As I spoke, the sound of distant bells came sweeping through the trees, and we heard the faint murmurs of a shout, as if people at a great distance were rejoicing together.
“He has come. It is from the village,” said Turner, and tears rolled down his cheeks. “My boy—my boy, God bless him. Will you not say God bless him, Zana?”
I could not answer; every clash of the bells seemed to strike against my heart. I knew it was my father that was coming; but when Turner asked me to bless him, that face came before me, and I could not do it.
Turner left me, for the state of excitement in which those bells had thrown him allowed of nothing but action. He followed no path, but I saw him running at full speed across the park, as if the weight of twenty, not sixty-five years, went with him. Directly, and while the sunset was yet red in the west, I heard the sound of carriage wheels and the swell of dying shouts, as if the villagers had followed their lord up to the lodge-gate. Then all grew still, save the faint sound of wheels, the rustle of a thousand trees, that seemed to carry off the shout amid the sighing of their leaves.
I could not rest, for thought was pain. I wandered about the house, and at length went down stairs in search of Maria. She sat in the little breakfast-room, surrounded by the twilight; and as I entered softly, the sound of her weeping filled the room.
I stole to her side, and sitting down at her feet, laid my head on her lap, excited beyond endurance, but with no power to weep.
She passed her hand softly down my hair, and sobbed more passionately than before.
“What are you crying for? Everybody else seems happy. Only you and Turner receive the Lord of Greenhurst with tears,” I said.
“We parted from him with tears,” she answered, sobbing afresh.
“You knew him well then, ma bonne?” I said, plunging into the subject recklessly now that it was commenced.