Margery halted and rubbed her eyes, and almost wondered whether it was a vision. Her mind had been busy with the question, ought he, or ought he not to be telegraphed for? and there he was, before her. Gay, handsome George! with his ever-distinguished entourage—I don’t know a better word for it in English: his bearing, his attire, his person so essentially the gentleman; his pleasant face and his winning smile.
That smile was directed to Margery as he came up. He bore in his hand a small wicker-work basket, covered with delicate tissue paper. But for the bent of Margery’s thoughts at the time, she would not have been particularly surprised at the sight, for Mr. George’s visits to Prior’s Ash were generally impromptu ones, paid without warning. She met him rather eagerly: speaking of the impulse that had been in her mind—to send a message for him, on account of the state of his brother.
“Is he worse?” asked George eagerly.
“If ever I saw death written in a face, it’s written in his, sir,” returned Margery.
George considered a moment. “I think I will go up to Ashlydyat without loss of time, then,” he said, turning back. But he stopped to give the basket into Margery’s hands.
“It is for your mistress, Margery. How is she?”
“She’s nothing to boast of,” replied Margery, in tones and with a stress that might have awakened George’s suspicions, had any fears with reference to his wife’s state yet penetrated his mind. But they had not. “I wish she could get a little of life into her, and then health might be the next thing to come,” concluded Margery.
“Tell her I shall soon be home.” And George Godolphin proceeded to Ashlydyat.
It may be that he had not the faculty for distinguishing the different indications that a countenance gives forth, or it may be that to find his brother sitting in the porch disarmed his doubts, but certainly George saw no reason to endorse the fears expressed by Margery. She had entered into no details, and George had pictured Thomas as in bed. To see him therefore sitting out of doors, quietly reading, certainly lulled all George’s present fears.
Not that the ravages in the worn form, the grey look in the pale face, did not strike him as that face was lifted to his; struck him almost with awe. For a few minutes their hands were locked together in silence. Generous Thomas Godolphin! Never since the proceedings had terminated, the daily details were over, had he breathed a word of the bankruptcy and its unhappiness to George.