Part 6 (1/2)

him, and so, having no common sorrow, their hearts grew narrow--as wur to be expected--and they began to misunderstand each other and drift apart. Sure as thou lives, Mary, getting rid o' the little lad's things wur wheere the mistake came in, in their lives.”

Springing excitedly to his feet, he continued quickly, ”Thou remembers the night, too, thou gave me the bundle wi' the little things in to take to the charitable inst.i.toote? Well, I didn't go straight theere wi' it; I took it first to my room and opened it, just to have one more look at 'em; and la.s.s, the first thing my eyes fell on wur a little pair o' his boots--thou remembers the pair--the ones that had a little hole in one o' the toes. Well, Mary, that little hole staring me in the face touched my heart and melted it as few things in this world ever did, and so, la.s.s, I just couldn't send 'em away, and I took 'em out and put 'em in my trunk, wheere they still are. Now, Mary, if those little worn boots could break down such a real worldly man as me--and when the lad wur not my own, too--does thou think for a moment that, if the maister and the missus could be got to come across 'em just about at the same time, sweet memories, that they've forgotten, would not rush over 'em, and that their hearts would not be moved to the very core, and that they would not just _have_ to forgive each other? Why! I can fairly see 'em together now, la.s.s, and it's going to be all reet, and--and--and--” He was actually too full for further utterance, and bending down clasped his equally moved listener in his arms, and just hugged her.

When Mary finally managed to extricate herself from his arms, he gave further vent to his feelings by cutting a series of remarkable capers, doubtless a species of ancient dance, in which (undignified as doubtless it would have been) Mary, who had caught the contagion of his happiness, would, I believe, eventually have joined, had he not suddenly hove to.

Hurrying to her side, he said, between his gasps for breath, ”And now for the plot, la.s.s. I'll go and get the boots, wrap 'em up, and put 'em on the table theere. Then thou must go and tell the missus that there's a parcel for her on the table. Thou wilt manage, of course, to get out o' the room before she can tell thee to fetch it. As for me, when I know that she's found it, I'll go to the maister and deliver a like message to him, and also get away before he can tell me to bring it. And then, la.s.s, he'll catch her when her heart's full--and then we shall see!”

His genial old coat-tails were flas.h.i.+ng out of the room before Mary could say a word in reply.

As she sank breathlessly down on her chair, she exclaimed: ”Ah, but I am excited and moved!”

She had scarcely time to wipe her eyes when John flashed back again, his spectacles in one hand and a small parcel in the other. ”Theere they are, la.s.s,” he almost shouted as he laid the parcel hurriedly on the table. ”And now, Mary, quick, go and tell her, and as soon as she finds 'em I'll go and fix the maister.”

Mary needed no second bidding, but hurried away, while John left by a door that led to his master's study.

CHAPTER III.

RECONCILED.

”But ties around this heart were spun That could not, would not, be undone!”

When Mrs. Townsley entered the parlor her face was pale and careworn.

As she seated herself some little distance from the table, bearing the precious parcel upon which so many hopes were now founded, she looked up at the clock.

”I could not go out to-night; he will be leaving soon”--there was a touch of wistfulness in her voice. She sat for a little time sadly turning round and round the plain gold ring on her left hand. ”If he had threatened anything else but to desert me,” she went on again presently, ”I could go to him; but it's no use in trying, I cannot do it.”

She rose with a weary sigh and went over to the table and listlessly took up the parcel. She had no curiosity as to its contents, as was shown by her sitting down again without opening it. Resting her chin on her hand she drifted into thoughts that plainly were not happy ones. Finally she again sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair.

Her eyes fell upon the parcel. Indifferently she slipped off the cord and began to unwrap the paper. Something slipped on her lap, and she looked mechanically down; the paper and string, which was still in her hand, fluttered to the floor, her lips parted, her eyes dilated and her face grew pitifully pale. As though fascinated, she continued to gaze at the poor soiled little boots. Her laboring heart at last threw off its torpor and drove the rich color once more back to her face, and then with a cry, full of unutterable love she caught up the precious little things, kissed, cooed, wept and fondled them pa.s.sionately. ”My dear, dead darling,” she sobbed. Sinking on her knees by the side of the chair, she fondled them afresh and pressed her lips hungrily to the spot where the inquisitive little toe had forced an opening.

Presently the sound of footsteps fell upon her ears. She sprang to her feet. ”It is Harold!” she exclaimed excitedly. In her new tender mood she had almost forgotten her resentment toward him. Then an impulse flashed suddenly into her mind--happily she acted upon it. Hastily wrapping up the boots again, she hurriedly placed them on the table, in a position which she thought would attract her husband's attention, and then she sped across the room and hid behind the heavy curtains which screened the deep bay window. She had not been mistaken--it was her husband.

He was wearing his great-coat and had evidently been preparing to go out. She could see from her hiding-place that his absent mood was still strong upon him.

”I--I wish,” he said, thoughtfully, to himself, as he entered the room, ”that John had thought to bring the parcel; this room is filled with memories of her, and it makes it harder to go.” He stopped and looked regretfully around the room; then, noticing the parcel, he walked listlessly over to the table, took it up and ponderingly began to unfold it; the secret the roughly folded paper held was quickly revealed. As he held out the wee boots in the palm of his strong hand, his lips moved for a few moments, but they gave forth no sound. When the words at last came they were pitifully broken: ”His, _his_ boots!

My poor, poor darling!” Over and over again he repeated the words as he pa.s.sionately stroked the frayed little toes.

His strength seemed suddenly to desert him and he sank weakly on a chair, ”How I loved him! My G.o.d!” Then there flashed back to him the memory of his wife's deep, true love, and sorrow for the lost one, and of how he had added to their sorrow, and how they were now about to separate, and the regret and pity of it all broke down all self-control and caused sobs to break from his lips, such as only strong men who seldom know what tears are, can ever utter.

When the storm had spent itself he rose and carefully wrapped up the boots. ”I will take them with me,” he said, ”they will keep me from growing narrow and morose again. Ah, if I had but kept them when I was pa.s.sing through the dark days! I should have had more sympathy with her, have understood myself and her better, and this never would have happened.” He looked around the room for the last time: ”No, she never was so dear to me as she is to-night; I never understood her so well.”

As he was moving sadly toward the door some belated organ-grinder, in an adjacent street, began to play the weird refrain of that song which has touched the hearts of so many who have loved home:

”Home, home, sweet, sweet home--.”