"Good, Master Robert! and stay from you so long, and you in trouble, and so fond of her!"
"She did not know I was in trouble, nurse; I never told her anything of the kind. She thought I was the same rich man I had been when she left me; and it was all my fault. I cannot explain; but if you love me,--and I know you do, old nurse, I know you do--who so well?--never blame my wife in your heart, or let others blame her in your hearing. But she's coming back to me; think of that."
"When?" was Alice's first practical question; "does my mistress know?" was her second.
"To-morrow, or the next day, I hope; I am not sure, until I hear again--no, my mother does not know; no one knows. She will come here to me, until I can get a quiet home of our own; then she and I will begin our life again;" and as Robert spoke the words, he could hardly believe in the meaning they conveyed.
Alice had entertained no favourable opinion of Katharine, and had never thought at all of her of late, since she had ceased to be mentioned by Mrs. Streightley. But Robert's joy acted as a revelation of his sorrow to the faithful friend who watched him more closely, and knew him better than any one in the world beside. She listened, therefore, with the utmost attention to his directions, and promised the closest compliance with his wishes. Every thing should be done to make the house fit for Mrs. Streightley's reception; little was needed, indeed, but the fires should be lighted and the rooms swept and garnished. Robert thought of the suite of apartments at Portland Place, and of the "Lady-Kilmantan" hangings at Middlemeads, but not bitterly; he thought of them, indeed, with a smile: such things mattered little now to him, or to his wife. His wife! He called her by the sacred name, in his thoughts, a thousand times in an hour, and life seemed too short and narrow for all his thankfulness and joy.
The news soon spread through the little household, and was received with much indifference. The three female servants who composed the modest establishment were new-comers; they had known nothing of Robert's wife, and cared nothing about her. But they liked him, and they were rather glad than otherwise that any thing should occur to give him pleasure, more especially as Nurse Alice informed them the "young madam's" residence would be but temporary, for they agreed unanimously that they "couldn't abide two mistresses, and in course it was only natural as Mr. Robert's wife should like to have her own way." Thus they set to work with very tolerable activity and good-will, and the work of preparation went on briskly.
How the hours of that day passed over Robert Streightley he could not have told, had there been any to question him. Should he write? he had asked himself, when he was once more shut up in the dining-room and secure from interruption. What could he say? To Yeldham he might possibly write a few words of thanks and thankfulness; but what would they avail? what a poor mockery they would be! But perhaps he had better write them. Then the strong man, who had seen his fortunes crumble into dust, and stood upright amid the ruins, took a pen in his hand, and tried to form a few simple words, and he could not do it; darkness gathered before his eyes and his senses reeled. So he went out to the nearest telegraph-office, and he dictated a message to a clerk in three words,--"Come home quickly;" and he lingered about until he knew they had been clicked off to Paris, and then he began to count the time as he walked, he hardly knew where, about the clean, frosty suburban roads, and to speculate upon the exact moment when his wife would receive his message. So wandering, while the short hours of the winter's day were waning, he found himself on the borders of Clapham Common, and leant for a few minutes idly against an iron post, watching the omnibuses starting from the Plough, and their conductors warming themselves by brisk exercise, assisted by strong drink. A narrow road led away to his right; and a little way down, a tall, graceful, lancelike church-spire showed solemn and beautiful against the steel-coloured vault of the sky; the stars were beginning to twinkle, and the leafless trees rustled sharp and brittle in the frosty air. Looking upward at the spire, Robert turned down the narrow road, and found himself in a minute before the low gate and little paved court in front of a modern Gothic church, small, but of rich and correct architecture. The gate swung open as he came up to it, and several children ran gladly out into the road. Through the porch and the heavy oak-door, iron-clamped, and half-open, Robert saw glimpses of the interior of the church, saw gleams of rich colour and bits of quaint Gothic decoration. The grand sonorous tones of an organ swelled out suddenly, and ceased, as he stood idly looking and listening. The notes were the last of the "practice," and accompanied a reiterated "Amen" by children's voices. He passed through the gate into the porch, and, after a moment's hesitation, entered the church. A great longing for the peace of God had come over him, and here was God's house; it mattered not to him that the form of the worship therein was Catholic, not that to which he was accustomed, and he went in. There was no light in the church save the red gleam from the sacramental-lamp, swung by long silver chains before the High Altar; the gas-jets which had given light to the organist were turned out as he went into the church, and the children went down the gallery-stairs and trooped noisily away. A man lingered for a few minutes to arrange some chairs piled against the wall of a side aisle, and then departed, having left all in order for the evening service, to commence in an hour. Robert was quite alone: over the large window, high up in the wall, behind which the guests of the Community (for the church was attached to a monastery) were wont to sit and assist unseen at Divine worship, a crimson curtain hung; there was no human eye to witness the emotion of his soul.
Robert sat long, absorbed in thought; then he drew near the altar-rail, and kneeled down upon the marble step. The red light shone solemnly upon his kneeling figure, and upon the paintings glowing on the sanctuary-walls. His eyes wandered over these, until they rested upon one, and then they stayed their wandering. It represented a Man of infinitely benign and sorrowful aspect, in whose figure there was great dignity and power. He stood with outstretched arms and piercing gaze directed out from the canvas, as though he looked into the faces of a multitude. A scroll ran round the top of the picture, and bore these words: "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."
The light was very dim; he could not have read the written words by its glimmer had he needed to read them; but he did not. Kneeling there, on the altar-step, before the face and the words of promise, Robert took his wife's two letters from his breast, and, like Hezekiah in his trouble, he, in his repentance and his gratitude, "spread them before the Lord."
It was late when Robert reached home, and Alice was anxiously expecting him. He was very cheerful, and listened with pleasure to the old woman's account of all that had been done during the day in the way of preparation for Katharine's reception. He had several matters of business to attend to; and so the hours wore themselves away; and at length he was the only one waking in the quiet house.