Part 3 (1/2)
”Yes, Mr. Chantrey; yes, sir,” he answered. ”You're welcome home, sir.
G.o.d bless you! You've been missed more than any of us thought of when you went away. You're needed here, sir, more than you think of.”
”Nothing has gone very wrong, I hope,” said the rector, smiling. He had faithfully done his best to provide a good subst.i.tute in ”Warden, but it was not in human nature not to feel pleased that no one could manage his parish as well as himself.
”No, no, sir,” replied the station-master, ”nothing but what you'll put right again at once by being at home yourself. No, there's nothing very wrong, I may say. Upton meant to give you a welcome home to-morrow, with arches of flowers and music. They'll be disappointed you arrived to-day, I know.”
David Chantrey laughed, thinking of the welcome they had given him when he brought Sophy home as his young wife. His heart felt a new tenderness for her, and a throb of impatience to find her. He bade a hasty good-evening to the station-master, and walked off buoyantly toward the High street, along which his path lay. The station-master and the ticket-clerk watched him, and shook their heads significantly; but he was quite unconscious of their scrutiny. Never had the quiet little town seemed so lovely to him. The quaint irregular houses stood one-half of them in shadow, and the rest in the level rays of the May sunset; the chestnut-trees, with their young green leaves and their white blossoms lighting up each branch to the very summit of them; the hawthorn bushes here and there covered with snowy bloom; the children playing, and the swallows darting to and fro overhead; the distant shout of the cuckoo, and the deep low tone of the church clock just striking the hour--this was the threshold of home to him; the outer court, which was dearer to him and more completely his own than any other place in the wide world could ever be.
No one was quick to recognize him in his somewhat foreign aspect; the children at their play took no notice of him. All the tradespeople were busy getting their shops a little in order before the shutters were put up. He might perhaps pa.s.s through the street as far as Bolton Villa without being observed, and so be sure of a perfectly quiet evening. But as he thought so his heart gave a great bound, for there before him was Sophy herself hurrying along the uneven causeway, now lost behind some jutting building, and then seen once more, still hastening with quick, unsteady steps, as if bent on some pressing errand. He did not try to overtake her, though he could have done so easily. He felt that their first meeting must not be in the street, for the tears that smarted under his eyelids and dimmed his sight, and the quicker throbbing of his pulses, warned him that such a meeting would be no common incident in their lives. She had been his wife for nine years, and she was far dearer to him now than she had been when he married her. Eighteen months of their life together had been lost--a great price to pay for his restored health. But now a long, happy union lay before them.
He had not followed her for more than a minute or two when she suddenly turned and entered Ann Holland's little shop. Well, he could not take her by surprise better in any other house in Upton. Perhaps it might even be better than at Bolton Villa, amid its c.u.mbrous surroundings; he always thought of his aunt's house with a sort of shudder. If Sophy had fortunately fixed upon this quiet house for paying the good old maid a kindly visit, there was not another place except their own home where he would rather receive her first greeting--that is if the drunken old saddler did not happen to be in. He paused to inquire from the journeyman, still at work in the shop; learning that Richard Holland was not at home, he pa.s.sed impatiently to the kitchen beyond. Ann Holland was just closing the door of her little parlor, and David Chantrey approached her, hardly able to control the agitation he felt.
”I saw my wife step in here,” he said, holding out his hand to her, but attempting to pa.s.s her and to open the door before which she still stood. She could not speak for a moment, but she kept her post firmly in opposition to him.
”My wife is here?” he asked, in a sharp impetuous tone.
”Yes; oh yes!” cried Ann Holland; ”but wait a moment, Mr. Chantrey. Oh, wait a little while. Don't go in and see her yet.”
”Why not?” he asked again, a sudden terror taking hold of him.
”Sit down a minute or two, sir,” she answered. ”Mrs. Chantrey's ill, just ailing a little. She is not prepared to meet you just yet. You were not expected before to-morrow, and she's excited; she hardly knows what she's saying or doing. You'd better not speak to her or see her till she's recovered herself a little.”
”Poor Sophy!” cried David Chantrey, with a tremor in his voice; ”did she see me coming, then? Go back to her, Miss Holland; she will want you. Is there nothing I can do for her? It has been a hard time for her, poor girl!”
Ann Holland went back into the parlor, and he smiled as he heard her take the precaution of turning the key in the lock. He threw himself into the three-cornered chair, and sat listening to the murmur of voices on the other side of the door. It seemed a very peaceful home. The quaintness and antiqueness of the homely kitchen chimed in with his present feeling; he wanted no display or grandeur. This was no common every-day world he was in; there was a strange flavor about every circ.u.mstance. Impatient as he was to see Sophy, and hold her once more in his arms, he could not but feel a sense of comfort and tranquillity mingling with his more unquiet happiness. There was a fire burning cheerily on the hearth, though it was a May evening. Coming from a warmer climate, he felt chilly, and he bent over the fire, stretching over it his long thin hands, which told plainly their story of mere scholarly work and of health never very vigorous, Smiling all the time, with the glow of the flame on his face, with its expression of tranquil gladness, as of one who had long been buffeted about, but had reached home at last, he sat listening till the voices ceased. A profound silence followed, which lasted some time, before Ann Holland returned to him saying softly, ”She is asleep.”
CHAPTER VII.
WORSE THAN DEAD
Ann Holland sat down on the other side of the hearth, opposite her rector; but she could not lift up her eyes to his face. There was no on in the world whom she loved so well. His forbearance and kindness toward her unfortunate brother, who was the plague and shame of her life, had completely won for him an affection that would have astonished him if he could have known its devotion. This moment would have been one of unalloyed delight to her had there been no trouble lurking for him, of which he was altogether unaware. So rejoiced she was at his return that it seemed as if no event in her monotonous life hitherto had been so happy; yet she was terrified at the very thought of his coming wretchedness. When Sophy had fled to her with the cry that her husband was come, and she dared not meet him as she was, she had seen in an instant that she must prevent it by some means or other. The hope that Mr. Chantrey's return would bring about a reformation in his wife had grown faint in her heart, for during the last few months the sin had taken deeper and deeper root; and now, the day only before she expected him, she had not had strength to resist the temptation to it. Sophy had been crying hysterically, and trembling at the thought of meeting him as she was; and she had made Ann promise to break to him gently the confession she would otherwise be compelled to make herself. Ann Holland sat opposite to him, with downcast eyes, and a face almost heart-broken by the shame and sorrow she foresaw for him.
”She is asleep,” he said, repeating her words in a lowered voice, as if he was afraid of disturbing her.
”Yes,” she answered.
”It is strange,” he said, after a short pause; ”strange she can sleep now. Has she been ill? Sophy always a.s.sured me she was quite well and strong. It is strange she can sleep when she knows I am here.”
”She was very ill and low after you went, sir,” she replied; ”it was like as if her heart was broken, parting with you and Master Charlie both together. Dear, dear! it might have been better for her if you'd been poor folks, and she'd had to work hard for you both. She'd just nothing to do, and n.o.body to turn to for comfort, poor thing. Mrs.
Bolton meant to be kind, and was kind in her way: but she fell into a low fever, and the doctors all ordered her as much wine and support as ever she could take.”
”I never heard of it,” said Mr. Chantrey; ”they never told me.”
”No; they were fearful of your coming back too soon,” she went, on; ”and, thank G.o.d, you are looking quite yourself again, sir. All Upton will be as glad as glad can be, and the old church'll be crammed again.
Mr. Warden's done all a man could do; but everybody said he wasn't you and we longed for you back again, but not too soon--no, no, not too soon.”
”But my wife,” he said; ”has she been ill all the time?”
For a minute or two she could not find words to answer his question. She knew that it could not be long before he learned the truth, if not from her or his wife, then from Mrs. Bolton or his friend Mr. Warden. It was too much the common talk of the neighborhood for him to escape hearing of it, even if she could hope that Mrs. Chantrey would have strength of mind enough to cast off the sin at once. Now was the time to break it to him gently, with quiet and friendly hints rather than with hard words.