“Can I have it on Monday?” asked Mrs. Bond.
“Yes,” answered Maria. “Shall I send it to you?”
“I’d not give you the trouble,” said Mrs. Bond. “I’ll make bold to step up again and get it, ma’am, on Monday.”
“Very well,” replied Maria. “If Miss Meta was here, she would ask after the parrot.”
“It’s beautiful,” exclaimed Dame Bond. “It’s tail’s like a lovely green plume o’ feathers. But I ain’t got used to its screeching yet. Then I’ll be here on Monday, ma’am, if you please.”
Maria rang the bell, and Pierce escorted her to the door. To return again on Monday.
Maria Godolphin never deemed that she was not safe in making the promise. Thomas Godolphin would be home then, and she could get the note from him.
And she sat on alone, as before; her mind more troubled, her weary head upon her hand.
CHAPTER XXI.
A DREAD FEAR.
Can you picture the sensations of Maria Godolphin during that night? No: not unless it has been your lot to pass through such. She went up to her bedroom at the usual time, not to excite any gossip in the household; she undressed mechanically; she went to bed. It had been much the custom with herself and George to sleep with the blinds up. They liked a light room; and a large gas-lamp in Crosse Street threw its full light in. Now, she lay with her eyes closed: not courting sleep; she knew that there would be no sleep for her, no continuous sleep, for many and many a night to come: now, she turned on her uneasy couch and lay with her eyes open: anything for a change in the monotonous hours. The dressing-table, its large glass, its costly ornaments, stood between the windows; she could trace its outlines, almost the pattern of its white lace drapery over the pink silk. The white window-curtains were looped up with pink; some of the pretty white chairs were finished off with pink beading. A large cheval-glass swung in a corner. On a console of white marble, its frettings of gilt, stood Maria’s Prayer-book and Bible, with “Wilson’s Supper and Sacra Privata:” a book she frequently opened for a few minutes in a morning. A small ornamental bookcase was on the opposite side, containing some choice works culled from the literature of the day. On the table, in the centre of the room, lay a small travelling-desk of George’s, which he had left there when packing his things. All these familiar objects, with others, were perfectly visible to Maria’s eyes; and yet she saw them not. If the thought intruded that this comfortable bedchamber might not much longer be hers, she did not dwell upon it. That phase of the misfortune had scarcely come to her. Her chief sensation was one of shivering cold: that nervous coldness which only those who have experienced intense dread or pain of mind, ever have felt. She shivered inwardly and outwardly—and she said perpetually, “When will the night be gone?” It was only the precursor of worse nights, many of them, in store for her.