronet on the panels proclaimed it to be Lord Averil’s. He sat within it with Thomas Godolphin. The carriage following it was Lady Godolphin’s; it appeared to contain only ladies, all wearing bonnets and coloured gowns. The exasperated gazers, who had bargained for something very different, set up a half-groan.

They set up a whole one, those round the gates, when Lord Averil and his friend alighted. But the groan was not one of exasperation, or of anger. It was a low murmur of sorrow and sympathy, and it was called forth by the appearance of Thomas Godolphin. It was some little time now since Thomas Godolphin had been seen in public, and the change in him was startling. He walked forward, leaning on the arm of Lord Averil, lifting his hat to the greeting that was breathed around; a greeting of sorrow meant, as he knew, not for the peer, but for him and his fading life. The few scanty hairs stood out to their view as he uncovered his head, and the ravages of the disease that was killing him were all too conspicuous on his wasted features.

“God bless him! He’s very nigh the grave.”

Who said it, of the crowd, Thomas Godolphin could not tell, but the words and their accent, full of rude sympathy, came distinctly upon his ear. He quitted the viscount’s arm, turned to them, and raised his hands with a solemn meaning.

“God bless you all, my friends. I am indeed near the grave. Should there be any here who have suffered injury through me, let them forgive me for it. It was not intentionally done, and I may almost say that I am expiating it with my life. May God bless you all, here and hereafter!”

Something like a sob burst from the astonished crowd. But that he had hastened on with Lord Averil, they might have fallen on their knees and clung to him in their flood-tide of respect and love.

The Reverend Mr. Hastings stood in his surplice at the altar. He, too, was changed. The keen, vigorous, healthy man had now a grey, worn look. He could not forgive the blow; minister though he was, he could not forgive George Godolphin. He was not quite sure that he forgave Thomas for not having looked more closely after his brother and the Bank generally: had he done so, the calamity might never have occurred. Every hour of the day reminded Mr. Hastings of his loss, in the discomforts which had necessarily fallen upon his home, in the position of his daughter Maria. George Godolphin had never been a favourite of his: he had tried to like him in vain. The Rector of All Souls’ was a man of severe judgment, and rumour had made free with gay George’s name.

Lord Averil was the first to enter. Cecilia Godolphin came next with Thomas. She wore a light-grey silk robe, and a plain white bonnet, trimmed with orange-blossoms. The Honourable Miss Averil and Bessy Godolphin followed; their silk gowns of a darker shade of grey, and their white bonnets without orange-blossoms. Lady Godolphin came next, more resplendent than any, in a lemon brocaded silk, that stood on end with richness.

Did the recollection of the last wedding service he had performed for a Godolphin cause the Rector of All Souls’ voice to be subdued now, as he read? Seven years ago he had stood there as he was standing to-day, George and Maria before him. How had that promising union ended? And for the keeping of his sworn vows?—George best knew what he had kept and what he had broken. The Rector was thinking of that past ceremony now.

This one was soon over. The promises were made, the register signed, and Lord Averil was leading Cecilia from the church, when the Rector stepped before them and took her hand.

“I pray God 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 pass, 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 Godolphin 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 God shall will. It will not much matter which.”

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

“To Mrs. George Godolphin’s.”

The attentive old retainer—older by twenty years than Thomas, but younger in health and vigour—carefully assisted 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 God, 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. God 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 Godolphin.