“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——”