THE RECTOR'S RETURN
David Chantrey's term of exile was over, and the spring had brought
release to him. He was returning to England in stronger health and vigor
than he had enjoyed for some years before his absence. It seemed to
himself that he had completely regained the strength that had been his
as a young man. He was a young man yet, he told himself--not six and
thirty, with long years of happy work lying before him. The last
eighteen months had been weary ones, though he could not count them as
lost time, since they had restored him to health. The voyage home was a
succession of almost perfectly happy days, as he dwelt beforehand upon
the joy that awaited him. He had a packet of letters, those which had
reached him from home during his absence; and he read them through once
more in the long leisure hours of the voyage. Those from his friend
Warden and his aunt which bore a recent date had certainly a rather
unsatisfactory tone; but all of Sophy's had been brighter and more
cheerful than he had anticipated. Every one of them longed for his
return, that was evident. Even Warden, who did not know where his fate
would take him to next, expressed an almost extravagant anxiety for his
speedy presence in his own parish.
He loved his parish and his people with a peculiar pride and affection.
It was twelve years since he had gone to Upton--a young man just in
orders, and in the full glow of a fresh enthusiasm as to his duties. He
believed no office to be equal to that of a minister of Christ. And
though this glow had somewhat passed away, the enthusiasm had deepened
rather than faded with the lapse of years, His long illness and
exclusion from his office had imparted to it a graver tone. In former
days, perhaps, he had been too much set upon the outer ceremonials of
religion. He had been proud of his church and the overflowing
congregation which assembled in it week after week testifying to his
popularity. To pass along the streets of his little town, and receive
everywhere the tokens of respect that greeted him, had been exceedingly
pleasant. He had bent himself to win golden opinions, after quoting the
words of Paul, "I am made all things to all men, that by all means I
might save some." And he had succeeded in gaining the esteem of almost
every class of his parishioners.
But during the long and lonely months of absence he had learned to love
his people after a different fashion. There were some pleasant vices in
his parish to which he had shut his eyes; some respectable delinquents
with whom he had been on friendly terms, without using his privilege as
a friend to point out their misdeeds. There was not a high tone of
morality in his parish. Possibly he had been too anxious to please his
people. He was going back to them with a deeper and stronger glow of
enthusiasm concerning his duties and work among them; but with a graver
sense of his own weakness, and a more humble knowledge of the Divine
Father for whom he was an ambassador.
His vessel reached Southampton the day before its arrival could have
been expected, and neither Sophy nor his friend Warden was there to
welcome him. But this was an additional pleasure; he would take them all
by surprise in the midst of their preparations for his return. Warden
had warned him that there would be quite a public reception of him, with
a great concourse of his parishioners, and every demonstration of
rejoicing. It was in his nature to enjoy this; but still he would like a
few quiet hours with Sophy first, and these he could secure by hastening
home by the first train. He would reach Upton early in the evening.
It was an hour of intense happiness, and he felt it to his inmost soul.
All the route was familiar to him after he had started from London; the
streets and suburbs rushing past him swiftly, and the meadows, in the
bright green and gold of spring, which followed them. He knew the
populous villages, with their churches, where he was himself well known.
Every station seemed almost like a home to him. As he drew nearer to
Upton he leaned through, the window to catch the first glimpse of his
own church, and the blue smoke rising from his own house; and a minute
or two afterward, with a gladness that was half a pain, he found himself
once more on the platform at Upton station.
"I am back again," he said, shaking hands with the station-master with a
hearty grasp that spoke something of his gladness. "Is all going on well
among you?"
"Yes, Mr. Chantrey; yes, sir," he answered. "You're welcome home, sir.
God bless you! You've been missed more than any of us thought of when
you went away. You're needed here, sir, more than you think of."
"Nothing has gone very wrong, I hope," said the rector, smiling. He had
faithfully done his best to provide a good substitute in "Warden, but it
was not in human nature not to feel pleased that no one could manage his
parish as well as himself.
"No, no, sir," replied the station-master, "nothing but what you'll put
right again at once by being at home yourself. No, there's nothing very
wrong, I may say. Upton meant to give you a welcome home to-morrow, with
arches of flowers and music. They'll be disappointed you arrived to-day,
I know."
David Chantrey laughed, thinking of the welcome they had given him when
he brought Sophy home as his young wife. His heart felt a new tenderness
for her, and a throb of impatience to find her. He bade a hasty
good-evening to the station-master, and walked off buoyantly toward the
High street, along which his path lay. The station-master and the
ticket-clerk watched him, and shook their heads significantly; but he
was quite unconscious of their scrutiny. Never had the quiet little town
seemed so lovely to him. The quaint irregular houses stood one-half of
them in shadow, and the rest in the level rays of the May sunset; the
chestnut-trees, with their young green leaves and their white blossoms
lighting up each branch to the very summit of them; the hawthorn bushes
here and there covered with snowy bloom; the children playing, and the
swallows darting to and fro overhead; the distant shout of the cuckoo,
and the deep low tone of the church clock just striking the hour--this
was the threshold of home to him; the outer court, which was dearer to
him and more completely his own than any other place in the wide world
could ever be.
No one was quick to recognize him in his somewhat foreign aspect; the
children at their play took no notice of him. All the tradespeople were
busy getting their shops a little in order before the shutters were put
up. He might perhaps pass through the street as far as Bolton Villa
without being observed, and so be sure of a perfectly quiet evening. But
as he thought so his heart gave a great bound, for there before him was
Sophy herself hurrying along the uneven causeway, now lost behind some
jutting building, and then seen once more, still hastening with quick,
unsteady steps, as if bent on some pressing errand. He did not try to
overtake her, though he could have done so easily. He felt that their
first meeting must not be in the street, for the tears that smarted
under his eyelids and dimmed his sight, and the quicker throbbing of his
pulses, warned him that such a meeting would be no common incident in
their lives. She had been his wife for nine years, and she was far
dearer to him now than she had been when he married her. Eighteen months
of their life together had been lost--a great price to pay for his
restored health. But now a long, happy union lay before them.
He had not followed her for more than a minute or two when she suddenly
turned and entered Ann Holland's little shop. Well, he could not take
her by surprise better in any other house in Upton. Perhaps it might
even be better than at Bolton Villa, amid its cumbrous surroundings; he
always thought of his aunt's house with a sort of shudder. If Sophy had
fortunately fixed upon this quiet house for paying the good old maid a
kindly visit, there was not another place except their own home where he
would rather receive her first greeting--that is if the drunken old
saddler did not happen to be in. He paused to inquire from the
journeyman, still at work in the shop; learning that Richard Holland was
not at home, he passed impatiently to the kitchen beyond. Ann Holland
was just closing the door of her little parlor, and David Chantrey
approached her, hardly able to control the agitation he felt.
"I saw my wife step in here," he said, holding out his hand to her, but
attempting to pass her and to open the door before which she still
stood. She could not speak for a moment, but she kept her post firmly in
opposition to him.
"My wife is here?" he asked, in a sharp impetuous tone.
"Yes; oh yes!" cried Ann Holland; "but wait a moment, Mr. Chantrey. Oh,
wait a little while. Don't go in and see her yet."
"Why not?" he asked again, a sudden terror taking hold of him.
"Sit down a minute or two, sir," she answered. "Mrs. Chantrey's ill,
just ailing a little. She is not prepared to meet you just yet. You were
not expected before to-morrow, and she's excited; she hardly knows what
she's saying or doing. You'd better not speak to her or see her till
she's recovered herself a little."
"Poor Sophy!" cried David Chantrey, with a tremor in his voice; "did she
see me coming, then? Go back to her, Miss Holland; she will want you. Is
there nothing I can do for her? It has been a hard time for her, poor
girl!"
Ann Holland went back into the parlor, and he smiled as he heard her
take the precaution of turning the key in the lock. He threw himself
into the three-cornered chair, and sat listening to the murmur of voices
on the other side of the door. It seemed a very peaceful home. The
quaintness and antiqueness of the homely kitchen chimed in with his
present feeling; he wanted no display or grandeur. This was no common
every-day world he was in; there was a strange flavor about every
circumstance. Impatient as he was to see Sophy, and hold her once more
in his arms, he could not but feel a sense of comfort and tranquillity
mingling with his more unquiet happiness. There was a fire burning
cheerily on the hearth, though it was a May evening. Coming from a
warmer climate, he felt chilly, and he bent over the fire, stretching
over it his long thin hands, which told plainly their story of mere
scholarly work and of health never very vigorous, Smiling all the time,
with the glow of the flame on his face, with its expression of tranquil
gladness, as of one who had long been buffeted about, but had reached
home at last, he sat listening till the voices ceased. A profound
silence followed, which lasted some time, before Ann Holland returned to
him saying softly, "She is asleep."