Dark enough around, it was still; but a light as of some sunny Eden, illumined the heart of Maria Hastings. The shock of joy was indeed great. Every vein was throbbing, every pulse tingling, and George Godolphin, had he never before been sure that her deep and entire love was his, must have known it then.
A servant was heard approaching with lights. George Godolphin turned to the fire, and Maria turned and stood near him.
“Did any of you expect me?” he inquired.
“Oh no!” impulsively answered Maria. “I can scarcely now believe that it is you in reality.”
He looked at her and laughed; his gay laugh: as much as to say that he had given her a tolerable proof of his reality. She stood, in her pretty, timid manner, before the fire, her eyelids drooping, and the flame lighting up her fair face.
“Is my father at home?” he asked, taking off his overcoat. He had walked from the railway station, a mile or two distant.
“He went out with Lady Godolphin this morning to pay a visit to some old friends. I thought they would have returned long before this.”
“Is he getting strong, Maria?”
Maria thought of what Charlotte Pain had said, and hesitated. “He appears to me to be better than when we left Prior’s Ash. But he is far from strong.”
The servant finished lighting the chandelier and retired. George Godolphin watched the door close, and then drew Maria before him, gazing down at her.