This eBook was produced by David Widger
I pass over the joyous meeting betwen Waife and Sophy. I pass overGeorge's account to his fair cousin of the scene he and Hartopp hadwitnessed, in which Waife's innocence had been manifested and his reasonsfor accepting the penalties of guilt had been explained. The first fewagitated days following Waife's return have rolled away. He is resettledin the cottage from which he had fled; he refuses, as before, to take uphis abode at Lady Montfort's house. But Sophy has been almost constantlyhis companion, and Lady Montfort herself has spent hours with him eachday—sometimes in his rustic parlour, sometimes in the small garden-plotround his cottage, to which his rambles are confined. George has goneback to his home and duties at Humberston, promising very soon to revisithis old friend, and discuss future plans.
The scholar, though with a sharp pang, conceding to Waife that allattempt publicly to clear his good name at the cost of reversing thesacrifice he had made must be forborne, could not, however, be induced topledge himself to unconditional silence. George felt that there were atleast some others to whom the knowledge of Waife's innocence wasimperatively due.
Waife is seated by his open window. It is noon; there is sunshine in thepale blue skies—an unusual softness in the wintry air. His Bible lieson the table beside him. He has just set his mark in the page, andreverently closed the book. He is alone. Lady Montfort—who, since herreturn from Fawley, has been suffering from a kind of hectic fever,accompanied by a languor that made even the walk to Waife's cottage afatigue, which the sweetness of her kindly nature enabled her toovercome, and would not permit her to confess—has been so much worsethat morning as to be unable to leave her room. Sophy has gone to seeher. Waife is now leaning his face upon his hand, and that face issadder and more disquieted than it lead been, perhaps, in all hiswanderings. His darling Sophy is evidently unhappy. Her sorrow had notbeen visible during the first two or three days of his return, chasedaway by the joy of seeing himthe excitement of tender reproach andquestion—of tears that seemed as joyous as the silvery laugh whichresponded to the gaiety that sported round the depth of feeling withwhich he himself beheld her once more clinging to his side, or seated,with upward loving eyes, on the footstool by his knees. Even at thefirst look, however, he had found her altered; her cheek was thinner,her colour paled. That might be from fretting for him. She would beherself again, now that her tender anxiety was relieved. But she did notbecome herself again. The arch and playful Sophy he had left was gone,as if never to return. He marked that her step, once so bounding, hadbecome slow and spiritless. Often when she sat near him, seeminglyreading or at her work, he noticed that her eyes were not on the page—that the work stopped abruptly in listless hands; and then he would hearher sigh—a heavy but short impatient sigh! No mistaking that sigh bythose who have studied grief; whether in maid or man, in young or old, inthe gentle Sophy, so new to life, or in the haughty Darrell, weary of theworl