HOME AGAIN
Netty's letter to her mother was characteristic:
"MY DEAR MOTHER,
I do wish you would come home. It's positively hateful here without
you. Dora Dundas goes to-morrow, thank goodness, and, of course,
Dick is in the dumps. She has managed the house as though it were
her own, and I, for one, shall be heartily glad to see the back of
her.
"I am very miserable for many reasons. Since that wretched business
about the checks, Mrs. Bent has been so different, and so has
Harry. He is always at the Ocklebournes', and you know what Nelly
Ocklebourne is. The way she behaves is disgraceful. Harry was
always particularly friendly in that quarter, and it is absurd of
them to talk about the friendship of a lifetime as an excuse for a
quite disgraceful familiarity. Wherever he goes, Nell is certain to
turn up, too. It is quite marked.
"We all want you to come home, father included. Dora and Dick had
your room turned out yesterday, and, when father saw the muddle, he
asked why. They told him your room was being got ready for your
return. He seemed overjoyed and quite overcome, and for the first
time since his illness he looks something like his old self. He is
studying the time-tables and the clocks all day, expecting you at
any minute, so you need not be afraid the excitement will be too
much for him."
Mrs. Swinton read no more than this. A sudden wild happiness seized her.
She pressed the letter to her lips, and sobbed with relief. All the
pent-up misery of the last few weeks were washed away in tears; the
barriers of pride were broken down; she was as humble and contrite as a
little child. She startled her maid by an unusual morning activity, and
consulted the time-tables quite as eagerly as John. He wanted her; that
was enough. She cared nothing now for the censorious tongues. Her gentle,
sweet-spirited husband awaited her return. All else melted away into
insignificance. He was a beacon in the darkness, a very mountain of light
on the horizon. He was calling on her--this hero of schoolgirl days, this
lover of her runaway marriage.
The eleven-o'clock express found her, accompanied by her faithful and
astonished maid, being carried toward New York. On the way, she sent a
telegram, announcing her return. In the momentous message, there was no
shirking the main issue. It was to John himself:
"Shall be home to-morrow. Wife."
The rector was hourly growing uneasy, when he found that neither Dora
nor Dick could give him any definite news concerning his wife's return:
but, when her telegram was placed in his trembling hand, he was unable to
open it. He passed it dumbly to Dick in piteous helplessness, who, after
a hasty glance at the message, read it aloud cheerily, and with a
splendid affectation of inconsequence, as though his mother's return was
a matter of course, and not an occasion for wonderment.
Then, at last, the rector's tongue was let loose. He talked incessantly
on trivialities, and fussed about the house, vainly imagining that no one
noticed his delight and excitement. He visited his wife's room, and
ordered every conceivable comfort that his agitated mind could suggest.
Everything was to be arranged exactly as it had been before Mrs. Swinton
went away, so that she could see no difference. The home had really
undergone little change, yet the rector was not satisfied until every
vase and cushion, plant, and book was as he remembered it.
Dick and Dora were in high glee at the success of their ruse, while Netty
took to herself the sole credit of the idea. Dora went home from the
rectory in the best of spirits. The colonel had fretted and fumed at her
prolonged absence, for he missed her sorely, and was very glad of her
return.
There came a sound of wheels on the rectory drive. Dick hurried upstairs,
and the servants were nowhere to be seen. Everybody understood that the
meeting between husband and wife was a thing too sacred for other eyes,
and all disappeared as if by mutual consent. The rector's heart almost
failed him as he stepped toward the carriage. He was bareheaded, and his
face was wan and thin in the strong light. When his eyes fell upon the
beautiful woman, his expression changed. It was he who was strong now,
the wife who faltered. As his fingers closed upon hers, she broke down,
and with a helpless sob dropped into his arms.
He held her to his breast for a full minute. Then, at last, when she was
able to hold him at arm's length and look with anxious eyes into his
stricken, careworn face, she read there the story of his sorrow and
anguish. It was now her turn to lavish tenderness.
"Oh, my poor John, my poor John!" she cried, as together they passed into
the porch, leaving the cabman looking after them, wondering where his
fare was coming from. Then Rudd appeared--from nowhere--and slipped the
fare into the man's hand. Rudd had caught the excitement of the
household, and his face was beaming.
"Was that mother?" cried Dick from an upper window, in a loud whisper.
"Yes, sir, it's herself right enough."
Dick nodded and disappeared. He was impatient enough to go down, but
held himself in check, leaving his father and mother to enjoy
uninterrupted communion.
It was a long time before Mary's musical voice was heard at the foot of
the stairs, asking, "Where's Dick?"
"I'm here, mother, and as lively as a cricket."
This was not strictly correct, for he came downstairs very gingerly, and
obviously relied on the banisters for support. He gave his mother a
hearty hug, and, in reply to her questions concerning the whereabouts of
Netty, explained that the daughter of the house had gone out in a state
of agitation and tears, not stating her destination.
By a curious coincidence, the first visitor to arrive at the house after
the return of Mrs. Swinton was one of Dick's unpaid creditors, the very
man who had threatened to have him arrested on the eve of his departure
for the war. A small balance of the debt still remained unliquidated. But
the mother was quite equal to the situation. She laughed gaily, like her
old self, and went to the study check-book in hand to wipe out the last
of the blots on the old life, with an easy conscience, knowing that the
balance at the bank would never more be an uncertain quantity.