“My dear father,” said Letty, smiling, “do you think I never say the Lord’s Prayer?”
“Oh! as to that,” said Mr. Woodburn, “I know scores who say it every night and morning, and yet never forgive anybody. They hug their spites like dear babies, and remember a small offence ten or twenty years after as keenly as they felt it the moment it occurred.”
“I don’t understand such people,” said Letty.
“They don’t understand themselves,” said her father. “Many of these people think themselves admirable Christians.”
“But,” said Letty, “if I am required by my Redeemer to forgive a brother, not seven times, but seventy times seven, how many times should I forgive a husband, whom I have sworn to take for better for worse? My notion is that so long as you can hope to reform and save a fellow-creature, you should not only forgive, but work hard for his restoration. If God permits me to reclaim an immortal being that He has thought it good to make, I don’t think I can be better employed.”
“Nor I, neither,” said Mr. Woodburn.
As time had worn on, after Mr. Woodburn’s acquittal, the first satisfaction of it had given way in his mind to deeper and deeper reflections on the brand which his neighbours had put upon him, in publicly accusing him of so atrocious a crime as murder. The more he pondered on it, the more it appeared like an ugly dream. No single trace of an explanation had yet shown itself of the real nature of the catastrophe. He knew that the Rockville faction still amongst themselves deemed him guilty of the death of Mr. Drury, and denominated the result of the trial a lucky escape for him. These reflections were intolerable to him, and he became extremely low and depressed. He did not like to be seen in public. He spent much time in hoeing and weeding in his garden, where he was out of the way of observation. Whenever he took a ride it was down the hollow road and up the narrow hedge-embowered cart-road by the river to Cotmanhaye Mill, and so out into Sir Henry Clavering’s fields. He sat for whole days together over his old classical authors, and in the society of his family fell into long and deep silences. All noticed this state of things, and became anxious on account of its effect both on his mind and his health.
Towards midsummer Sir Henry and Lady Clavering returned to Cotmanhaye Manor, and it was delightful to her family and friends to see her in her new home all brightness and happiness. A lovely home it was, and Sir Henry seemed proud of it because it gave so much pleasure to his wife. A series of dinners and fêtes were given after the reception days, at which all their friends from town and country assembled, and not only Letty appeared there with much of her early gaiety, but Millicent Heritage was observed to be cheerful and soberly happy. At these fêtes, however, Mr. Woodburn was rarely seen, he preferred walking up and talking with Sir Henry, his daughter, and the Rector in quiet hours, when they were alone. It was clear that unless some light could be thrown on the tragedy of Wink’s Ferry, his spirits never again could regain their wonted buoyancy; he must be a retiring and melancholy man: which was a heavy weight on the hearts of his family.
One day, towards the end of July, a traveller dropped from the top of the Derby coach at the manufacturing village of Beeton, and took his way across the wide meadows in the direction of Woodburn. The hay had been cleared, and numerous herds of cattle were grazing in them on the new-springing grass. The flowers of the meadow-sweet yet breathed out their fragrance as the traveller walked on by the long hedge sides, and along the dry footpath, with his eyes fixed on the distant heights of Woodburn and the woods of Rockville. He had evidently chosen this path that he might not be much seen; and as he observed some peasants coming along the footpath towards him, he crossed a gate, and sat down under the fence until they had passed. He then recrossed and pursued his way. This traveller was Henry Thorsby; but what a change! Instead of that bustling, mercurial air, he looked grave, and even sad. He was wondering, after all, notwithstanding Letty’s goodness, what sort of a reception he would meet with. He knew that he deserved nothing but reproach, and all the causes of such reproach rose up in his memory as he walked on. He had learned, too, from Letty’s letters, and the English newspapers, the whole strange story of Mr. Woodburn’s arrest and trial. It seemed that he was drawing near to a very different Woodburn from that of past times; and on reaching the river he hesitated whether to cross and go boldly on to the Grange, or sit down and spend his time in the solitary fields till he could steal away unnoticed to his house in Castleborough. But he knew that Letty was at the Grange, where she spent most of her time in endeavouring to cheer the spirits of her father. He resolved, therefore, to go resolutely on. If he were coldly received by the family, he knew that he deserved it, and he was prepared to endure his just punishment.
At Wink’s Ferry he paused and looked round, revolving in his mind the strange occurrence of Mr. Drury’s death. All looked calm, and serenely smiling as ever. He pulled himself over, and passing through the branches of a great old hazel-bush—a way well known to him and George Woodburn—entered the orchard, and so proceeded through the garden to the house. With a hesitating step and beating heart he entered the well-known sitting-room, and the next moment found himself with a wild cry of joy in the arms of his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn stood in silent surprise, and with feelings that it would be in vain to attempt to describe. Over that sacred scene of the Return of the Prodigal Son, and the forgiving hands that were extended to him, let us draw the veil of domesticity, and of silence.