THE JOURNEY HOME.
AT six o'clock Gideon "knocked off" work, Tom having pulled off his
jacket and handled a spade in fine style ever since dinner. In fact, he
was able to teach Gideon a thing or two about digging, and Gideon was
not above learning.
They returned to the lodge, where Gideon prepared an abundant meal for
his guest—fried bacon, coffee, baker's bread, everything of the best,
and plenty of it. After supper they sat by the fire, though it was very
warm, and Gideon asked—
"And when do you go north, Tom?"
"North! Why, is there anything particular going on thereaway?"
"Going home, I mean," answered Gideon.
"Never," said Tom shortly.
"Ay, and why, my lad, if one may ask?"
"I think you hardly need ask, Gideon. I've been more than ten years
away now, and to go back just as I left them—not even a few poor
shillings to give mother, over and about the ten guineas I stole from
her! I'd be the laughingstock of the place. They've forgot me by this
time."
"Mothers don't forget, nor yet fathers, I'm told, but I never had one—I
had only a mother. She was a good mother, and so is yours, kind and
loving-hearted as a woman should be. And I tell you, Tom, if she has
forgotten aught about you, 'twill be that you took that money without
her leave."
"No, not she," answered Tom. "Mother's as good as gold, but she ain't
one of your soft sort, and she—well, Gideon, she has a tongue, not
scolding or brawling, but a tongue you'll have to mind."
There was a short silence. Then Tom said—
"I've done wrong, and I own to it. I began badly when I took that
money. Having taken it, I ought to have got Captain Collins to write
after my first voyage, and pay it back. I could have done it even then.
I did not do that, and then came the time I was pressed. Well, when I
was leaving the 'Star,' I had a notion to leave my money with Captain
Collins to send to mother. I didn't do that, and in five minutes more
the money was at the bottom of the sea. Then, when I had money again,
you urged upon me to go home for a bit. But no, I must have more money
to take with me. Then I met Robins, and you warned me again and again,
and I only fell out with you. I see it all plain enough, now that it's
too late. The money's gone, and I have no heart to begin again. It's
just my punishment—to go on being a sailor, all alone in the world
except for you, Gideon, all the rest of my life."
Terlizzeck gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
"You own up that you were in the wrong?" said he.
"I do, Gideon. My pride is broken down. I see that I was all wrong."
"No, Tom, your pride's not broken down. First time you and me ever
had a yarn, I mind well reading you the parable about the son that
went home after wasting his substance, and you said how you would
never do that—go home empty-handed, asking to be forgiven. Since then,
you've been changed in many ways, Tom. You've learned many a lesson,
and you're a steady, decent lad, and not without the fear of God
neither, but always your pride stands in your way. You don't like to be
forgiven—you'd like to earn it; and you can't earn it, not even from
your mother; and no one can earn it from God Almighty."
Gideon ceased to speak, but Tom made no attempt to reply.
"Seems to me," Gideon went on presently, "that you're mistaken when you
think you've learned the lesson all this ought to have taught you. And
another mistake—'twas you did wrong, and you're going to punish your
mother."
"No, no; she won't want me. She has father and Sam."
"You can't say for sure. A many things can happen in ten years. Anyway,
to my eyes, your duty is plain. And that is, to go home, confess your
fault, pay back what you can, and hear what your mother may have to say
to you; then to sea again with a good conscience. If you don't do this,
you'll never be happy in your mind. You'll go to sea; the temptations
are great—you'll not keep straight because you won't be helped. You
know yourself how it's like to end."
Gideon here got up and busied himself in slinging his hammock, and a
second, which Captain Egerton had lent him, for Tom. Then he read a
chapter in the Bible aloud, said his prayers, and remarked—
"I'll turn in, my lad, for I've got to be early."
Gideon was soon asleep. Not so Tom. He lay there, thinking, then
dozing, and then thinking again. He dreamed of his mother. He saw her
working in her garden, busy and happy, and he was a boy again, helping
her. Then suddenly she looked sad and ill, and she said to him, "Where
are my golden guineas, Tom? Now the rainy day has come, I miss them."
Tom woke up and could sleep no more.
In the morning he said to Gideon—
"Old friend, you are right all round. I ought to go home and say I'm
sorry, but I don't feel able to do it. That's the truth."
"You was never a coward, Tom," said the old man quietly.
They had breakfast, and then Tom said—
"I'd better go and see after my kit, and, if I may, I'll come back in
the evening."
"You'll never be aught but welcome, my son," replied Gideon.
Tom came back in the evening in great spirits, saying—
"Oh, Gideon, I've had such a piece of luck. I met Mr. Egerton, walking
with an old gentleman—I didn't take him for a sailor, but it was Sir
Michael Elliott, who is going to hoist his flag aboard the 'Conqueror,'
in the Mediterranean. And Mr. Egerton had been recommending me to him,
as he wanted a sober young man for cox of his own boat! And he don't
sail for two months, so I've plenty of time to go home; and I am going,
Gideon."
"And you'll always be glad as you did so," remarked Gideon. "I'm real
glad, Tom."
Tom made the voyage to Liverpool on board a collier brig returning
for a cargo, and to see Mr. Tom turning up his nose at the dirt and
untidiness of that collier was an amusing sight. But the collier was
slow as well as dirty, and by the time Tom was landed in Liverpool,
he had lost the glow of his good intentions and felt very much
inclined to—run away. The idea of facing his people under his present
circumstances was so galling that he lingered a whole day in Liverpool,
and it is hard to say what he might have done, if he had not happened
to meet Captain Collins. The last time he saw his old captain he was a
hale, hearty man: now he was bent and aged and weak. Tom hardly knew
him. Having with difficulty made the old man remember him, Tom inquired
politely for Mrs. Collins. The old man sighed.
"I've buried her, Adderley. Lost her five years ago. Never the same
since. I'm getting old—getting old. Time flies. Seems to me only
yesterday I was a young fellow like you."
Somehow, this made Tom set off inland the next morning.
It was a longish tramp, but the worst of it was that he had to spend
some of his money for food and lodging. Footsore and weary, he at last
found himself in a familiar place. He knew that he was close to Burdeck.
Tom sat down and rested. He ate some food that he had with him, and
then carefully arranged his dress and shook off the dust. He did not
want to look weary and forlorn. Then he walked on. Ah! There was little
Burdeck nestling in its valley, and that smoke came from the chimney of
his old home.
And now he stood at the garden gate, half-hoping that mother would
look-out and know him. The garden—what ailed it? And the apricot
was dead; the pear tree hung loose and ragged from the wall. Half
frightened, he opened the gate and strode to the door.
"Who's within?" he cried, and his voice sounded strange to his own
ears. He had to call more than once. At last, just as he was making up
his mind to open the door for himself, it was opened by a dirty looking
woman with a baby in her arms.
"What d'ye want?" said she, looking half frightened.
"Who are you?" he answered. "Your name is never Adderley?"
"No—I don't know the name. Be off now; I want no tramps about."
"Hold hard, mistress," said Tom, as she was going to shut the door.
"Where is Thomas Adderley that lived here once?"
"'Twas before our time," she answered, and she shut the door.
He heard her lock it. After a moment or so, he walked away, and went up
the garden of the next house, where the Trayners used to live. He felt
quite stupid. A decent looking young woman was at the door. She, too,
had a baby in her arms.
"Does Matthew Trayner live here still?" Tom said.
"No, Wat, his son. What do you want with the Trayners?"
"Mistress, I'm not a tramp," said Tom quickly. "I belong to these
parts, and have been away at sea for years. All I want is to know where
I may find my people."
"My husband is away at work, but he'll be back soon after six. Maybe I
can tell you, but I'm not Burdeck born. I came from Wakefield."
"Thomas Adderley, my father, he lived in that cottage—where is he?"
"Are you an Adderley? Come in and sit down. I've heard my sister-in-law
Lucy talk of you. You're Tom, that went away?"
"Yes. Oh, tell me, if you know, where I'll find my people."
"Sit down," she said gently, and she went and laid her baby in the
cradle. "'Tis little I can tell you, and—it's not good news. Your poor
father is dead; dead some years."
"My father dead!" said Tom. "A great strong man like he, and not to say
old neither. I can scarce believe it."
"It is true; and I do wish Wat was here, for I hate telling you bad
news. It wouldn't sound so bad in a friend's voice. 'Twas a fever that
was very bad here; it was nine years ago. Wat's father and mother died
of it, and your father got it and lived through it. But he was never
the same again. He took on so about—" Here she paused.
"Go ahead, mistress. Tell me every word."
"'Twas about his oldest son. He was the first to get the fever, and he
died. Your poor father, he got to be like a child—no sense, and not
able to work. His master was very kind and left him in the cottage, and
Mrs. Adderley worked for him and kept him wonderful comfortable. When
he died, of course, she had to leave the cottage."
"And where is she now?" cried Tom, standing up and groping for his hat.
"Poor father! Poor old Sam! But tell me where mother is, that I may go
to her."
The young woman looked away from him.
"When Wat comes home," she said, "he'll be able to tell you; I can't. I
can tell you no more."
She went and brought him a mug of clear, cold water, saying, "You look
mazed—so you do. Drink some water, and sit here till Wat comes."
Tom drank the water. He really was not quite himself. He sat down, and
Mrs. Trayner hoped he would stay quiet till her husband came in. But in
a few minutes Tom was up again.
"Where are you going?" she asked him. "Do sit still a bit; you look—"
"I'm smothering. I must get out into the air," said Tom.
"Well, walk up that way, towards the church," she said, not wanting him
to go on into the village.
He had left his bundle, so she knew he would come back. He walked a
little way towards the church, then came back to her.
"Lookey here; you 'knows,' and you may as well tell me. Is she dead
too?"
"Oh no. And Wat knows and will tell you where you'll find her."
Tom turned away, but this time he went on to the village.
The shop, the forge, all as of old, but no one knew him, nor did he
look at any one. At last he was at the gate of the garden, in the
corner of which old Master Dwight used to sit in the sun and "mind his
latter end—" at least, so he said. Not thinking of what he did, Tom
opened the gate and sought the well-remembered sunny corner. And there,
looking as if he had never moved since Tom said good-bye to him, sat
old Master Dwight, blinking in the hot sun, and mumbling to himself in
a querulous tone—
"Too long! Too long! I'm living too long. They're all tired of my
stories; no one comes to listen to 'em now. Who's this? A sailor; ay,
and a king's man, too! Trust old Dwight to know that. What d'ye say,
eh? Speak up! I'm getting a 'little' bit deaf."
"Don't you know me, Master Dwight?"
"To be sure I do," said the old fellow, genially. "You're Ben Benson,
master of the 'Rosy Dawn.' But no; Ben's dead, so you can't be Ben.
Adderley, is it? No, I don't know any one by that name, do I. Yes,
to be sure, but only of late years, and things slip out of my head.
Adderley! Yes, he died of the great fever, and so did his son Sam. And
the other boy was run away; and the mother, foolish woman, blamed me
for that.
"But, for all that, I stood up for her. When she buried her husband,
and was ill with hardship and overwork, I stood up for her, though she
had tongued me more than once. I said plainly as it was a shame to the
whole village to let a decent, good woman like her go to the House. I
said, 'One of ye take her in, and when she gets better, her work will
be worth her keep.' But they're a mean lot here, and disgraceful poor.
And there was the little maid, too—a pretty little maid, and of a good
stock. But who'll marry her now, bred up in Wakefield Workhouse?"
Tom stood as if turned to stone. He had all the English peasant's
horror of the workhouse. His mother—his tidy, thrifty, busy mother! So
this was her fate! And pretty little Dolly! Ah, no wonder Wat Trayner's
wife had disliked telling him this!
Old Dwight was still talking away, but Tom did not hear a word he said.
He started after a few minutes, and, leaving the garden, walked quickly
back to the Trayners' cottage.
"Mistress," he said, "I know all now. Old Dwight told me. You've a kind
heart; you couldn't bring yourself to do it. And there's old Dwight,
not a day older to look at; and my father and—Give me my bundle, like a
good soul. I can reach Wakefield before night."
"You are not able for it. Do stay a bit, and Wat will tell you—"
"There's nothing more to tell. She buried her husband and her good son;
and the son that ought to have been her support had run off; and worse,
and—"
"If you had stayed, maybe you would have died of the fever too."
"And better I had," returned Tom. "Good-bye. You've been very kind to
me."
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