CHAPTER 18.
Back to The Divorced Wife
It was nearly sunset, when Mr. Waverly, in a closed carriage, accompanied by a friend, drove up to the hotel of Griffith Owen, in the pleasant village of Mount Holly. The landlord, a stout, gray-headed old man, with a pleasant good humored face, stepped to the side of the carriage, as the driver reigned up his horses, and opening the door said, in his frank way —
"Good afternoon, gentlemen."
"Mr. Owen, I believe?" returned Mr. Waverly, as he stepped to the ground.
"My name, at your service," said the smiling landlord. "Walk in."
"No, we will not stop now," replied Mr. Waverly. "So soon as your man gives some water to our horses, we must push on again. We have some six miles farther to go. Do you know a Mrs. Blair who lives about that distance from your village?"
"Yes, sir. Very well."
"Which road do you take?"
"That one," said Owen, pointing along one of the four ways that diverged from his house. "It is called the Black Horse road. You keep along it for some six miles, when you will pass an old meeting house. Beyond, you go down into a valley, and just as you begin to rise this, you will see a lane opening to the right. Take this, and follow it through the woods for about a quarter of a mile. You will then come upon a clearing. To the left stands a small yellow farm house. This is the place where you will find Mrs. Blair."
"How is the road?" inquired Mr. Waverly.
"Not good. Much of it is a stiff clay, and the late rain has made it heavy."
"Then we must push along, and get over as much ground as possible by daylight."
"I would certainly advise that, if you go on this evening," said the landlord.
"Do you know Mrs. Blair?" inquired Mr. Waverly, after a pause. "O, yes, sir. Very well.
"What kind of a woman is she?"
"A very excellent woman."
Owen looked somewhat curiously into the face of Mr. Waverly. "She is a widow," said the latter. "Yes. She is a widow."
"And lives alone?"
"No, not exactly alone. She has a son who manages a farm for her."
"There is a lady living with her as a friend, is there not?"
"Yes; a lady and her little daughter, some six or seven years old. A relative, I believe."
"A relative!"
There was more of surprise in the voice of Mr. Waverly than he wished to betray.
"Yes, so I have understood."
"She came to your house about two years ago." Mr. Waverly strove hard to seem unconcerned.
"Yes, about that time. Mr. Clemen's brought her up in his wagon. There is something strange about her; something that I never could just understand. I rather think she was, and may be still, a little deranged."
The mention of the farmer's name satisfied Mr. Waverly, that the woman referred to was the one for whom he was in search. He, therefore, deemed it prudent to ask no further questions. Re-entering the carriage, and getting from the landlord a repetition of his first directions, he started off, with the horses at a brisk trot.
As Owen had said, the road was found heavy enough, and long before the night closed in, the horses were in a foam.
"Had we not better return to Mount Holly?" said the companion of Mr. Waverly, after they had ridden some five miles. "We can come over early in the morning and better accomplish the purpose of our visit. If this woman should prove to be the one you seek, you cannot take Ada away tonight. In all probability, she is in bed and asleep before this time."
"I cannot stop until all my anxious doubts are satisfied," was the reply of Mr. Waverly. "I must see this woman now."
The friend said no more, and the tired horses were urged to increase their flagging speed.
At length, the old meeting house was discerned, standing all solitary, by the wayside. It was passed, and the travelers descended into the valley beyond.
"Here's the lane!" exclaimed Mr. Waverly, in an exultant tone, soon after they had commenced the ascent of the next hill. "We will now turn off to the right."
Not a word was uttered, as they moved along through a dense wood, the shadows of which enveloped them in almost total darkness. The feelings of Mr. Waverly were too intense, and too much agitated to seek utterance in words. They had ridden thus, for, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, when a light suddenly streamed from an uncurtained window but a short distance ahead. A few moments, and they entered the clearing mentioned by Owen.
The horses were stopped, and the two men descended from the carriage. All around them was darkness and silence, and both felt creeping over them, unusual sensations.
"Remain here," said Mr. Waverly, in a whisper, "while I go nearer to the house. This is, in all probability, the dwelling of Mrs. Blair."
Mr. Waverly then approached the house, which stood close upon the road along which he had come, and only separated from it by a little yard enclosed with a white fence. The occasional barking of a dog in the rear of the dwelling, warned him to move with noiseless steps. Clear shone the light, at first noticed, through a window opening on the road. A strong desire to look in at this window, impelled Mr. Waverly to open the little gate silently, and approach with stealthy steps. His breath was suspended as he gained the point he sought; and, for a moment or two, his vision was confused. Then all was distinct.
There were but two people in the room. A woman and a child and they were so seated, by a table, that the light fell clear on both their countenances. As to who they were, Mr. Waverly was not for an instant in doubt.
Before the woman, on the table, lay open a large volume — a Bible — and she was reading aloud to the child, whose innocent and lovely face was upturned and gazing with a look of affection into her calm, pure, and elevated countenance.
For nearly ten minutes the reading was continued, and the murmur of the reader's voice came even to the ears of the listener without, as he stood a silent witness of this scene, fixed to the spot, and motionless almost as marble. And, all this time, the light fell strongly on the reader's face; and, every varying expression, as her mind felt the holy truthshe was seeking to treasure up in the memory of her child, was seen by the witness who stood looking in upon her through the window.
Once or twice, the reader paused, and lifted her face to the window, as if she felt the presence of someone. Then it was that Mr. Waverly looked into her eyes — so calm, so pure, so full of sadness and love — and, as he did so, his heart stirred in his bosom, and emotions of the old tenderness he had once felt, moved along its surface.
The reading at length finished, the mother turned to the child, and with one hand clasping her hand, and the other laid reverently on the Book of Life, she talked to her for a short period, now and then glancing or lifting a finger upward.
One scene more, and then the curtain fell. The child knelt in such a way that Mr. Waverly could see her face still, clasped her hands devoutly, and murmured her evening prayer, while the mother bent over her in an attitude of love and devotion. The heart of the stern man, was melted. This was more than he had strength to bear. A gush of feeling overwhelmed him, and his eyes were filled with blinding tears. For a few moments, he stood with his face buried in his handkerchief, struggling with emotion. When he lifted his eyes again, the room into which he had just looked, was in partial darkness, and he saw receding in the distance, the vanishing forms of his child and her mother.
That night Mr. Waverly slept in Mount Holly and, on the next morning, returned to the city. But, with what different feelings!
Back to The Divorced Wife