It was, then, with a grateful joy at her heart she saw him invited to the Rectory,—admitted once more to the world of his equals, and the notice of society. She had waited hour by hour for his return home, and it was already daybreak ere she heard him enter the cottage, and repair to his own room. Who knows what deep and heartfelt anxieties were hers as she sought her bed at last? What sorrowful forebodings might not have oppressed her? What bitter tears have coursed along her worn cheeks? for his step was short and impatient as he crossed the little hall, and the heavy slam of his door, and the harsh grating of the lock, told that he was ruffled and angry. The morning wore on heavily,—drearily to her, as she watched and waited, and at last she crept noiselessly to the door, and tapped at it gently.
“Who's there? Come in!” cried he, roughly.
“I came only to ask if you would not have your breakfast,” said she, timidly. “It is already near eleven o'clock.”
“So late, Grace?” said he, with a more kindly accent, as he offered her a seat. “I don't well know how the time slipped over; not that I was engaged in anything that interested me,—I do not believe I have done anything whatever,—no, nothing,” muttered he, vaguely, as his wearied eye ranged over the table.
“You are tired to-day, Herbert, and you need rest,” said she, in a soft, gentle tone. “Let this be a holiday.”
“Mine are all holidays now,” replied he, with an effort at gayety. Then suddenly, with an altered voice, he added: “I ought never to have gone there last night, Grace. I knew well what would come of it. I have no habits, no temper, no taste, for such associates. What other thoughts could cross me as I sat there, sipping their claret, than of the cold poverty that awaited me at home? What pleasure to me could that short hour of festivity be, when I knew and felt I must come back to this? And then, the misery, the insult of that state of watchfulness, to see that none took liberties with me on the score of my humble station.”
“But surely, Herbert, there is not any one—”
“I don't know that,” broke he in. “He who wears finer linen than you is often a terrible tyrant, on no higher or better ground. If any man has been taught that lesson, I have! The world has one easy formula for its guidance. If you be poor, you must be either incompetent or improvident, or both; your patched coat and shabby hat are vouchers for one or the other, and sleek success does not trouble itself to ask which.”