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 Sample Final Exam #8
(Summer 2009; thanks to Victoria Kirst)

1. Array Mystery
Consider the following method:
public static void arrayMystery(int[] a) {
for (int i = 1; i < a.length - 1; i++) {
a[i] = a[i + 1] + a[i - 1];
}
}
Indicate in the right-hand column what values would be stored in the array after the method arrayMystery executes
if the integer array in the left-hand column is passed as a parameter to it.
Original Contents of Array Final Contents of Array
int[] a1 = {3, 7};
arrayMystery(a1); _____________________________

int[] a2 = {4, 7, 4, 2, 10, 9};

arrayMystery(a2); _____________________________

int[] a3 = {1, 5, 0, 0, 5, 0};

arrayMystery(a3); _____________________________

int[] a4 = {13, 0, -4, -2, 0, -1};

arrayMystery(a4); _____________________________

int[] a5 = {2, 4, 6, 8, 16};

arrayMystery(a5); _____________________________

1 of 8
2. Reference Semantics Mystery
(Missing; we didn't give this type of question that quarter.)

3. Inheritance Mystery
Assume that the following classes have been defined:

public class Denny extends John { public class Michelle extends John {
public void method1() { public void method1() {
System.out.print("denny 1 "); System.out.print("michelle 1 ");
} }
}
public String toString() {
return "denny " + super.toString(); public class John extends Cass {
} public void method2() {
} method1();
System.out.print("john 2 ");
public class Cass { }
public void method1() {
System.out.print("cass 1 "); public String toString() {
} return "john";
}
public void method2() { }
System.out.print("cass 2 ");
}

public String toString() {

return "cass";
}
}

Given the classes above, what output is produced by the following code?
Cass[] elements = {new Cass(), new Denny(), new John(), new Michelle()};
for (int i = 0; i < elements.length; i++) {
elements[i].method1();
System.out.println();
elements[i].method2();
System.out.println();
System.out.println(elements[i]);
System.out.println();
}

2 of 8
4. File Processing
Write a static method called runningSum that accepts as a parameter a Scanner holding a sequence of real numbers
and that outputs the running sum of the numbers followed by the maximum running sum. In other words, the nth
number that you report should be the sum of the first n numbers in the Scanner and the maximum that you report
should be the largest such value that you report. For example if the Scanner contains the following data:
3.25 4.5 -8.25 7.25 3.5 4.25 -6.5 5.25

your method should produce the following output:

running sum = 3.25 7.75 -0.5 6.75 10.25 14.5 8.0 13.25
max sum = 14.5
The first number reported is the same as the first number in the Scanner (3.25). The second number reported is the
sum of the first two numbers in the Scanner (3.25 + 4.5). The third number reported is the sum of the first three
numbers in the Scanner (3.25 + 4.5 + -8.25). And so on. The maximum of these values is 14.5, which is reported on
the second line of output. You may assume that there is at least one number to read.

3 of 8
5. File Processing
Write a static method named plusScores that accepts as a parameter a Scanner containing a series of lines that
represent student records. Each student record takes up two lines of input. The first line has the student's name and
the second line has a series of plus and minus characters. Below is a sample input:
Kane, Erica
--+-+
Chandler, Adam
++-+
Martin, Jake
+++++++
Dillon, Amanda
++-++-+-

The number of plus/minus characters will vary, but you may assume that at least one such character appears and that
no other characters appear on the second line of each pair. For each student you should produce a line of output with
the student's name followed by a colon followed by the percent of plus characters. For example, if the input above is
stored in a Scanner called input, the call of plusScores(input); should produce the following output:
Kane, Erica: 40.0% plus
Chandler, Adam: 75.0% plus
Martin, Jake: 100.0% plus
Dillon, Amanda: 62.5% plus

4 of 8
6. Array Programming
Write a method priceIsRight that accepts an array of integers bids and an integer price as parameters. The method
returns the element in the bids array that is closest in value to price without being larger than price. For example, if
bids stores the elements {200, 300, 250, 999, 40}, then priceIsRight(bids, 280) should return 250,
since 250 is the bid closest to 280 without going over 280. If all bids are larger than price, then your method should
return -1.
The following table shows some calls to your method and their expected results:
Arrays Returned Value
int[] a1 = {900, 885, 989, 1}; priceIsRight(a1, 880) returns 1
int[] a2 = {200}; priceIsRight(a2, 320) returns 200
int[] a3 = {500, 300, 241, 99, 501}; priceIsRight(a3, 50) returns -1
int[] a2 = {200}; priceIsRight(a2, 120) returns -1
You may assume there is at least 1 element in the array, and you may assume that the price and the values in bids will
all be greater than or equal to 1. Do not modify the contents of the array passed to your method as a parameter.

5 of 8
7. Array Programming
Write a static method named compress that accepts an array of integers a1 as a parameter and returns a new array
that contains only the unique values of a1. The values in the new array should be ordered in the same order they
originally appeared in. For example, if a1 stores the elements {10, 10, 9, 4, 10, 4, 9, 17}, then
compress(a1) should return a new array with elements {10, 9, 4, 17}.
The following table shows some calls to your method and their expected results:
Array Returned Value
int[] a1 = {5, 2, 5, 3, 2, 5}; compress(a1) returns {5, 2, 3}
int[] a2 = {-2, -12, 8, 8, 2, 12}; compress(a2) returns {-2, -12, 8, 2, 12}
int[] a3 = {4, 17, 0, 32, -3, 0, 0}; compress(a3) returns {4, 17, 0, 32, -3}
int[] a4 = {-2, -5, 0, 5, -92, -2, 0, 43}; compress(a4) returns {-2, -5, 0, 5, -92, 43}
int[] a5 = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5}; compress(a5) returns {1, 2, 3, 4, 5}
int[] a6 = {5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5}; compress(a6) returns {5}
int[] a7 = {}; compress(a7) returns {}
Do not modify the contents of the array passed to your method as a parameter.

6 of 8
8. Critters
Write a class Caterpillar that extends the Critter class from our assignment, along with its movement behavior.
Caterpillars move in an increasing NESW square pattern: 1 move north, 1 move east, 1 move west, 1 move south,
then 2 moves north, 2 moves east, etc., the square pattern growing larger and larger indefinitely. If a Caterpillar
runs into a piece of food, the Caterpillar eats the food and immediately restarts the NESW pattern. The size of the
Caterpillar’s movement is also reset back to 1 move in each direction again, and the increasing square pattern
continues as before until another piece of food is encountered.
Here is a sample movement pattern of a Caterpillar:
• north 1 time, east 1 time, south 1 time, west 1 time
• north 2 times, east 2 times, south 2 times, west 2 times
• north 3 times, east 3 times, south 3 times, west 3 times
• (runs into food)
• north 1 time, east 1 time, south 1 time, west 1 time
• north 2 times, east 1 time
• (runs into food)
• north 1 time
• (runs into food)
• north 1 time, east 1 time, south 1 time, west 1 time
• north 2 times, east 2 times, south 2 times, west 2 times
• (etc.)
Write your complete Caterpillar class below. All other aspects of Caterpillar besides eating and movement
behavior use the default critter behavior. You may add anything needed to your class (fields, constructors, etc.) to
implement this behavior appropriately.

7 of 8
9. Classes and Objects
Suppose that you are provided with a pre-written class Date as // Each Date object stores a single
described at right. (The headings are shown, but not the method // month/day such as September 19.
bodies, to save space.) Assume that the fields, constructor, and // This class ignores leap years.
methods shown are already implemented. You may refer to them
or use them in solving this problem if necessary. public class Date {
private int month;
Write an instance method named subtractWeeks that will be private int day;
placed inside the Date class to become a part of each Date
object's behavior. The subtractWeeks method accepts an // Constructs a date with
integer as a parameter and shifts the date represented by the Date // the given month and day.
public Date(int m, int d)
object backward by that many weeks. A week is considered to be
exactly 7 days. You may assume the value passed is non- // Returns the date's day.
negative. Note that subtracting weeks might cause the date to public int getDay()
wrap into previous months or years.
// Returns the date's month.
For example, if the following Date is declared in client code: public int getMonth()
Date d = new Date(9, 19);
// Returns the number of days
The following calls to the subtractWeeks method would // in this date's month.
modify the Date object's state as indicated in the comments. public int daysInMonth()
Remember that Date objects do not store the year. The date
before January 1st is December 31st. Date objects also ignore // Modifies this date's state
// so that it has moved forward
leap years.
// in time by 1 day, wrapping
Date d = new Date(9, 19); // around into the next month
d.subtractWeeks(1); // d is now 9/12 // or year if necessary.
d.subtractWeeks(2); // d is now 8/29 // example: 9/19 -> 9/20
d.subtractWeeks(5); // d is now 7/25 // example: 9/30 -> 10/1
d.subtractWeeks(20); // d is now 3/7 // example: 12/31 -> 1/1
d.subtractWeeks(110); // d is now 1/26
public void nextDay()
// (2 years prior)

// your method would go here

8 of 8
Other documents randomly have
different content
 CHAPTER V.
COMMOTION AT ASHLYDYAT.

A few more days went on, and they wrought a further change in
Mrs. George Godolphin. She grew weaker and weaker: she grew—it
was apparent now to Mr Snow as it was to Margery—nearer and
nearer to that vault in the churchyard of All Souls’. There could no
longer be any indecision or uncertainty as to her taking the voyage;
the probabilities were, that before the ship was ready to sail, all
sailing in this world for Maria would be over. And rumours, faint,
doubtful, very much discredited rumours of this state of things,
began to circulate in Prior’s Ash.
Discredited because people were so unprepared for it. Mrs.
George Godolphin had been delicate since the birth of her baby, as
was known to every one, but not a soul, relatives, friends, or
strangers, had felt a suspicion of danger. On the contrary, it was
supposed that she was about to depart on that Indian voyage: and
ill-natured spirits tossed their heads and said it was fine to be Mrs.
George Godolphin, to be set up again and go out to lead a grand life
in India, after ruining half Prior’s Ash. How she was misjudged! how
many more unhappy wives have been, and will be again, misjudged
by the world!
One dreary afternoon, as dusk was coming on, Margery, not
stopping, or perhaps not caring, to put anything upon herself, but
having hastily wrapped up Miss Meta, went quickly down the garden
path, leading that excitable and chattering demoiselle by the hand.
Curious news had reached the ears of Margery. Their landlady’s son
had come in, describing the town as being in strange commotion, in
consequence of something which had happened at Ashlydyat.
Rumour set it down as nothing less than murder; and, according to
the boy’s account, all Prior’s Ash was flocking up to the place to see
and to hear.
Margery turned wrathful at the news. Murder at Ashlydyat! The
young gentleman was too big to be boxed or shaken for saying it,
but he persisted in his story, and Margery in her curiosity went out
to see with her own eyes. “The people are running past the top of
this road in crowds,” he said to her.
For some days past, workmen had been employed digging up the
Dark Plain by the orders of Lord Averil. As he had told Cecil weeks
before, his intention was to completely renew it; to do away entirely
with its past character and send its superstition to the winds. The
archway was being taken down, the gorse-bushes were being
uprooted, the whole surface, in fact, was being dug up. He intended
to build an extensive summer-house where the archway had been,
and to make the plain a flower-garden, a playground for children
when they should be born to Ashlydyat: and it appeared that in
digging that afternoon under the archway, the men had come upon
a human skeleton, or rather upon the bones of what had once been
a skeleton. This was the whole foundation for the rumour and the
“murder.”
As Margery stood, about to turn home again, vexed for having
been brought out in the cold for nothing more, and intending to give
a few complimentary thanks for it to the young man who had been
the means of sending her, she was accosted by Mr. Crosse, who had
latterly been laid up in his house with gout. Not the slightest notice
had he taken of George Godolphin and his wife since his return
home, though he had been often with Thomas.
“How d’ye do, Margery?” he said, taking up Meta at the same time
to kiss her. “Are you going to Ashlydyat with the rest?”
“Not I, the simpletons!” was Margery’s free rejoinder. “There’s my
poor mistress alone in the house.”
“Is she ill?” asked Mr. Crosse.
 “Ill!” returned Margery, not at all pleased at the question. “Yes, sir,
she is ill. I thought everybody knew that.”
“When does she start for India?”
“She don’t start at all. She’ll be starting soon for a place a little bit
nearer. Here! you run on and open the gate,” added Margery,
whisking Meta from Mr. Crosse’s hand and sending her down the
lane out of hearing. “She’ll soon be where Mr. Thomas Godolphin is,
sir, instead of being marched off in a ship to India,” continued the
woman, turning to Mr. Crosse confidentially.
He felt greatly shocked. In his own mind, he, as many others, had
associated Maria with her husband, in regard to the summer’s work,
in a lofty, scornful sort of way: but it did shock him to hear that she
was in fear of death. It is most wonderful how our feelings towards
others soften when we find that they and their shortcomings are
about to be taken from us to a more merciful Judge.
“But what is the matter with her, Margery?” Mr. Crosse asked; for
it happened that he had not heard the ominous rumours that were
beginning to circulate in Prior’s Ash.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with her,” returned Margery. “I
don’t believe old Snow knows, either. I suppose the worry and
misfortunes have been too much for her; as they were for somebody
else. Mr. Godolphin is in his grave, and now she’s going to hers.”
Mr. Crosse walked mechanically by the side of Margery down the
lane. It was not his road, and perhaps he was unconscious that he
took it; he walked by her side, listening.
“He’ll have to go by himself now—and me to have been getting up
all my cotton gowns for the start! Serve him right! for ever thinking
of taking out that dear little lamb amid elephants and savages!”
Mr. Crosse was perfectly aware that Margery alluded to her master
—his own bête noire since the explosion. But he did not choose to
descant upon his gracelessness to Margery. “Can nothing be done
for Mrs. George Godolphin?” he asked.
“I expect not, sir. There’s nothing the matter with her that can be
laid hold of,” resentfully spoke Margery; “no malady to treat. Snow
says he can’t do anything, and he brought Dr. Beale in the other
day: and it seems he can’t do nothing, either.”
Meta had reached the gate, flung it open in obedience to orders,
and now came running back. Mr. Crosse took her hand and went on
with her. Was he purposing to pay a visit to George Godolphin’s
wife? It seemed so.
It was quite dusk when they entered. Maria was lying on the sofa,
with a warm woollen wrapper drawn over her. There was no light in
the room except that given out by the fire, but its blaze fell directly
on her face. Mr. Crosse stood and looked at it, shocked at its
ravages; at the tale it told. All kinds of unpleasant pricks were
sending their darts through his conscience. He had been holding
himself aloof in his assumed superiority, his haughty condemnation,
while she had been going to the grave with her breaking heart.
Had she wanted things that money could procure? had she
wanted food? Mr. Crosse actually began to ask himself the question,
as the wan aspect of the white face grew and grew upon him: and in
the moment he quite loathed the thought of his well-stored coffers.
He remembered what a good, loving gentlewoman this wife of
George Godolphin’s had always been, this dutiful daughter of All
Souls’ pastor: and for the first time Mr. Crosse began to separate her
from her husband’s misdoings, to awaken to the conviction that the
burden and sorrow laid upon her had been enough to bear, without
the world meting out its harsh measure of blame by way of increase.
He sat down quite humbly, saying “hush” to Meta. Maria had
dropped into one of those delirious sleeps: they came on more
frequently now, and would visit her at the twilight hour of the
evening as well as at night: and the noise of their entrance had
failed to arouse her. Margery, however, came bustling in.
“It’s Mr. Crosse, ma’am.”
Maria, a faint hectic of surprise coming into her cheeks, sat up and
let him take her hand. “I am glad to have the opportunity of seeing
you once again,” she said.
 “Why did you not send and tell me how ill you were?” burst forth
Mr. Crosse, forgetting how exceedingly ill such a procedure would
have accorded with his own line of holding aloof in condemning
superiority.
She shook her head. “I might, had things been as they used to be.
But people do not care to come near me now.”
“I am going in the ship, Mr. Crosse. I am going to ride upon an
elephant and to have parrots.”
He laid his hand kindly upon the chattering child: but he turned to
Maria, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What shall you do with her?
Shall you send her out without you?”
The question struck upon the one chord of her heart that for the
last day or two, since her own hopeless state grew more palpable,
had been strung to the utmost tension. What was to become of
Meta—of the cherished child whom she must leave behind her? Her
face grew moist, her bosom heaved, and she suddenly pressed her
hands upon it as if they could still its wild and painful beating. Mr.
Crosse, blaming himself for asking it, blaming himself for many other
things, took her hands within his, and said he would come and see
her in the morning: she seemed so fatigued then.
But, low as the question had been put, Miss Meta heard it; heard
it and understood its purport. She entwined her pretty arms within
her mamma’s dress as Mr. Crosse went out, and raised her
wondering eyes.
“What did he mean? You are coming too, mamma!”
She drew the little upturned face close to hers, she laid her white
cheek upon the golden hair. The very excess of pain that was
rending her aching heart caused her to speak with unnatural
stillness. Not that she could speak at first: a minute or two had to be
given to mastering her emotion.
“I am afraid not, Meta. I think God is going to take me.”
The child made no reply. Her earnest eyes were kept wide open
with the same wondering stare. “What will papa do?” she presently
asked.
 Maria hastily passed her hand across her brow, as if that recalled
another phase of the pain. Meta’s little heart began to swell, and the
tears burst forth.
“Don’t go, mamma! Don’t go away from papa and Meta! I shall be
afraid of the elephants without you.”
She pressed the child closer and closer to her beating heart. Oh
the pain, the pain!—the pain of the parting that was so soon to
come!
They were interrupted by a noise at the gate. A carriage had
bowled down the lane and drawn up at it, almost with the
commotion that used to attend the dashing visits to the Bank of Mrs.
Charlotte Pain. A more sober equipage this, however, with its
mourning appointments, although it bore a coronet on its panels.
The footman opened the door, and one lady stepped out of it.
“It is Aunt Cecil,” called out Meta.
She rubbed the tears from her pretty cheeks, her grief forgotten,
child-like, in the new excitement, and flew out to meet Lady Averil.
Maria, trying to look her best, rose from the sofa and tottered
forward to receive her. Meta was pounced upon by Margery and
carried off to have her tumbled hair smoothed; and Lady Averil came
in alone.
She threw back her crape veil to kiss Maria. She had come down
from Ashlydyat on purpose to tell her the news of the bones being
found: there could be little doubt that they were those of the ill-
fated Richard de Commins, which had been so fruitlessly searched
for: and Lady Averil was full of excitement. Perhaps it was natural
that she should be so, being a Godolphin.
“It is most strange that they should be found just now,” she cried;
“at the very time that the Dark Plain is being done away with. You
know, Maria, the tradition always ran that so long as the bones
remained unfound, the Dark Plain would retain the appearance of a
graveyard. Is it not a singular coincidence—that they should be
discovered just at the moment that the Plain is being dug up? Were
Janet here, she would say how startlingly all the old superstition is
being worked out.”
“I think one thing especially strange—that they should not have
been found before,” observed Maria. “Have they not been searched
for often?”
“I believe so,” replied Cecil. “But they were found under the
archway; immediately beneath it: and I fancy they had always been
searched for in the Dark Plain. When papa had the gorse-bushes
rooted up they were looked for then in all parts of the Dark Plain,
but not under the archway.”
“How came Lord Averil to think of looking under the archway?”
asked Maria.
“He did not think of it. They have been found unexpectedly,
without being searched for. The archway is taken down, and the
men were digging the foundation for the new summer-house, when
they came upon them. The grounds of Ashlydyat have been like a
fair all the afternoon with people coming up to see and hear,” added
Cecil. “Lord Averil is going to consult Mr. Hastings about giving them
Christian burial.”
“It does seem strange,” murmured Maria. “Have you written to tell
Janet?”
“No, I shall write to her to-morrow. I hastened down to you. Bessy
came over from the Folly, but Lady Godolphin would not come. She
said she had heard enough in her life of the superstition of
Ashlydyat. She never liked it, you know, Maria; never believed in it.”
“Yes, I know,” Maria answered. “It used to anger her when it was
spoken of. As it angered papa.”
“As George used to pretend that it angered him. I think it was only
pretence, though. Poor Thomas, never. If he did not openly accord it
belief, he never ridiculed it. How are your preparations getting on
Maria?”
Maria was crossing the room with feeble steps to stir the fire into
a blaze. As the light burst forth, she turned her face to Lady Averil
with a sort of apology.
 “I do not know what Margery is about that she does not bring in
the lamp. I am receiving you very badly, Cecil.”
Cecil smiled. “I think our topic, the Ashlydyat superstition, is better
discussed in such light as this, than in the full glare of lamp-light.”
But as Lady Averil spoke she was looking earnestly at Maria. The
blaze had lighted up her wan face, and Cecil was struck aghast at its
aspect. Was it real?—or was it only the effect of the firelight? Lady
Averil had not heard of the ominous fears that were ripening, and
hoped it was the latter.
“Maria! are you looking worse this evening? Or is the light
deceiving me?”
“I dare say I am looking worse. I am worse. I am very ill, Cecil.”
“You do not look fit to embark on this voyage.”
Maria simply shook her head. She was sitting now in an old-
fashioned arm-chair, one white hand lying on her black dress, the
other supporting her chin, while the firelight played on her wasted
features.
“Would the little change to Ashlydyat benefit you, Maria? If so, if it
would help to give you strength for your voyage, come to us at
once. Now don’t refuse! It will give us so much pleasure. You do not
know how Lord Averil loves and respects you. I think there is no one
he respects as he respects you. Let me take you home with me
now.”
Maria’s eyelashes were wet as she turned them on her. “Thank
you, Cecil, for your kindness: and Lord Averil—will you tell him so for
me—I am always thanking in my heart. I wish I could go home with
you; I wish I could go with any prospect of it doing me good; but
that is over. I shall soon be in a narrower home than this.”
Lady Averil’s heart stood still and then bounded on again. “No, no!
Surely you are mistaken! It cannot be.”
“I have suspected it long, Cecil! but since the last day or two it
has become certainty, and even Mr. Snow acknowledges it. About
this time yesterday, he was sitting here in the twilight, and I bade
him not conceal the truth from me. I told him that I knew it, and did
not shrink from it; and therefore it was the height of folly for him to
pretend ignorance to me.”
“Oh, Maria! And have you no regret at leaving us? I should think it
a dreadful thing if I were going to die.”
“I have been battling with my regrets a long while,” said Maria,
bending her head and speaking in low, subdued tones. “Leaving
Meta is the worst. I know not who will take her, who will protect her:
she cannot go with George, without—without a mother!”
“Give her to me,” feverishly broke from the lips of Lady Averil.
“You don’t know how dearly I have ever loved that child Maria, she
shall never know the want of the good mother she has lost, as far as
I can supply your place, if you will let her come to me. It is well that
the only child of the Godolphins—and she is the only one—should be
reared at Ashlydyat.”
Of all the world, Maria could best have wished Lady Averil to have
Meta: and perhaps there had been moments when in her troubled
imagination she had hoped it would be so. But she could not close
her eyes to its improbabilities.
“You will be having children of your own, Cecil. And there’s Lord
Averil to be considered!”
“Lord Averil is more than indulgent to me. I believe if I wished to
adopt half a dozen children, he would only smile and tell me to
prepare a nursery for them. I am quite sure he would like to have
Meta.”
“Then—if he will—oh, Cecil, I should die with less regret.”
“Yes, yes, that is settled. He shall call and tell you so. But—Maria
—is your own state so certain? Can nothing be done for you?—
nothing be tried?”
“Nothing, as I believe. Mr. Snow cannot find out what is the
matter with me. The trouble has been breaking my heart, Cecil: I
know of nothing else. And since I grew alarmed about my own state,
there has been the thought of Meta. Many a time have I been
tempted to wish that I could have her with me in my coffin.”
 “Aunt Cecil! Aunt Cecil! How many summer-houses are there to
be, Aunt Cecil?”
You need not ask whose interrupting voice it was. Lady Averil
lifted the child to her knee, and asked whether she would come and
pay her a long, long visit at Ashlydyat. Meta replied by inquiring into
the prospect of swings and dolls’ houses, and Cecil plunged into
promises as munificently as George could have done.
“Should George not be with you?” she whispered, as she bent
over Maria before leaving.
“Yes, I am beginning to think he ought to be now. I intend to
write to him to-night; but I did not like to disturb him in his
preparations. It will be a blow to him.”
“What! does he not know of it?”
“Not yet. He thinks I am getting ready to go out. I wish I could
have done so!”
No, not until the unhappy fact was placed beyond all doubt, would
Maria disturb her husband. And she did it gently at last. “I have
been unwilling to alarm you, George, and I would not do so now,
but that I believe it is all too certain. Will you come down and see
what you think of me? Even Mr. Snow fears there is no hope for me
now. Oh, if I could but have gone with you! have gone with you to
be your ever-loving wife still in that new land!”
Lord Averil came in while she was addressing the letter. Greatly
shocked, greatly grieved at what his wife told him, he rose from his
dinner-table and walked down. Her husband excepted, there was no
one whom Maria would have been so pleased to see as Lord Averil.
He had not come so much to tell her that he heartily concurred in
his wife’s offer with regard to the child, though he did say it—say
that she should be done by entirely as though she were his own,
and his honest honourable nature shone out of his eyes as he spoke
it—as to see whether nothing could be done for herself, to entreat
her to have further advice called in.
“Dr. Beale has been here twice,” was her answer. “He says there is
no hope.”
 Lord Averil held her hand in his, as he had taken it in greeting; his
grave eyes of sympathy were bent with deep concern on her face.
“Cecil thinks the trouble has been too much for you,” he
whispered. “Is it so?”
A streak of hectic came into her cheek. “Yes, I suppose it is that.
Turn to which side I would, there was no comfort, no hope.
Throughout it all, I never had a friend, save you, Lord Averil: and
you know, and God knows, what you did for us. I have not
recompensed you: I don’t see how I could have recompensed you
had I lived: but when I am gone, you will be happy in knowing that
you took the greatest weight from one who was stricken by the
world.”
“You have been writing to George?” he observed, seeing the letter
on the table. “But it will not go to-night: it is too late.”
“It can go up by to-morrow’s day mail, and he will receive it in the
evening. Perhaps you will post it for me as you walk home: it will
save Margery’s going out.”
Lord Averil put the letter into his pocket. He stood looking at her
as she lay a little back in her easy-chair, his arm resting on the
mantelpiece, curious thoughts passing through his mind. Could he
do nothing for her?—to avert the fate that was threatening her? He,
rich in wealth, happy now in the world’s favour; she, going to the
grave in sorrow, it might be in privation—what could he do to help
her?
There are moments when we speak out of our true heart, when
the conventionality that surrounds the best of us is thrown aside, all
deceit, all form forgotten. Lord Averil was a good and true man, but
never better, never truer than now, when he took a step forward and
bent to Maria.
“Let me have the satisfaction of doing something for you; let me
try to save you!” he implored in low earnest tones. “If that may not
be, let me help to lighten your remaining hours. How can I best do
it?”
 She held out her hand to him: she looked up at him, the gratitude
she could not speak shining from her sweet eyes. “Indeed there is
nothing now, Lord Averil. I wish I could thank you as you deserve for
the past.”
He held her hand for some time, but she seemed weak,
exhausted, and he said good night. Margery attended him to the
outer gate, in spite of his desire that she should not do so, for the
night air was cold and seemed to threaten snow.
“Your mistress is very ill, Margery,” he gravely said. “She seems to
be in danger.”
“I’m afraid she is, my lord. Up to the last day or two I thought she
might take a turn and get over it; but since then she has grown
worse with every hour. Some folks can battle out things, and some
folks can’t; she’s one of the last sort, and she has been tried in all
ways.”
Lord Averil dropped the letter into the post-office, looking
mechanically at its superscription, George Godolphin, Esquire. But
that he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, he might have seen
by the very writing how weak she was, for it was scarcely
recognizable as hers. Very, very ill she looked, as if the end were
growing ominously near; and Lord Averil did not altogether like the
tardy summons which the letter would convey. A night and a day yet
before George could receive it. A moment’s communing with himself,
and then he took the path to the telegraph office, and sent off a
message:
“Viscount Averil to George Godolphin, Esquire.
“Your wife is very ill. Come down by first train.”
The snow came early. It was nothing like Christmas yet, and here
was the ground covered with it. The skies had seemed to threaten it
the previous night, but people were not prepared to find everything
wearing a white aspect when they rose in the morning.
The Reverend Mr. Hastings was ill. A neglected cold was telling so
greatly upon him that his daughter Rose had at length sent for Mr.
Snow. Mrs. Hastings was away for a day or two, on a visit to some
friends at a distance.
Mr. Hastings sat over the fire, dreamily watching David Jekyl,
awaiting the visit of Mr. Snow, and thinking his own thoughts. David
was busy in the garden. He had a bit of crape on his old felt hat for
his recently-interred father. The crape led the Rector’s thoughts to
the old man, and thence to the deprivation brought to the old man’s
years, the loss to the sons, through George Godolphin. How many
more, besides poor old Jekyl, had George Godolphin ruined! himself,
that reverend divine, amongst the rest!
“A good thing when the country shall be rid of him!” spoke the
Rector in his bitterness. “I would give all the comfort left in my life
that Maria, for her own sake, had not linked her fate with his! But
that can’t be remedied now. I hope he will make her happier there,
in her new home, than he has made her here!”
By which words you will gather that Mr. Hastings had no suspicion
of the change in his daughter’s state. It was so. Lord and Lady Averil
were not alone in learning the tidings suddenly; at, as it may be
said, the eleventh hour. Maria had not sent word to the Rectory that
she was worse. She knew that her mother was absent, that her
father was ill, that Rose was occupied; and that the change from bad
to worse had come upon herself so imperceptibly, that she saw not
its real danger—as was proved by her not writing to her husband.
The Rector, as he sits there, has his mind full of Maria’s voyage, and
its discomfort: of her changed life in India: and he is saying to
himself that he shall get out in the afternoon and call to see her.
The room faced the side of the house, but as Mr. Hastings sat he
could catch a glimpse of the garden gate, and presently saw the
well-known gig stop at it, and the surgeon descend.
“Well, and who’s ill now?” cried Mr. Snow, as he let himself in at
the hall-door, and thence to the room, where he took a seat in front
of the Rector, examined his ailment, and gossiped at the same time,
as was his wont; gossiped and grumbled.
 “Ah, yes; just so: feel worse than you have felt for twenty years.
You caught this cold at Thomas Godolphin’s funeral, and you have
not chosen to pay attention to it.”
“I think I did. I felt it coming on the next day. I could not read the
service in my hat, Snow, over him, and you know that rain was
falling. Ah! There was a sufferer! But had it not been for the
calamity that fell upon him, he might not have gone to the grave
quite so soon.”
“He felt it too keenly,” remarked Mr. Snow. “And your daughter—
there’s another sad victim. Ah me! Sometimes I wish I had never
been a doctor, when I find all that I can do in the way of treatment
comes to nothing.”
“If she can only get well through the fatigues of the voyage, she
may be better in India. Don’t you think so? The very change from
this place will put new life into her.”
Mr. Snow paused in surprise, and the truth flashed into his mind—
that Mr. Hastings was as yet in ignorance of Maria’s danger: flashed
with pain. Of course it was his duty to enlighten him, and he would
rather have been spared the task. “When did you see her last?” he
inquired.
“The day Mrs. Hastings left. I have not been well enough to go
out much since. And I dare say Maria has been busy.”
“I am sorry then to have to tell you that she has not been busy;
that she has not been well enough to be busy. She is much worse.”
There was a significance in the tone that spoke to the father more
effectually than any words could have done. He was silent for a full
minute, and then he rose from his chair and walked once up and
down the room before he turned to Mr. Snow.
“The full truth, Snow? Tell it me.”
“Well—the truth is, that hope is over. That she will not very long
be here. I had no suspicion that you knew it not.”
“I knew nothing of it. When I and her mother were with her last:
it was, I tell you, the day Mrs. Hastings left: Maria was talking of
going back to London with her husband the next time he came down
to Prior’s Ash. I thought her looking better that morning; she had
quite a colour; was in good spirits. When did you see her?”
“Now. I went up there before I came down to you. She grows
worse and worse every hour. Lord Averil telegraphed for George
Godolphin last night.”
“And I have not been informed of this!” burst forth the Rector. “My
daughter dying—for I infer no less—and I to be left in ignorance of
the truth!”
“Understand one thing, Mr. Hastings—that until this morning we
saw no fear of immediate danger. Lord Averil says he suspected it
last night; I did not see her yesterday in the after-part of the day. I
have known some few cases precisely similar to Mrs. George
Godolphin’s; where danger and death seem to have come on
suddenly together.”
“And what is her disease?”
The surgeon threw up his arms. “I don’t know—unless the trouble
has fretted her into her grave. Were I not a doctor, I might say she
had died of a broken heart, but the faculty don’t recognize such a
thing.”
Half an hour afterwards, the Reverend Mr. Hastings was bending
over his daughter’s dying bed. A dying bed, it too surely looked; and
if Mr. Hastings had indulged a gleam of hope, the first glance at
Maria’s countenance dispelled it. She lay wrapped in a shawl, the
lace border of her nightcap shading her delicate face and its smooth
brown hair, her eyes larger and softer and sweeter than of yore.
They were alone together. He held her hand in his, he gently laid
his other hand on her white and wasted brow. “Child! child! why did
you not send to me?”
“I did not know I was so ill, papa,” she panted. “I seem to have
grown so much worse this last night. But I am better than I was an
hour ago.”
“Maria,” he gravely said, “are you aware that you are in a state of
danger?—that death may come to you.”
 “Yes, papa, I know it. I have seen it coming a long while: only I
was not quite sure.”
“And my dear child, are you——” Mr. Hastings paused. He paused
and bit his lips, gathering firmness to suppress the emotion that was
rising. His calling made him familiar with death-bed scenes; but
Maria was his own child, and nature will assert her supremacy. A
minute or two and he was himself again: not a man living was more
given to reticence in the matter of his own feelings than the Rector
of All Souls’: he could not bear to betray emotion in the sight of his
fellow-men.
“Are you prepared for death, Maria? Can you look upon it without
terror?”
“I think I am,” she murmured. “I feel that I am going to God. Oh,
papa, forgive, forgive me!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears of
emotion, as she raised her hands to him in the moment’s
excitement. “The trouble has been too much for me; I could not
shake it off. All the sorrow that has been brought upon you through
us, I think of it always: my heart aches with thinking of it. Oh, papa,
forgive me before I die! It was not my fault; indeed, I did not know
of it. Papa”—and the sobs became painfully hysterical, and Mr.
Hastings strove in vain to check them—“I would have sacrificed my
life to bring good to you and my dear mamma: I would have sold
myself, to keep this ill from you!”
“Child, hush! There has been nothing to forgive to you. In the first
moment of the smart, if I cast an unkind thought to you, it did not
last; it was gone almost as soon as it came. My dear child, you have
ever been my loving and dutiful daughter. Maria, shall I tell it you?—
I know not why, but I have loved you better than any of my other
children.”
She had raised herself from the pillow, and was clasping his hand
to her bosom, sobbing over it. Few daughters have loved a father as
Maria had loved and venerated hers. The Rector’s face was
preternaturally pale and calm, the effect of his powerfully
suppressed emotion.
 “It has been too much for me, papa. I have thought of your
trouble, of the discomforts of your home, of the blighted prospects
of my brothers, feeling that it was our work. I thought of it always,
more perhaps than of other things: and I could not battle with the
pain it brought, and it has killed me. But, papa, I am resigned to go:
I know that I shall be better off. Before these troubles came, I had
not learned to think of God, and I should have been afraid to die.”
“It is through tribulation that we must enter the Kingdom,”
interrupted the calm, earnest voice of the clergyman. “It must come
to us here in some shape or other, my child; and I do not see that it
matters how, or when, or through whom it does come, if it takes us
to a better world. You have had your share of it: but God is a just
and merciful Judge, and if He has given you a full share of sorrow,
He will deal out to you His full recompense.”
“Yes,” she gently said, “I am going to God. Will you pray for me,
papa?—that He will pardon me and take me for Christ’s sake. Oh,
papa! it seems—it seems when we get near death as if the other
world were so very near to this! It seems such a little span of time
that I shall have to wait for you all before you come to me. Will you
give my dear love to mamma if I should not live to see her, and say
how I have loved her: say that I have only gone on first; that I shall
be there ready for her. Papa, I dare say God will let me be ever
waiting and looking for you.”
Mr. Hastings turned to search for a Book of Common Prayer. He
saw Maria’s on her dressing-table—one which he had given her on
her marriage, and written her name in—and he opened it at the
“Visitation of the Sick.” He looked searchingly at her face as he
returned: surely the signs of death were already gathering there!
“The last Sacrament, Maria?” he whispered. “When shall I come?”
“This evening,” she answered. “George will be here then.”
The Reverend Mr Hastings bent his eyebrows with a frown, as if
he thought—— But no matter. “At eight o’clock, then,” he said to
Maria, as he laid the book upon the bed and knelt down before it.
Maria lay back on her pillow, and clasping her hands upon the shawl
which covered her bosom, closed her eyes to listen.
It was strange that even then, as he was in the very act of
kneeling, certain words which he had spoken to Maria years ago,
should flash vividly into the Rector’s mind—words which had referred
to the death of Ethel Grame.
“The time may come, Maria—we none of us know what is before
us—when some of you young ones who are left, may wish you had
died as she has. Many a one, battling for very existence with the
world’s carking cares, wails out a vain wish that he had been taken
from the evil to come.”
Had the gift of prevision been on the Rector of All Souls’ when he
spoke those words to Maria Hastings? Poor child! lying there now on
her early death-bed; with her broken heart! The world’s carking
cares had surely done their work on Maria Godolphin!
 CHAPTER VI.
A CROWD OF MEMORIES.

If it were not for mismanagement, how smoothly things might go

on! That telegraphic despatch which Lord Averil had deemed it well
to send, and which had not been sent any too soon, did not reach
George Godolphin for hours and hours, through mismanagement at
his lodgings.
It was afternoon when he reached Prior’s Ash. The first person he
saw at the station was Lord Averil. That nobleman, wondering at
George’s non-appearance, believing that Maria was getting nearer to
death with every hour, had come to the conclusion that by some
mischance his message had miscarried; and he had now gone to the
station to send another. Lord Averil linked his arm within George’s,
and they walked rapidly away through the snow that lay on the path.
Yes, he linked his arm within George Godolphin’s who had so very
nearly been held up to the virtuous British public as a candidate for
a free passage to Australia. Somehow, George had slipped through
that danger, and was a gentleman still: moreover, he was Lord
Averil’s brother-in-law, and it was the earnest wish of that nobleman
that society should forget the little mistake in George’s life as heartily
as he did. He explained as he walked along: Maria had got rapidly
worse all at once: it was only within a few hours that immediate
danger had shown itself.
George could not understand it. He had left his wife, ill certainly,
but not, as he believed, seriously so; he had supposed her to be
busy in preparations for the voyage: and now to be told that she
was dying! If this was so, why had Maria not sent for him before?
 Lord Averil explained. No one seemed to have known of the
danger.
“Snow must have known it,” remonstrated George.
“I think not. I was talking to him to-day, and he expressed his
surprise at the disorder having suddenly increased in this rapid
manner.”
“What is the disorder?” asked George. “My wife had no disorder—
except weakness.”
“I suppose that is it—weakness.”
“But weakness does not kill!”
“Yes, it does, sometimes.”
Margery was standing at the door when they reached the gate,
possibly looking out for her master, for she knew the hours of the
arrival of the trains. The windows of the sitting-room faced that way,
and George’s eyes naturally turned to them. But there was no sign
of busy life, of every-day occupation: the curtains hung in their
undisturbed folds, the blinds were partially down.
“I will just ask how your wife is now, and whether Cecil is here,”
said Lord Averil, following George up the path.
No, Lady Averil and Miss Bessy Godolphin had left about ten
minutes before, Margery said. My Lady Godolphin, who had driven
up in her carriage and come in for a quarter of an hour, had left; and
Miss Rose Hastings, who had been there the best part of the
morning, had also left. Mrs. George Godolphin seemed a trifle
better; inclined to sleep, tired out, as it were; and she, Margery,
didn’t wonder at it with such a heap of visitors: she had given them
a broad hint herself that her mistress might be all the better for an
hour’s quiet.
Lord Averil departed. George flung his railway wrapper on to a
chair and hung his hat up in the little hall: he turned his face, one of
severity then, on Margery.
“Is your mistress so very ill? Why was I not sent for earlier? Is she
so very ill?” he continued in an impassioned tone.
 “Well, sir, I don’t know,” answered Margery, willing perhaps to
soften the truth to him. “She is certainly better than she was in the
morning. She is sitting up.”
George Godolphin was of a hopeful nature. Even those few words
seemed to speak to his heart with a certainty. “Not there, sir,”
interposed Margery, as he opened the door of the sitting-room. “But
it don’t matter,” she added: “you can go in that way.”
He walked through the room and opened the door of the
bedchamber. Would the scene ever leave his memory? The room
was lighted more by the blaze of the fire than by the daylight, for
curtains partly covered the windows and the winter’s dreary
afternoon was already merging into twilight. The bed was at the far
end of the room, the dressing-table near it. The fire was on his right
as he entered, and on a white-covered sofa, drawn before it, sat
Maria. She was partly dressed and wrapped in a light cashmere
shawl; her cap was untied, and her face, shaded though it was by its
smooth brown hair, was all too visible in the reflection cast by the
firelight.
Which was the more colourless—that face, or the white cover of
the sofa? George Godolphin’s heart stood still as he looked upon it
and then bounded on with a rush. Every shadow of hope had gone
from him.
Maria had not heard him, did not see him; he went in gently. By
her side on the sofa lay Miss Meta, curled up into a ball and fast
asleep, her hands and her golden curls on her mamma’s knee. With
George’s first step forward, Maria turned her sad sweet eyes towards
him, and a faint cry of emotion escaped her lips.
Before she could stir or speak, George was with her, his protecting
arms thrown round her, her face gathered to his breast. What a
contrast it was! she so wan and fragile, so near the grave, he in all
his manly strength, his fresh beauty. Miss Meta woke up, recognized
her papa with a cry and much commotion, but Margery came in and
carried her off, shutting the door behind her.
 Her fair young face—too fair and young to die—was laid against
her husband’s; her feeble hand lay carelessly in his. The shock to
George was very great; it almost seemed that he had already lost
her; and the scalding tears, so rarely wrung from man, coursed
down his cheeks, and fell on her face.
“Don’t grieve,” she whispered, the tears raining from her own
eyes.
“Oh, George, my husband, it is a bitter thing to part, but we shall
meet again in heaven, and be together for ever. It has been so
weary here; the troubles have been so great!”
He steadied his voice to speak. “The troubles have not killed you,
have they, Maria?”
“Yes, I suppose it has been so. I did try and struggle against
them, but—I don’t know—— Oh, George!” she broke out in a wailing
tone of pain, “if I could have but got over them and lived!—if I could
only have gone with you to your new home!”
George sat down on the sofa where Meta had been, and held her
to him in silence. She could hear his heart beating; could feel it
bounding against her side.
“It will be a better home in heaven,” she resumed, laying her poor
pale face upon his shoulder. “You will come to me there, George; I
shall only go on first a little while; all the pains and the cares, the
heart-burnings of earth will be forgotten, and we shall be together in
happiness for ever and ever.”
He dropped his face upon her neck, he sobbed aloud in his
anguish. Whatever may have been his gracelessness and his faults,
he had loved his wife; and now that he was losing her, that love was
greater than it had ever been: some pricks of conscience may have
been mingled with it, too! Who knows?
“Don’t forget me quite when I am gone, George. Think of me
sometimes as your poor wife who loved you to the last; who would
have stayed with you if God had let her. When first I began to see
that it must be, that I should leave you and Meta, my heart nearly
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