“Verrall,” said she, “if you come out, you can hear the bells. Do you know what they are ringing for?”
“What bells? Why should I listen to them?” inquired Mr. Verrall, turning from Rodolf Pain.
“They are ringing for George Godolphin’s wedding. He has been married to-day.”
The information appeared—as Rodolf Pain would have expressed it, had he given utterance to his sentiments—to strike Mr. Verrall all of a heap. “George Godolphin married to-day!” he repeated, in profound astonishment, remembering the weak state George had been in when he had left Prior’s Ash, some weeks before. “Married or buried, do you mean?”
Mrs. Verrall laughed. “Oh, he has got well from his illness: or, nearly so,” she said. “The bells would ring muffled peals, if he were buried, Verrall, as they did for Sir George.”
“And whom has he married?” continued Mr. Verrall, not in the least getting over his astonishment.
“Maria Hastings.”
Mr. Verrall stroked his yellow moustache; a somewhat recent appendage to his beauty. He was by no means a demonstrative man—except on rare occasions—and though the tidings evidently made a marked impression on him, he said nothing. “Is Charlotte at the wedding?” he casually asked.
“No strangers were invited,” replied Mrs. Verrall. “Lady Godolphin came for it, and is staying at Ashlydyat. She has put off her weeds for to-day, and appears in colours: glad enough, I know, of the excuse for doing so.”
“Where is Charlotte?” resumed Mr. Verrall.