So wanderers, ever fond and true,
Look homeward through the evening sky,
Without a streak of heaven's soft blue,
To aid affection's dreaming eye.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
At the conclusion of the last chapter I gave the opinion that I
formed of the old man from the brief conversation I myself had with
him. The following incident cast, as it were, a shadow upon it, and
robbed it of its brightness, but did not really alter it. My
intercourse with him was brought to a sudden and painful conclusion.
It was at my persuasion that he crossed a stile which separated the
wild scenery of the landslip from the public road leading to the
little village of B----. I thought it would be easier for him to
walk along the more beaten track. He had yielded with apparent
reluctance to my request. His unwillingness appeared to proceed from
instinct rather than reason. It may in part have arisen from a kind
of natural sympathy which attracted him to that wild luxuriant spot;
in part from an unconscious dread of the danger to which he actually
became exposed. He simply said, "This smooth way was not made for
the like of me, kind sir; but under your protection I will venture
along it."
Alas! I little thought of the kind of protection he required. We
had advanced but a few hundred yards, and had just reached the summit
of the hill which commanded the first view of the village church.
The old man had paused for a little while, and appeared to gaze upon
it with a feeling of the most intense interest; I was afraid, even by
a passing question, to interrupt the quiet current of his thoughts;
when the silence was suddenly broken by the creaking of a cart-wheel,
which grated harshly on my ear; and almost before I could look round,
I heard a voice of rude triumph behind me, crying out, "There he
is--there he is--there goes the old boy! Stop him, stop him, sir! he
is mad."
I have no heart to describe the scene that followed: the poor
wanderer shuffled forward, with a nervous, hurried step; but in a few
seconds the cart was at his side; the driver immediately jumped out,
and, seizing him by the collar, with many a rude word and coarse
jest, tried to force him to enter it. For a moment, surprise and
indignation deprived me of speech, for I had began to regard the old
man with such a feeling of reverent love, that it almost seemed to me
like a profanation of holy ground. When, however, he turned his eyes
towards me, with an imploring look, I recovered myself sufficiently
to demand by what authority he dared thus molest an inoffensive
traveller on his journey. In my inmost heart, I dreaded the answer I
should probably receive; neither was my foreboding wrong; the man
laughed rudely as he replied, "He has been mad, quite mad, for more
than fifty years; he escaped this morning from the Asylum, and one of
the keepers has been with me all day long scouring the country in
search of him."
It was in vain that I sought a pretext for disbelieving the truth of
the story. I could not help feeling that it did but confirm a
suspicion which, in spite of myself, had kept crossing my own mind;
for the bright colouring which was shed by faith on the thoughts and
words of the old man was not alone a sufficient evidence that they
were under the guidance of reason. Yet, of one thing, at least, I
felt sure, that, whatever were the state of his intellect, it could
be no imaginary cause that now so strongly moved him. My heart bled
for him, as I listened to the pathetic earnestness with which he
implored the protection that I was unable to afford. He even forgot
to use the language of metaphor in the agony of his grief. "Indeed,
indeed, sir," he said, "they call me mad, but do not believe them,
for I am not mad now. There, there," he added, pointing towards the
church, "my wife and children are waiting for me. It was on this
very day that they went away, and we have now been parted sixty
years. I have travelled very far to join them once again before I
die. Oh, have pity upon me! I only ask for one little half hour,
that I may go on in peace to the end of my journey."
Large drops of moisture trembled on his forehead as he uttered these
words; his whole face became convulsed with emotion, and he clung
with such intensity to my garment, that his rude assailant tried in
vain to unloose his grasp. The man himself was evidently frightened
by the agitation which his own violence had caused, and appeared
doubtful how to proceed, when the scene was fortunately interrupted
by the arrival of his companion.
He was the keeper who had been sent from the Asylum with the cart,
but had left it in order to search the pathway which led through the
landslip. His look and manner afforded a striking contrast to those
of the first comer, who proved to be merely the owner of the vehicle,
which had been hired for the occasion. Immediately on his arrival,
he reprimanded him for his rude treatment of the old man, and
insisted on his returning to the cart, and desisting from all farther
interference. My hopes were greatly raised by this, and I flattered
myself that I should now have little difficulty in obtaining for the
poor wanderer the indulgence which he sought. But I soon found my
mistake; and, under the irritated feelings of the moment, almost
preferred the rude conduct of the first comer to the quiet
determination with which his companion listened to my request.
He merely smiled at the account I gave of my own interview with the
old man; and when I suggested that it contained no evidence of
insanity, shook his head, and replied, "You do not know poor Robin.
His notions about home are the peculiar feature of his madness; but
you are not the first person that has been deceived by them."
He spoke in a low tone, as though he were anxious not to be
overheard. But the precaution seemed unnecessary; for, though the
old man had mechanically retained his grasp on my garments, he was
now looking eagerly towards the village church, and I could see, from
the expression of his countenance, that his thoughts had passed away
from the scene around him.
When I found my arguments of no avail, I changed my ground, and
besought as a favour that he would make the trial of letting the old
man proceed to the end of his journey, and trust to his promise to
return quietly from thence. "Sir," he replied, in a louder voice, "I
should have no more hesitation in trusting the word of poor Robin
than your own. He never deceived me; and, under ordinary
circumstances, I would at once grant his request; but the hour is
late, and, as it is, the night will close in upon us before we can
get back to the town of N----. The responsibility will rest upon me,
if mischief should arise from any additional delay. I am sure Robin
himself would not desire it." As he said this, he turned towards the
old man, but his countenance was unchanged, his eye still fixed upon
the church, and he either had not heard the words at all, or they had
failed to convey any distinct impression to his mind.
After a pause, I again renewed my entreaties, urging that it would at
least be a better plan than having recourse to violence, which must
eventually produce a far more serious delay. "Of course," said the
attendant, "anything is better than having recourse to violence."
"Then," said I, "you accede to my request?" "Only," replied he, with
a provoking smile, "in case all other methods fail; but as the delay
would be a real inconvenience to us, you must permit me first to try
my powers of persuasion. Let me now beg of you, whatever surprise
you may feel, to be careful to express none." He again lowered his
voice as he said these words, and, in spite of the dislike inspired
by the self-confidence of his manner, and of other stronger emotions,
my curiosity was excited to know how he would proceed. He placed
himself opposite to the old man, so as to intercept his view of the
village, and then, having fixed his eye calmly and stedfastly upon
him, with an appearance of real interest, thus soothingly addressed
him:--"I would gladly go on with you, Robin; but am sure you are
under some mistake. Your wife and children cannot be in yonder
village,--they are not there, they are at home. Come quietly with me
now, and perhaps this evening you may go home also."
These simple words touched some hidden chord in the old man's heart,
and their effect was almost magical. All other feelings passed away,
and I forgot the presence of his companions, as I watched the change
which they produced. His features became composed, his hand relaxed
its hold, and his voice resumed its former tranquil tone, as he
slowly repeated: "They are not there, they are at home; they are not
there, they are at home. True, very true, they are not there, they
are at home."
Presently he raised his eyes to Heaven, and the attendants, no less
than myself, were overawed by the solemnity of his manner. There was
a silence of a few seconds, during which he seemed to listen
intently; and then, as though he had heard some echo from above,
which confirmed the hope that had been held out to him, he
confidently added: "And I also shall go home,--and this very evening
I shall be there."
While I was still pondering on these words, the old man had of his
own accord quietly placed himself in the cart, and his companions had
seated themselves by his side. They were on the point of driving off
before the thought occurred to me of offering him money. I drew out
my purse, half expecting him to refuse the proffered gift; and it was
with a strong feeling of disappointment that I observed the look of
satisfaction, almost amounting to eagerness, with which he took the
silver from my hand. I said within myself, "Can it be, then, that
the taint of covetousness is to be found in a mind from which every
earthly affection seems so entirely to have been withdrawn?" But I
wronged him by the thought. The money was immediately taken from
him, and he resigned it to another no less gladly than he had
received it from me. "It will not do," said the keeper, "to let him
have it himself: he will merely give it away to the first beggar that
he meets. He has not the slightest notion of the real value of
money. It shall be laid out for his benefit; and till then it will
be safe in my keeping."
My countenance may have expressed dissatisfaction at the change,
though, in truth, I had no objection to make to it. But the old man
himself interrupted me before I could reply, and said, "Do not be
afraid, kind sir, whether it remain with me or him; your treasure
will be safe, quite safe; it matters not now whether it remain with
me or him;" and then added, in a more solemn tone, "safe 'where
neither rust nor moth doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break
through and steal.' I will take it home with me; and when you also
go home, you will find it there." And I now understood how it was
for my sake that he had so gladly welcomed the gift; and I thought,
too, that if in truth money had a real value at all, it must be the
one which was assigned to it by him.
The men were in a hurry to depart, and I was now forced to bid adieu
to the old man. He appeared so sorry to leave me, that I promised on
the morrow to come and see him. I did not like to use the word
Asylum, so I said at his dwelling-place. The expression at once
caught his ear, and re-awakened the train of thought which my gift
had interrupted for a time.
"Not in my dwelling-place," he said, "for to-morrow I shall not be
there. If you see me again, kind stranger, it must be at home. May
God bless you, and guide you on your way." The cart was already in
motion, but he looked back once more, and waved his hand as he said,
"Good bye, sir. Remember that we all are going home!"
They were the last words I heard him speak, and it is perhaps from
that cause that they made so strong an impression on my mind; for
often since then, when I have been tempted to wander from the right
path, or murmur as I walked along it, I have thought upon the old
man's parting warning, and asked myself the question, "Am I not going
home?"