CHAPTER XI.
HOME AT LAST.
My father's house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! yet around Something amidst the dewy calm profound Broods, never marked before.
* * * *
My soul grows faint with fear, Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod; I tremble when I move--the voice of God Is in the foliage here.
Hubert was not much refreshed when the morrow came; the weather hadchanged during the night, and the rain fell heavily, and his wounded legwas so painful that he determined upon not proceeding on his journey,but requested permission to walk in the well-kept secluded garden at theback of the house, if the rain cleared off.
It was a dreary morning, but about noon the sun shone out, and Hubert,leaning upon his staff, bent his steps to the snug little summer-housein the garden. It was a quiet spot, and Hubert was glad to be therealone. The storm was over, the few remaining autumn flowers were fading,and the leaves were falling thickly from the trees, and Hubert, as helooked upon the scene around him, drew a deep sigh, and taking from hispocket his "torn Bible," began to read.
Absorbed in what he was doing, he did not see a little boy approach thesummer-house, and it was not until a small spade fell accidentally fromthe child's hand that he noticed him.
"Ah! do you live here?" inquired Hubert
"No, sir, but grandfather does, and he told me you were here."
"Did he send you to me?"
"No, sir, but he told me you had fought a great many battles, and Iwanted to see you because I am going to be a soldier--when I'm a man, Imean."
"How old are you now?"
"I'm eight, sir; but, you know, I shall be older soon, and perhaps asbig as you are."
"Perhaps so," said Hubert, with a smile; "and what's your name?"
"Frank, sir--Frank Lyons--the same as father's and grandfather's; butthey are not soldiers, you know. I am going to be a soldier." And then,fixing his eyes upon a medal which Hubert wore upon his breast, heeagerly asked all about it. Hubert was amused at the little fellow, andanswered many an inquiry that he made, and as he was listening tosomething Hubert was saying, all at once he caught sight of the "tornBible," and taking it in his hand, he said--
"Is this a Bible, sir? Oh, how it's torn! Did It get torn like this inthe battles?"
"No, child; but," pointing to the hole in the cover, "it got that in thelast battle I was in."
Frank looked for some time at the hole the bullet had made; then lookingup into Hubert's face, he said, thoughtfully--
"Sir, don't you think God was very good to take care of you in thebattles?"
"He was, child; He has always been good to me."
"Then why did you let any one be so wicked as to tear this Bible so?"
Hubert kissed the boy's cheek: he could not answer the home-thrust, buttaking the Bible from his hand, said--
"Good bye, Frank; now run away home."
The child went away as he was desired, but Hubert's heart reproached himin a moment; he thought he had been harsh, so, bending forward, hecalled the little fellow back.
There was a tear in the boy's eye when he returned, and stood gazing upagain into Hubert's face, which convinced Hubert that he haddisappointed him; so, taking his little hand, he said--
"Frank, do you wish to ask me anything more?"
"Yes, sir, I want to ask all about being a soldier."
Hubert could not resist, nor refuse to listen to the inquiries of thatlittle heart. And there they sat--the once disobedient, sinning,reckless son, and the little artless child. It relieved the older bosomto talk of the past, and Hubert told into that little ear more than hehad told any one before. It was a strange sympathy; but the boy drewcloser to him, leant his little arms upon the veteran's knee as he gazedearnestly into his face, while Hubert told him something of his ownyouth-time, and about being a soldier.
"Then you have been a soldier longer than I've been born," said Frank."How glad your mother will be to see you! I think I should run all theway; I would not stop at all till I got home."
"But could you run, Frank, if you were as lame as I am?"
"No, sir, I could not; but then I would ride--I would never stopanywhere until I got home."
"But if you were in pain what would you do?"
"Oh, I would not mind it at all; soldiers ought never to mind pain. WhenCharley wheeled the big barrow over my feet I did not cry, though hehurt me dreadfully, because I am going to be a soldier. But that isgrandfather calling me. Good bye, sir."
In an instant the boy was gone; and Hubert, bending forward, looked outalong the side pathway down which he had run. He watched him until hewas out of sight, and then his thoughts turned upon himself. Why was hecontented in tarrying there? How was it that he felt no spirit to hurryonward? He looked up at the sky; the clouds were breaking, and the sunshone brightly.
"Oh that I were at home," he uttered, "and all the past forgiven! Howcan I face it?" But no good thought came into his mind to help him inhis difficulty; and he sat for some time gazing vacantly into thegarden.
"Yes, little Frank," he suddenly exclaimed, "they will be glad to seeme; I'll not stay here." And taking his stick in his hand, he drew hiscloak around him, and went into the house. The good people were somewhatunwilling to part with their visitor, but Hubert was determined to go;and, as he parted with the kind people, they were astonished to see himkiss little Frank, and then to hear him say--
"Good bye, Frank. I'm not going to stop any more till I get home. Learnto read your Bible; and I hope you will make a good soldier."
The old landlord felt honoured at the notice Hubert had taken of hisgrandson, and as he removed his own little old black hat from his head,he turned to the child, and said--
"Your bow, Franky; make a bow to his honour--it may be he's a general."
General or not, it mattered but little to Frank, for, taking Hubert'shand, he said--
"Good bye, sir; I _will_ try and be a good soldier."
Many little incidents, besides the one here recorded, befell Hubert ashe journeyed homeward; and, though he was long upon the way, he mighthave been longer, had not little Frank's words--"How glad your motherwill be to see you!"--so rung in his ears, that he felt compelled to goon; and the next afternoon to that on which he left the village inn, hisheart began to beat as he thought he recognized some old places. Ah,yes! there was the old white toll-gate--he knew it was just one milefrom his home; so here he alighted from the coach, and, leaving hisluggage with the man who kept the gate, he walked gently on his way.
The day was closing, the labourers were returning from the field, andHubert looked earnestly into the face of many he met, to see if he couldrecognize any of them. He did not in his heart quite wish to be known,but the incentive to find some friend of other years was powerful, andthere was a slight hope for a familiar face; he, however, met no onethat he knew, so he turned aside into a shady lane. Hubert knew theplace well; often in his boyish days that lane had been hisplay-place--it was his favourite haunt; and there now he sat down uponthe same old grey stone, round which so many memories of the past stillhovered. From that large stone seat nearly every house in the villagecould be seen, and there in the valley it lay, in all the same calmbeauty in which it had often risen before his view as he lay downbeneath the sultry skies of India; there, too, was the cottage, with itswhite walls, over which the ivy still roamed at will--the same garden,not a path or tree seemed changed; there was the same white-paintedgate, near which his family stood when he said the last good bye tothem; everything, indeed, looked the same--there appeared no change,save that which his heart led him to expect; and his coat felt tighterthan usual across his chest as he looked down from the hill upon hisearly home. He knew the way well--he saw the narrow pathway that wouldlead him out against the gate of his father's house, and yet he had notcourage to go there.
Night drew on, and still Hubert sat upon the stone; many persons passedhim, a
nd more than one gazed earnestly at him, for his dress was notfamiliar to them; and he heard them whisper as they passed, "Who is he?"A few, more curious than the others, returned to take another look athim, but he was gone. "I am a coward," he had whispered to himself, andin the closing shadow of the night had trodden the narrow pathway, andreached the white gate of his home. The walk down the hill-side hadwearied him, and he stayed a moment to rest upon his staff before heentered. He may have stayed longer than he intended, for an aged man,leaning also upon a staff, startled him by saying--
"You appear tired, sir; pray, have you far to go?"
"Not far; I hope to lodge in the village to-night. Does Mrs. Bird keepthe White Swan now?"
"Mrs. Bird? Nay, she's in yonder churchyard; it's many a year since shedied. You may have been here before, but it must be long since."
"Very long," said Hubert, with a sigh. "It is more than twenty years.Since then I have been fighting in the wars in India. Sir, I am asoldier."
"A soldier!" said the old man. "Ah! and from India--come in and rest abit. From India, did you say? I once had a son there--come in, talk withme, if only for an hour. It may be that I may hear something of my boy.He went away nearly twenty-four years ago, and I never heard from himafterwards. Sometimes I think he is dead, and then sometimes I don't.The neighbours feel sure he is dead, but sometimes I have an idea that Ishall yet hear from him--I scarcely dare to hope it, though. Come,soldier, don't stand here, the evening is cold: walk up to the house; mylittle Richard will know where you can lodge for the night. He knowsevery one in the village."
Without uttering a single word, Hubert followed the old man. Richard sawthem coming, and, at his grandfather's bidding, drew another chair tothe fire for the stranger.
The old man changed his shoes, and then, putting his feet upon a stoolbefore the fire, turned his face to Hubert, as he said--
"There was a time when the very name of a soldier was hateful to me, butcircumstances change one. I had a care for all my lads, but for that onethat went into the army I had the most care, and it was better, perhaps,that he should be taken from me. For more than twenty years, though, Irefused to be comforted for his loss, but I now do feel that it wasGod's will, for that boy was our eldest, and we thought a deal too muchof him until he rebelled against us. He often stood between us and ourMaker--I mean he had our first and best thoughts. It will not do,soldier, for the heart to worship more than one, and that one must beGod. Our poor lad, God forgive him! paid us ill for our care--he wasungrateful--he forgot us. Bitterly, indeed, we felt the truth of theproverb, that 'sharper than a serpent's tooth is an unthankful child,'"And the old man brushed away a tear; then, looking into the stranger'sface, he added, "Did you ever hear of a Hubert Goodwin in India?"
"Hubert Goodwin?" repeated Hubert, with a husky voice. "Goodwin?--butwhy should you think your son is dead, or that he has forgotten you? Hemay have written, or something may have prevented him. His letters mayhave been lost, or a thousand things happened, and he may have regrettedthe silence as much as you have."
"Is it possible," replied the old man, much excited, "that my poor ladever thought I had forgotten him?" and he bowed his whitened head.
Before this little scene was half finished, the unworthiness of the parthe was playing smote Hubert's heart; he had never intended offering anyexcuse for his past misconduct, and he felt so self-convicted at thesight of the grief he had so unwittingly caused, that, raising up theold man's head, he said, with deep emotion, "No, father! father, I hadforgotten--not you."
"What, Hubert!" cried the old man, pushing him back, and wildly gazingat him. "Hubert! my Hubert! No!" Then he laughed, and then, pointingupward, he added: "Perhaps he's up in heaven with the others, poor lad.I'll tell him there that I never forgot him: poor lad, he'll forgive me;I never forgot him."
While the old man was speaking, young Richard whispered something toHubert, who immediately moved behind his father's high-backed chair.
"Grandfather, dear," said the boy, as he kissed his cheek, "why do youcry?"
"I don't know, boy. Oh, yes, just some thoughts of your uncle Hubert!but--" and he stared about, "where is the soldier? where is he, Richard?Was I dreaming? Was it Hubert?--has he returned?--where, where is he?Fetch him, Richard."
"I'm here, father;" and Hubert, as well as he was able, knelt before theold man.
"Oh, Hubert!" were the only words that were uttered, for the recognitionin one moment was complete; long, very long, the old man wept upon thebosom of his son, and Hubert wept too; young Richard cried, perhapsbecause his dear old grandfather did; but Martha, the faithful servantof forty years, knew all the sorrows of her good old master--knew, too,all about the wandering sheep that had come home. She remembered when hewas a little lamb in the fold, and she mingled the overflowings of herheart with the others; then she went and closed all the casementshutters, for they wished to have the joy of that first meeting tothemselves. The prodigal had indeed returned, but friends and neighboursmust not come and make merry yet--the fatted calf must not be killedtill to-morrow.
No one intruded upon the scenes of Hubert's home on the evening of hisreturn. The joy of once again seeing him--the answer to so manyprayers--came as a new link in the chain of the old man's existence; hewould have no supplication, no confession from his erring son: it wasenough that the wanderer had returned; and it was _more_ than enough;it was a joy that he had often prayed for, though his hope of knowing ithad long since died, that Hubert might become a child of God. Poor oldman! how tenderly and lovingly he strained his long-lost son to hisbosom! and the most severe reproofs, denied forgiveness, or thebitterest reproaches, would not have been so hard for Hubert to endureas the tender affection of his deeply-injured father.
Night closed around, and the old man sat later by the fireside than hehad done for years, for much of life's vigour had returned with hishopes and joy; he breathed the evening prayers with a deeper fervour; hejoined in the evening hymn with a voice less tremulous than the others,and he walked without his staff to his bed.
Poor bereaved heart! nearly all had been taken from him; none save thelittle orphan grandson had been left for him to love; the waters ofaffliction had rolled deeply over his head; but the heart, consecratedto heaven, had learnt to bow meekly to the rod, and now the most bittercup of his life had been filled with joy. "Thy will be done," was theold man's closing prayer, as he lay down upon his pillow that night,and there was a holy calmness upon his brow, for peace and gratitudefilled his heart.
Different, indeed, were the feelings Hubert endured; and, as he shuthimself in his bed-room--the bed-room of his boyhood--there was a deepstruggle in his heart. More vividly than ever came the sins of his pastlife before him, and great indeed was the remorse he felt for the longyears of woe he had caused. How he longed to tell all his repentance tohis father! but the old man had forgiven him without: it would not,however, wipe away the sin he had committed; and the remembrance waslike an inward fire--burning and burning continually. There was One,however, who _would_ listen to his woe; and Hubert, on bended knee,poured it out from his swelling heart; no eloquence, no effort wasneeded; and as the hours of that night of deep repentance passed on,Hubert drew nearer and nearer to his Father in heaven, and the chastenedheart became lightened; then he sank to sleep as calmly as his fatherhad done.