“It will break my heart,” the unhappy woman sobbed. “It is so dreadful—so horrible to me, love. Eli, husband—my patient, loving husband, bring him back to me or I shall die.”
“I will fetch him back, Laura,” said the Rector, softly, as he bent down once more and kissed the cold, white forehead of his wife.
Then, rising with a sigh, he softly moved towards the door, turning once to smile at the troubled face he left behind.
As he turned, the suffering woman held out her arms, and he walked back quietly to sink upon his knees by her side.
“Pray,” she said, softly. “Pray for help and guidance in this storm.” And once more there was silence in the room.
“He is our boy,” whispered Mrs Mallow, as the Rector rose. “Be patient with him, Eli, and all will yet be well. Indeed, indeed, he is good and true of heart. See how tenderly he waits on me.”
“Just for a minute, now and then,” the Rector thought; “and only when it does not clash with some selfish object of his own.” And then he fell to thinking of his own years upon years of constant watchfulness and care, and smiled sadly as he saw how that at times the little far outshone the great.
But nothing in his countenance betokened aught but the tenderest sympathy and love for her he was leaving behind, as, once more going to the door, the Rector passed through, and descended to his study, leaving Mrs Mallow weeping in her daughters’ arms.
Here he shut himself in for a few minutes, and rapidly paced the floor, holding his hands the while to his rugged brow.
“It is too much—it is too much!” he groaned, panting with the great emotion to which his soul was prey. “If it was not for my girls! If it was not for my girls!”