It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed
in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer
evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown
young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost
ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so
much of their lives had been passed.
Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass
the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble.
"No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone."
"What, not to meet your own wife?"
"No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where.
Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."
"No, no, Jem. I must get home."
"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and
on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."
"I'll stay, Jem," said Don.
"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the
bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."
Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him
reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was
snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--
"What d'you mean by ringing like--"
"Sally!"
"Jem!"
Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard,
pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house.
He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook
as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap
ever thumped upon a big front door.
There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the
brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held
in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped
up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.
The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour,
the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour
followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group
before him.
When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the
grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene
after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem
expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a
time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he
should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements
since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was
better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his
adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of
action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there
was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with
extended hand.
"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the
office. Glad to see you back."
"I ought to tell you, sir--"
"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know
that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as
stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your
enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and
broader, and wiser now than you were."
"I hope so, uncle."
"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"
"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"
"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they
are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"
"No, uncle."
"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."
Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.
It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the
account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother
sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his
cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old
Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim
smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at
all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.
"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.
"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out
of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly
know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."
"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were
parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a
blessing in disguise."
"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any
disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"
"Your bundle, my dear?"
"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish
enough to think of running away."
"My dear Don, no."
They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached
over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.
"Don, my darling!"
"But I had repented, mother, and--"
"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's
to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."