CHAPTER X.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
Lead, kindly light, amid the evening gloom, Lead thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead thou me on!--KEBLE.
Nearer and nearer drew the vessel homeward. Hubert and his friend hadthat morning kept below; there was a little luggage on a table upon thedeck, and two or three people were standing near it; some of the sailorswere evidently busy about one of the boats, but a casual observer couldnot have perceived that anything unusual was going on. Many, nearly allin the vessel, were gladdening their eyes with the first glimpse theywere having of Europe; and as the coast of Portugal became moredistinct, many hearts burst out with joy, for they were nearing home.
Hubert and his friend at length came on deck: Lisbon, with its noble bayand high lands, could be seen in the distance, and the boat was loweredto convey the passengers to the small vessel that would take them upthe river to the town. "Farewell!" it was the last word from Hubert'slips that sounded upon the traveller's ears as he was wafted over thebillows that rolled upon the shores of Portugal; "Farewell!" echoed backupon the air, and Hubert, drawing a deep sigh, began already to feellonely: he had made no other friend in the ship, and he returned to hiscabin; he sat down, and began to think over the conversations he had hadwith his friend, and he wondered again and again whether he himself wasnot indeed that once reckless boy, who in years gone by had won thesympathies of the noble heart which had now won his. So many incidentsin that short narrative had a counterpart in his memory, that at lastnothing could persuade him but that it all referred to himself; then howsorry he felt that he had not told his friend more about himself; and,less at ease than he had felt for many months, he closed the door of hiscabin, and buried his face in his hands.
Poor Hubert! His heart was growing as tender as it was once hard, andrecent sickness had unfitted him to encounter, without emotion, the manyvisions of that youth-time which now came so vividly before him.
"God grant that I may find them living!" he said earnestly; but then hismemory brought back again some of the forebodings and inward whisperingswhich had often, in bygone years, checked for a moment his recklesscourse, and his heart told him again that his mother was no more. Itcame like a deep sorrow to Hubert, like a mighty wave throwing backevery torrent upon which it rolled; but he had learnt how to contendwith grief, and soon the dim cabin lamp was lighted, and, as night grewdark, he sat and read the much-treasured portion of his mother's Bible.He gained comfort as he read page after page, and it may have been thatthe lamp grew brighter; at any rate, Hubert's face wore a happier beam,and when the sailor came into the cabin, he said, "Good evening, yourhonour; glad to see your honour looking better and cheerful like."
"Better, Ben! have I looked ill to-day?"
"Not ill, exactly, your honour," said Ben, "but a little landsman-like,just about the time the passengers for Portugal got adrift, when Mr.Collinton, yer honour's friend, left."
"Well, Ben, I was sorry to lose him; but how late it is! why, I havebeen reading two hours."
With the assistance of the sailor, Hubert retired to rest, but, just asBen was leaving the cabin, Hubert requested that he would reach him theBible that lay upon the table.
"I have a better Bible than this, yer honour," said Ben, as he handedthe book; "I mean one that has it all in, not torn as this is; and, ifyer honour likes, I'll fetch it, though it's not to every one I'd lendit."
"Why do you offer to lend it to me, then?"
"Because, yer honour, I'm sure you think a great deal of the Bible, andit's a pity you haven't one with all in; this has been bad enough used,at any rate, but some folks don't care how they destroy the Bible. I'mglad it's got into yer honour's hands; but, if you'll accept the loan ofmine, I shall be proud to lend it to you; there's not a leaf out; it wasthe last thing my poor mother ever gave me, and I have used it now overtwenty years."
"Thank you, Ben, I do not wish it; mine is torn, I know, but it will dofor me. Thank you all the same. Good night."
Hubert was glad when he found himself alone; he was in the habit oftalking with Ben, but the sailor's homely remarks were not quiteagreeable to him now. Poor untaught fellow! how nobly he appeared torise in that night's shadows; children of penury, perhaps, he and hismother, yet how rich in affection! Hubert thought many times of thatsailor's Bible; like his own, it was a mother's gift, but it had _all_in, while his had been ruthlessly destroyed. Memory brought back many along-forgotten scene, when his hard heart strove to rise against thesilent admonitions which the sight of that book was ever wont to give;and, as he grasped all that was left to him now, a deep and heartfeltprayer from his penitent heart ascended to the throne of God.
The vessel in which Hubert sailed had made a quick run to England, and,in a few days after the passengers left for Portugal, Hubert landed uponthe shores of his native country; and never before had he felt solonely. He was home without a home; however, being still under ordersfrom the East India Company, he referred to his papers, and thenimmediately proceeded to London. Lame, without friends, and amongststrangers, Hubert longed to be making his way to his own native village,but he was compelled to tarry some time in London; at length, however,he received his discharge with a handsome pension, and was at liberty togo where he pleased.
Now Hubert felt undecided; he scarcely knew what to do. At one time hethought of writing home, and telling them he was coming; but to whomcould he write? Then he thought of taking the coach at once home, butanother thought made him abandon that; for his heart was not yetschooled to the task of facing those he had so cruelly injured.
Hesitating what to do, another week passed by, and his conscience, atlength, so smote him for lingering, that after arranging about hisluggage, which was still at the custom-house, and which he preferredshould for the present remain there, he set out with one small trunk,and commenced his journey northward. So many years had passed sinceHubert had come along the road by which he was returning, that he mighthave been In a foreign land: he remembered nothing, but he thought thecountry beautiful; and, when evening came on, he alighted from thecoach, and stayed for the night at a small town. The journey had beenrather too much for him: still he felt anxious to be getting on; so,when the coach passed through the town on the following day, heproceeded some distance further. Four days had passed. Hubert, by shortstages, was drawing near his home, and the nearer he came to it, themore anxious and nervous grew his heart; he would have given much tohave known which of his family remained. Once, years ago, while in afrenzied mood, when rage and passion overcame him, he was suddenlycalled back to reason by a mystic shadow crossing his vision: it mayhave been that a heated brain brought before his fierce eye that whichstartled him; but the remembrance of that moment had seldom left him,and he felt certain that his mother, at least, was missing in hisfather's household.
Another short journey had been made, and a candle was placed upon theparlour table in the little village inn where Hubert, tired and weary,intended staying for the night. Many of the villagers had seen him leavethe coach at the inn door; he was wrapped in a blue cloak, and walkedlame, resting upon a stick; his bearing, perhaps, or it may have been awhisper, told them that he was a soldier, and there was a fair chance ofa good evening for the landlord of the King George.
One by one the parlour received its guests, and more candles werebrought in; a log too--for it was the month of October--found its way tothe fire, and the landlord told his wife to see to the customers, for hewas going to join the company in the parlour.
Hubert saw with some uneasiness the people coming in, and he wouldgladly have retired to rest; but his coming was an event they wereunwilling to let pass unobserved, and they gathered round him with somuch kindness and sympathy, that Hubert felt constrained to stay withthem.
The old arm-chair in the corner, which was sacred to twopurposes--namely, once a year, when they had beaten the bounds, thevicar sat in it in the tent to partake of the roast beef, which wasbountifully provided fo
r those good old observers of ancient customs;and, once a year, when the village club was held the lord of the manoroccupied it again. Duly polished every week was that dark oak chair, andnot even the sage-looking cat attempted to usurp it. This evening, thathonoured seat was drawn up to the fire, a large cushion was placed init, and there the tired soldier rested.
They saw he was lame, and one went and fetched a soft stool for hiswounded leg; then as they sat around him, with their honest sympathetichearts beating warmly towards the brave defenders of their country, whatcould Hubert do but tell them of the battles won, and many incidentsthat make up the soldier's life in India? He had much to tell, and theylistened eagerly to him till the hour grew late, and Hubert felt that asoldier's heart still beat in his bosom, and the fire of his youth hadnot died out. They felt it too, but their enthusiasm was tempered by theconstant reference that Hubert made to the God who had preserved him.They parted for the night as the village clock struck eleven, and manyof them wondered, as they walked homeward, where he was going, and whyhe was travelling alone--questions they had not yet ventured to ask; butthey promised each other before they parted that they would come againto the inn on the morrow.