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 had
that morning kept below; there was a little luggage on a table upon the
deck, and two or three people were standing near it; some of the sailors
were evidently busy about one of the boats, but a casual observer could
not have perceived that anything unusual was going on. Many, nearly all
in the vessel, were gladdening their eyes with the first glimpse they
were having of Europe; and as the coast of Portugal became more
distinct, many hearts burst out with joy, for they were nearing home.
Hubert and his friend at length came on deck: Lisbon, with its noble bay
and high lands, could be seen in the distance, and the boat was lowered
to convey the passengers to the small vessel that would take them up
the river to the town. "Farewell!" it was the last word from Hubert's
lips that sounded upon the traveller's ears as he was wafted over the
billows that rolled upon the shores of Portugal; "Farewell!" echoed back
upon the air, and Hubert, drawing a deep sigh, began already to feel
lonely: he had made no other friend in the ship, and he returned to his
cabin; he sat down, and began to think over the conversations he had had
with his friend, and he wondered again and again whether he himself was
not indeed that once reckless boy, who in years gone by had won the
sympathies of the noble heart which had now won his. So many incidents
in that short narrative had a counterpart in his memory, that at last
nothing could persuade him but that it all referred to himself; then how
sorry 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 his
cabin, and buried his face in his hands.
Poor Hubert! His heart was growing as tender as it was once hard, and
recent sickness had unfitted him to encounter, without emotion, the many
visions of that youth-time which now came so vividly before him.
"God grant that I may find them living!" he said earnestly; but then his
memory brought back again some of the forebodings and inward whisperings
which had often, in bygone years, checked for a moment his reckless
course, and his heart told him again that his mother was no more. It
came like a deep sorrow to Hubert, like a mighty wave throwing back
every torrent upon which it rolled; but he had learnt how to contend
with grief, and soon the dim cabin lamp was lighted, and, as night grew
dark, 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 that
the 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, your
honour; 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 have
been reading two hours."
With the assistance of the sailor, Hubert retired to rest, but, just as
Ben was leaving the cabin, Hubert requested that he would reach him the
Bible that lay upon the table.
"I have a better Bible than this, yer honour," said Ben, as he handed
the book; "I mean one that has it all in, not torn as this is; and, if
yer honour likes, I'll fetch it, though it's not to every one I'd lend
it."
"Why do you offer to lend it to me, then?"
"Because, yer honour, I'm sure you think a great deal of the Bible, and
it'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'm
glad it's got into yer honour's hands; but, if you'll accept the loan of
mine, I shall be proud to lend it to you; there's not a leaf out; it was
the last thing my poor mother ever gave me, and I have used it now over
twenty years."
"Thank you, Ben, I do not wish it; mine is torn, I know, but it will do
for me. Thank you all the same. Good night."
Hubert was glad when he found himself alone; he was in the habit of
talking with Ben, but the sailor's homely remarks were not quite
agreeable to him now. Poor untaught fellow! how nobly he appeared to
rise in that night's shadows; children of penury, perhaps, he and his
mother, yet how rich in affection! Hubert thought many times of that
sailor'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 a
long-forgotten scene, when his hard heart strove to rise against the
silent 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 heartfelt
prayer 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 upon
the shores of his native country; and never before had he felt so
lonely. He was home without a home; however, being still under orders
from the East India Company, he referred to his papers, and then
immediately proceeded to London. Lame, without friends, and amongst
strangers, 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 to
go where he pleased.
Now Hubert felt undecided; he scarcely knew what to do. At one time he
thought of writing home, and telling them he was coming; but to whom
could he write? Then he thought of taking the coach at once home, but
another thought made him abandon that; for his heart was not yet
schooled to the task of facing those he had so cruelly injured.
Hesitating what to do, another week passed by, and his conscience, at
length, so smote him for lingering, that after arranging about his
luggage, which was still at the custom-house, and which he preferred
should for the present remain there, he set out with one small trunk,
and commenced his journey northward. So many years had passed since
Hubert had come along the road by which he was returning, that he might
have been In a foreign land: he remembered nothing, but he thought the
country beautiful; and, when evening came on, he alighted from the
coach, and stayed for the night at a small town. The journey had been
rather too much for him: still he felt anxious to be getting on; so,
when the coach passed through the town on the following day, he
proceeded some distance further. Four days had passed. Hubert, by short
stages, was drawing near his home, and the nearer he came to it, the
more anxious and nervous grew his heart; he would have given much to
have known which of his family remained. Once, years ago, while in a
frenzied mood, when rage and passion overcame him, he was suddenly
called back to reason by a mystic shadow crossing his vision: it may
have been that a heated brain brought before his fierce eye that which
startled him; but the remembrance of that moment had seldom left him,
and he felt certain that his mother, at least, was missing in his
father's household.
Another short journey had been made, and a candle was placed upon the
parlour table in the little village inn where Hubert, tired and weary,
intended staying for the night. Many of the villagers had seen him leave
the coach at the inn door; he was wrapped in a blue cloak, and walked
lame, resting upon a stick; his bearing, perhaps, or it may have been a
whisper, told them that he was a soldier, and there was a fair chance of
a good evening for the landlord of the King George.
One by one the parlour received its guests, and more candles were
brought in; a log too--for it was the month of October--found its way to
the fire, and the landlord told his wife to see to the customers, for he
was going to join the company in the parlour.
Hubert saw with some uneasiness the people coming in, and he would
gladly have retired to rest; but his coming was an event they were
unwilling to let pass unobserved, and they gathered round him with so
much kindness and sympathy, that Hubert felt constrained to stay with
them.
The old arm-chair in the corner, which was sacred to two
purposes--namely, once a year, when they had beaten the bounds, the
vicar sat in it in the tent to partake of the roast beef, which was
bountifully provided for those good old observers of ancient customs;
and, once a year, when the village club was held the lord of the manor
occupied it again. Duly polished every week was that dark oak chair, and
not even the sage-looking cat attempted to usurp it. This evening, that
honoured seat was drawn up to the fire, a large cushion was placed in
it, and there the tired soldier rested.
They saw he was lame, and one went and fetched a soft stool for his
wounded leg; then as they sat around him, with their honest sympathetic
hearts beating warmly towards the brave defenders of their country, what
could Hubert do but tell them of the battles won, and many incidents
that make up the soldier's life in India? He had much to tell, and they
listened eagerly to him till the hour grew late, and Hubert felt that a
soldier's heart still beat in his bosom, and the fire of his youth had
not died out. They felt it too, but their enthusiasm was tempered by the
constant reference that Hubert made to the God who had preserved him.
They parted for the night as the village clock struck eleven, and many
of them wondered, as they walked homeward, where he was going, and why
he was travelling alone--questions they had not yet ventured to ask; but
they promised each other before they parted that they would come again
to the inn on the morrow.