“Thomas!” cried George Godolphin, leaning forward and seizing his brother’s hand impulsively, as the mourning-coach paced slowly on: “I should have been here in good time, but for a delay in the train.”
“How did you hear of it? I did not know where to write to you,” was Thomas’s reply, spoken calmly.
“I heard of it at Broomhead. I went back there, and then I came off at once. Thomas, could they not save her?”
A slight negative movement was all Thomas Godolphin’s answer. “How did you find your father, George?”
“Breaking. Breaking fast. Thomas, all his talk is, that he must come home to die.”
“To Ashlydyat. I know. How is he to come to it? The Folly is not Ashlydyat. He has desired me to see that he is at Prior’s Ash before Christmas, and I shall do so.”
George looked surprised. “Desired you to see that he is?”
“If he is not back speedily, I am to go to Broomhead.”
“Oh, I see. That your authority, upholding his, may be pitted against my lady’s. Take care, Thomas: she may prove stronger than both of you put together.”
“I think not,” replied Thomas quietly; and he placed his elbow on the window frame, and bent his face upon his hand, as if wishing for silence.