That night, when Sir Vivian’s carriage was announced, Godfrey accompanied him to the front door. Before leaving, the old gentleman took him on one side out of earshot of the servants.
“Keep up your spirits, my dear lad,” he said, as he had done so many times before. “Remember that you have many friends and that I am not the least of them. Should anything occur, send for me at once, and I will be with you as fast as horses can bring me. In the meantime do not alarm the ladies more than you can help.”
“You may rely upon my not doing so,” said Godfrey, and then Sir Vivian entered his carriage and drove away.
Later, when Godfrey bade Molly good-night, she looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.
“I feel sure,” she said, “that there is something you are keeping back from me. I beg of you not to do so. You know how I love you, and how earnest is my desire to share both your joys and your sorrows with you. Will you not confide in me and tell me everything?”
“When there is anything worth the hearing, you may be sure I will tell you, dear,” he answered, not daring to let her know the truth that night. “In the morning we will talk the whole matter over and you shall give me your advice. And now you must go to bed and try to obtain a good night’s rest, for I am sure you did not sleep well last night.”
“I did not,” she answered. “I was thinking of you all night, for I knew how you were dreading going up to-day.”
He did not tell her that he dreaded going up on Wednesday a great deal more. He preferred to take her in his arms and kiss her, calling her his good angel, swearing that he would love her all his life long, and that even death itself should not separate them. Then he went to his room, prepared to spend what he knew would be a sleepless night, and he was not destined to be wrong. Hour after hour he tumbled and tossed upon his bed, going over the day’s proceedings again and again, and speculating with never-ceasing anxiety as to what was to happen in the future. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed and went downstairs to his studio, where he lighted his fire and smoked and read until daylight. Then a cold bath somewhat refreshed him, and, as soon as he had dressed, he set off across the park to the home farm. He was always an early riser, and his presence there at that hour excited no comment. He watched the sleek, soft-eyed cows being milked, saw the handsome cart-horses, of which he had once been so proud, set off upon their day’s work, had a quarter of an hour’s conversation with his head-keeper at his cottage gate, and then returned home through the plantations to breakfast. It was his mother’s habit to read prayers to the household immediately before the meal, and, as he knelt by Molly’s side, and listened to the old familiar words, his heart ached when he thought of the misery that any moment might bring upon them.
As the first train from London did not arrive until somewhat late, the morning papers were delivered with the letters, which usually reached the Hall about half-past nine. When they arrived Godfrey selected one, and took it with him to his studio. With a feeling that he had never before experienced when opening a paper, he turned the crisp pages in search of the column which he knew he would find. Then he saw in large type: