“Good evening, then,” said he.
And with a little burst of feeling which sat very well on his dignity, he turned back to look admiringly at his wife.
“How beautiful over the hills,” he exclaimed, “are the feet of the messenger of glad tidings!”
Madam Tutterville glanced down at her sandals and smiled with whole-hearted delight and pride. But the rector, instead of following up his leave-taking, halted on his way to the door, lost in profound reflection. She respected the mood for an appreciable moment, then called on him, first tenderly, then with a shade of impatience.
“My dear love,” said he, when roused at last, “I pray you, wait for me in the parlour. There are now, I remember, a few words I must say to David. I will not keep you above a minute, my beloved Sophia.”
As the door closed the parson stood a little while in silence beside David’s motionless figure, regarding him gravely. Then said he:
“David! What is Bindon without Ellinor?”
David slowly turned his eyes.
“Why do you say that to me? Do I not know? Have I not felt it? Did you not yourself see what the moment of crossing my desolate threshold was to me! Did you not come with me into this empty room and hear its emptiness howl for her like the emptiness of my heart? Oh, for the sound of the rustle of her dress—of the least of her footfalls on the stairs!” He broke off, and suddenly lost his concentrated composure in a cry: “I’d give my soul to have her back!”
At this the parson was not shocked. Indeed he smiled more genially than if his companion had expressed the most pious resignation.