“Like them that love God,” said Alice solemnly.
I bowed my head; these words overpowered me. Was it He who had guided me through all those dark and wilful ways? He who had filled me with the fruit of my own doings; given me my own will, till I knew what a miserable inheritance that was? He who had saved my baby; at whose feet I had prostrated myself, vowing to sacrifice the sin which I regarded in my heart? I bent my head into my hands and wept. I think every tear was a thanksgiving, for they relieved my heart.
That rectory lane! how dull it used to be—how full of beautiful life it was to-day. We did not look much as if we were going about a serious piece of business—we were so occupied and absorbed with ourselves—and it never once occurred to me what should be said to Saville till we were entering at the rectory gate. On the road my husband told me—a very strange coincidence too—that the stranger who accompanied him last night, and for whom he had left a message, had sought him out about the lost West Indian property, which still might be recovered. When we came at last to the rectory, I asked, “What will you say to Saville, Harry?” But there was no time to answer my question. Miss Saville met us in the hall—she looked disturbed, alarmed, anxious—she knew our visit must have some reference to my yesterday’s conference with her brother, and she was very anxious for him. I ran to her eagerly, took her hand, and kissed her. I was very little given to this species of affectionateness, and she was completely taken by surprise. “Mrs. Southcote, my dear, what is it?” she said, sinking down upon one of the stiff hall chairs, and doing what she could to keep herself from crying. “Hester never knew before how much I owed to you,” said Harry, coming to my help, for indeed I was nothing loth to cry too! “Come, dear friend, we want your kind assistance. Where is the Rector—and Richard—but, Miss Saville, let us first speak to you.”
She led the way into a little housekeeping parlor, which was her own special sanctuary, and there sat down trembling to hear what we had to say. Then Harry told her the entire story; she was grievously distressed. She could not bear to blame her brother, yet the way in which he had taken advantage of her, wounded her to the heart. “My letters!” she said faintly. “Dear boy, dear Harry, you don’t think I ever meant to do harm to you? He made me give him poor Maria’s letters to amuse him, he said—he’s got them all—can they do you any harm? can they? Tell me!—for he’s got them all.”
“They can do me no harm—they have done me the greatest good,” said Harry, “they have restored to me my wife; but I must see him in your presence, and have this matter set at rest. He must be mad to think of injuring me by such an expedient as this.”
“Hush! I sometimes think,” said Miss Saville, under her breath, “that it is telling on his mind—I do, indeed. He raves of nights; and whatever William and I can say, he won’t give up that dreadful drinking; he’ll kill himself, Harry dear—that’s what he’ll do—and such a man as he was once—oh! such a man as he might have been!”
And tears of love and anguish—love, most undeserved, most long-suffering—fell slowly and bitterly from this good woman’s eyes. I had scorned her once, but I felt very poor and mean beside her now.
When she had sufficiently composed herself, she took us into another room, and left us to bring her brothers. The Rector came immediately, the other refused. Miss Saville returned in great distress to say, that he would not come—that he refused to see us—that I had broken faith with him.
“We must go to him, then,” said my husband, steadily; “the Rector will give you his arm, Hester. Do not be nervous, Miss Saville—this must be settled—but he shall be spared, be sure. Come, lean upon me—my kind, old friend, can you not trust me?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” she said, but her distress was so great and evident, that I scarcely could bear it. We went in this solemn order—the Rector, in great perturbation, giving me his arm, but looking afraid of me, to the study. Saville was sitting smoking by the fire; he started up, and dashed his cigar to the ground as we entered: he turned fiercely round upon us like a wild beast at bay, and asked, with an oath, what was the meaning of this?—was he never to be left alone?