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 had
changed during the night, and the rain fell heavily, and his wounded leg
was so painful that he determined upon not proceeding on his journey,
but requested permission to walk in the well-kept secluded garden at the
back 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-house
in the garden. It was a quiet spot, and Hubert was glad to be there
alone. The storm was over, the few remaining autumn flowers were fading,
and the leaves were falling thickly from the trees, and Hubert, as he
looked upon the scene around him, drew a deep sigh, and taking from his
pocket his "torn Bible," began to read.
Absorbed in what he was doing, he did not see a little boy approach the
summer-house, and it was not until a small spade fell accidentally from
the 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 I
wanted to see you because I am going to be a soldier--when I'm a man, I
mean."
"How old are you now?"
"I'm eight, sir; but, you know, I shall be older soon, and perhaps as
big 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; but
they 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, he
eagerly asked all about it. Hubert was amused at the little fellow, and
answered many an inquiry that he made, and as he was listening to
something Hubert was saying, all at once he caught sight of the "torn
Bible," and taking it in his hand, he said--
"Is this a Bible, sir? Oh, how it's torn! Did It get torn like this in
the battles?"
"No, child; but," pointing to the hole in the cover, "it got that in the
last battle I was in."
Frank looked for some time at the hole the bullet had made; then looking
up into Hubert's face, he said, thoughtfully--
"Sir, don't you think God was very good to take care of you in the
battles?"
"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, but
taking 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 him
in a moment; he thought he had been harsh, so, bending forward, he
called the little fellow back.
There was a tear in the boy's eye when he returned, and stood gazing up
again into Hubert's face, which convinced Hubert that he had
disappointed 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 that
little heart. And there they sat--the once disobedient, sinning,
reckless son, and the little artless child. It relieved the older bosom
to talk of the past, and Hubert told into that little ear more than he
had told any one before. It was a strange sympathy; but the boy drew
closer to him, leant his little arms upon the veteran's knee as he gazed
earnestly into his face, while Hubert told him something of his own
youth-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 the
way; 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 stop
anywhere 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. When
Charley wheeled the big barrow over my feet I did not cry, though he
hurt me dreadfully, because I am going to be a soldier. But that is
grandfather calling me. Good bye, sir."
In an instant the boy was gone; and Hubert, bending forward, looked out
along the side pathway down which he had run. He watched him until he
was out of sight, and then his thoughts turned upon himself. Why was he
contented in tarrying there? How was it that he felt no spirit to hurry
onward? He looked up at the sky; the clouds were breaking, and the sun
shone brightly.
"Oh that I were at home," he uttered, "and all the past forgiven! How
can I face it?" But no good thought came into his mind to help him in
his difficulty; and he sat for some time gazing vacantly into the
garden.
"Yes, little Frank," he suddenly exclaimed, "they will be glad to see
me; I'll not stay here." And taking his stick in his hand, he drew his
cloak around him, and went into the house. The good people were somewhat
unwilling to part with their visitor, but Hubert was determined to go;
and, as he parted with the kind people, they were astonished to see him
kiss little Frank, and then to hear him say--
"Good bye, Frank. I'm not going to stop any more till I get home. Learn
to read your Bible; and I hope you will make a good soldier."
The old landlord felt honoured at the notice Hubert had taken of his
grandson, 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's
hand, he said--
"Good bye, sir; I _will_ try and be a good soldier."
Many little incidents, besides the one here recorded, befell Hubert as
he journeyed homeward; and, though he was long upon the way, he might
have been longer, had not little Frank's words--"How glad your mother
will be to see you!"--so rung in his ears, that he felt compelled to go
on; and the next afternoon to that on which he left the village inn, his
heart 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 mile
from his home; so here he alighted from the coach, and, leaving his
luggage with the man who kept the gate, he walked gently on his way.
The day was closing, the labourers were returning from the field, and
Hubert looked earnestly into the face of many he met, to see if he could
recognize 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, and
there was a slight hope for a familiar face; he, however, met no one
that he knew, so he turned aside into a shady lane. Hubert knew the
place well; often in his boyish days that lane had been his
play-place--it was his favourite haunt; and there now he sat down upon
the same old grey stone, round which so many memories of the past still
hovered. From that large stone seat nearly every house in the village
could be seen, and there in the valley it lay, in all the same calm
beauty in which it had often risen before his view as he lay down
beneath the sultry skies of India; there, too, was the cottage, with its
white walls, over which the ivy still roamed at will--the same garden,
not a path or tree seemed changed; there was the same white-painted
gate, near which his family stood when he said the last good bye to
them; everything, indeed, looked the same--there appeared no change,
save that which his heart led him to expect; and his coat felt tighter
than usual across his chest as he looked down from the hill upon his
early home. He knew the way well--he saw the narrow pathway that would
lead him out against the gate of his father's house, and yet he had not
courage to go there.
Night drew on, and still Hubert sat upon the stone; many persons passed
him, and more than one gazed earnestly at him, for his dress was not
familiar 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 at
him, but he was gone. "I am a coward," he had whispered to himself, and
in the closing shadow of the night had trodden the narrow pathway, and
reached the white gate of his home. The walk down the hill-side had
wearied him, and he stayed a moment to rest upon his staff before he
entered. 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 keep
the White Swan now?"
"Mrs. Bird? Nay, she's in yonder churchyard; it's many a year since she
died. 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 a
soldier."
"A soldier!" said the old man. "Ah! and from India--come in and rest a
bit. From India, did you say? I once had a son there--come in, talk with
me, 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 him
afterwards. 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 I
shall 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; my
little Richard will know where you can lodge for the night. He knows
every one in the village."
Without uttering a single word, Hubert followed the old man. Richard saw
them coming, and, at his grandfather's bidding, drew another chair to
the fire for the stranger.
The old man changed his shoes, and then, putting his feet upon a stool
before 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, but
circumstances change one. I had a care for all my lads, but for that one
that 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, I
refused to be comforted for his loss, but I now do feel that it was
God's will, for that boy was our eldest, and we thought a deal too much
of him until he rebelled against us. He often stood between us and our
Maker--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 be
God. Our poor lad, God forgive him! paid us ill for our care--he was
ungrateful--he forgot us. Bitterly, indeed, we felt the truth of the
proverb, that 'sharper than a serpent's tooth is an unthankful child,'"
And the old man brushed away a tear; then, looking into the stranger's
face, he added, "Did you ever hear of a Hubert Goodwin in India?"
"Hubert Goodwin?" repeated Hubert, with a husky voice. "Goodwin?--but
why should you think your son is dead, or that he has forgotten you? He
may have written, or something may have prevented him. His letters may
have been lost, or a thousand things happened, and he may have regretted
the silence as much as you have."
"Is it possible," replied the old man, much excited, "that my poor lad
ever thought I had forgotten him?" and he bowed his whitened head.
Before this little scene was half finished, the unworthiness of the part
he was playing smote Hubert's heart; he had never intended offering any
excuse for his past misconduct, and he felt so self-convicted at the
sight of the grief he had so unwittingly caused, that, raising up the
old man's head, he said, with deep emotion, "No, father! father, I had
forgotten--not you."
"What, Hubert!" cried the old man, pushing him back, and wildly gazing
at him. "Hubert! my Hubert! No!" Then he laughed, and then, pointing
upward, 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 to
Hubert, who immediately moved behind his father's high-backed chair.
"Grandfather, dear," said the boy, as he kissed his cheek, "why do you
cry?"
"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 the
old man.
"Oh, Hubert!" were the only words that were uttered, for the recognition
in one moment was complete; long, very long, the old man wept upon the
bosom of his son, and Hubert wept too; young Richard cried, perhaps
because his dear old grandfather did; but Martha, the faithful servant
of 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 he
was a little lamb in the fold, and she mingled the overflowings of her
heart with the others; then she went and closed all the casement
shutters, for they wished to have the joy of that first meeting to
themselves. The prodigal had indeed returned, but friends and neighbours
must not come and make merry yet--the fatted calf must not be killed
till to-morrow.
No one intruded upon the scenes of Hubert's home on the evening of his
return. The joy of once again seeing him--the answer to so many
prayers--came as a new link in the chain of the old man's existence; he
would have no supplication, no confession from his erring son: it was
enough 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 it
had long since died, that Hubert might become a child of God. Poor old
man! how tenderly and lovingly he strained his long-lost son to his
bosom! and the most severe reproofs, denied forgiveness, or the
bitterest reproaches, would not have been so hard for Hubert to endure
as the tender affection of his deeply-injured father.
Night closed around, and the old man sat later by the fireside than he
had done for years, for much of life's vigour had returned with his
hopes and joy; he breathed the evening prayers with a deeper fervour; he
joined 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 the
little orphan grandson had been left for him to love; the waters of
affliction had rolled deeply over his head; but the heart, consecrated
to heaven, had learnt to bow meekly to the rod, and now the most bitter
cup of his life had been filled with joy. "Thy will be done," was the
old 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 gratitude
filled his heart.
Different, indeed, were the feelings Hubert endured; and, as he shut
himself in his bed-room--the bed-room of his boyhood--there was a deep
struggle in his heart. More vividly than ever came the sins of his past
life before him, and great indeed was the remorse he felt for the long
years of woe he had caused. How he longed to tell all his repentance to
his father! but the old man had forgiven him without: it would not,
however, wipe away the sin he had committed; and the remembrance was
like 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 was
needed; and as the hours of that night of deep repentance passed on,
Hubert drew nearer and nearer to his Father in heaven, and the chastened
heart became lightened; then he sank to sleep as calmly as his father
had done.