It was a large house, and the modern portion seemed quite unnecessary, save as an embellishment, for two quieter people could not well have been found than the old couple who had inhabited the centre building, with its antique furniture and old-fashioned mouldings, for more than half a century.
One day, not far from the time of our last chapter, old Mrs. Ford was, or seemed to be, alone in this dwelling; for the kitchen was so far away from the room she occupied, that no household-sound reached her. It was a calm June day. The air was balmy with fruit-blossoms. The sky was softly blue, with a white cloud here and there drifting soft snowy billows over it; for a light rain had just passed away, leaving heaps of pearl clouds on the horizon and a world of diamond drops among the green-leaves and fruit-blossoms, that impregnated them with perfume.
The window of her sitting-room was open, and Mrs. Ford leaned out, not to gaze upon the landscape, though she felt all its beauty, but with a keener interest and deeper anxiety than mere familiar Nature could afford.
Her husband, a very old man, had gone to the city, and the old lady was anxiously watching his return. It was now two hours beyond the time. He had driven a fiery horse and was without attendant; what might have happened? Why would not her husband be content to drive a staid family horse, or take the man-servant with him? Why did he go to the city at all? These might have been her reflections on ordinary occasions; but now a deeper cause of anxiety gave keenness to those aged eyes, and sent a nervous quiver to those locked hands, whenever a sound startled her.
At last, she distinctly heard a carriage coming down the road, and rising slowly from her seat, she walked forth into the front porch, where, leaning against one of the stone pillars, she stood pale and motionless, save that a quiver ran through her frame, somewhat more sharply than should have been possible to the simple tremor of old age.
Decorous old age is always beautiful, and this dear old lady, in her dark dress and pure muslin cap scarcely less white than the hair it covered, formed a touching picture, as she stood in the shadow of her home, waiting—for her husband—and alas! for the only child of their love—another might come, but the old lady scarcely thought of that, her heart was too full.
Slowly the carriage came up from the road and swept around to the front door. The old lady could not move. She seemed chained to the stone pillar that supported her. A mist, but not of age, crept over her vision, and through it she saw her husband descend to the ground, and then, as if moving through a cloud, she saw two female forms sinking, as it were, toward the earth, and coming steadily toward her.
She could not stir or speak, but held out her trembling arms.
A tall, thin woman, whose large brown eyes, full of sorrowful reproach, seemed to look through and through her, came up the steps, paused a moment so close that the trembling hands touched her, and walked on without a word.
Then the old woman cried out in her anguish,—