Another night, and not my passion shrive.
Keats.
As soon as Wilton’s lawyers had executed and completed all the preliminaries necessary to reinstate him in the possession of that property from which some years back he had been so unceremoniously expelled, and had transferred the accumulated arrears from the Court of Chancery to his bankers the old man set out with Flora suddenly and alone once more to tread those halls—where before he had reigned supreme—as lord and master.
Wilton had a motive in proceeding to his long lost home thus privately. His heart was susceptible of emotion. A long course of comparative poverty had tended greatly to weaken his nervous system, and when last he left the spot he was now about to visit, a young trembling wife—whom he had loved passionately and tenderly, and with a devotion which had never changed under the afflicting trials to which he had been subjected—clung weeping to his arm. Long waving grass swayed softly to and fro now above where she lay in her last sleep. He knew that those tearful eyes, which had looked up at the picturesque old building—had dwelt upon the valley and the hill-side—the clustering woods and the distant villages, with lingering, agonized gaze, could never more regard them—never more bend their earnest, beaming, glad looks of recognition upon the places where in early and in happy times they had so loved to rest. He knew he should have a sharp wrestle with his spirit when he placed again his footstep upon the threshold of his recovered mansion, and he wished no eye, save that of Heaven or of his child, to irreverently obtrude upon his sacred emotions.
This will explain why he so suddenly departed from London without communicating to anyone his intention, and why Flora submitted to his request not to mention his purpose, even to one person.
It was night when they reached their destination in a carriage which bore them from the railway station to their new home, and, by the strict injunctions of Mr. Wilton, the housekeeper and one servant only were at the entrance of Harleydale Hall to receive them.
Wilton, with an agitated manner, drew Flora’s arm within his own, and entered the spacious hall. He threw his eyes hurriedly round, and saw at a glance that everything appeared to be much in the same state as when he had quitted it.
The housekeeper an elderly matron, advanced, and, in trembling voice, said—
“Welcome—welcome, sir, home! Welcome to your own! God be praised, you have won your rights!”
“Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Steadfast,” he replied, huskily. “I am glad to see you are still here!”