The day in the railway carriage was long and uncomfortable, in spite of the nearer and nearer approach to his native countryside. He left the train about six in the evening at Viviers, which is the station next to Chambéry. A foolish fear of being recognised and arrested when he should arrive at Chambéry suggested this plan to him. He set out for home on foot, therefore, from Viviers by the Aix road. It passed the Calvary of Lemenc, which rose above him at one point, and he stopped near it, thinking of his love.
“Edith,” he sighed.
It came over him how far these days had separated him from her already, and, as he still loved her, he grieved within himself for his cruelty to her. He moved nearer to the railing that protected the rock-hewn road along the hillside. The lights of Chambéry shone out, and he took his bearings.
His impulse was to go to his mother first, but he found the graveyard closed, and could not get in. From there by various back routes he reached his father’s house. A clock struck eight. He was chilled and hungry: where should he go if not home? With beating heart he pressed the bell. A new maid opened the door for him, and instead of entering freely, he had to ask admittance formally, like a stranger.
“Miss Roquevillard?” he asked, his voice sounding indistinctly in his own ears.
He was left waiting in the vestibule, and felt crushed, tempted to flee away, no matter where. What strange force had taken him by the shoulders and thrust him forward even to his father’s door?
In a moment Margaret appeared and threw herself into his arms.
“You, Maurice! Is it really you?”
He stiffened rigidly to keep back his tears, as she added softly:
“I have been expecting you since yesterday.”