'I COULD NOT STAND IT ANY LONGER, TOM'
'The beautiful souls of the world have an art of saintly alchemy,
by which bitterness is converted into kindness, the gall of human
experience into gentleness, ingratitude into benefits, insults into
pardon.'--AMIEL.
'Mat has come home!'
Audrey uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure as she heard this
unexpected intelligence.
'Is it really true? Oh, Mr. O'Brien, I am so glad--so very glad! When
did he come? Why did you not send for me? My dear old friend, how happy
you must be to get him back after all these years of watching and
waiting!'
A curiously sad expression crossed Mr. O'Brien's rugged face as Audrey
spoke in her softest and most sympathetic voice.
'Ay, I am not denying that it is happiness to get the lad back,' he
returned, in a slow, ruminative fashion, as though he found it difficult
to shape his thoughts into words; 'but it is a mixed sort of happiness,
too. Come in and sit down, Miss Ross--Mat has gone out for a prowl, as
he calls it--and I will tell you how it all happened while Prissy sees
to the tea;' and as Mrs. Baxter withdrew at this very broad hint, Mr.
O'Brien drew up one of the old-fashioned elbow-chairs to the fire, and
then, seating himself, took up his pipe from the hob, and looked
thoughtfully into the empty bowl. 'Things get terribly mixed in this
world,' he continued, 'and pleasures mostly lose their flavour before
one has a chance of enjoying them. I am thinking that the father of the
Prodigal Son did not find it all such plain sailing after the feast was
over, and he had time to look into things more closely. That elder
brother would not be the pleasantest of companions for many a long day;
he would still have a sort of grudge, like my Prissy here.'
'Oh, I hope not!'
'Oh, it is true, though. Human nature is human nature all the world
over. But, there, I am teasing you with all this rigmarole; only I seem
somehow confused, and as though I could not rightly arrange my thoughts.
When did Mat come home? Well, it was three nights ago, and--would you
believe it, Miss Ross?--it feels more like three weeks.'
'I wish you had written to me. I would have come to you before.'
'Ay, that was what Prissy said; she was always bidding me take ink and
paper. "There's Miss Ross ought to be told, father"--she was always
dinning it into my ears; but somehow I could not bring myself to write.
"Where's the hurry," I said to Prissy, "when Mat is a fixture here? I
would rather tell Miss Ross myself." And I have had my way, too'--with a
touch of his old humour--'and here we are, talking comfortably as we
have been used to do; and that is better than a stack of letters.'
Audrey smiled. Whatever her private opinion might be, she certainly
offered no contradiction. If she had been in his place, all her world
should have heard of her prodigal's return, and should have been bidden
to eat of the fatted calf; she would have called her friends and
neighbours to rejoice with her over the lost one who had found his way
home. Her friend's reticence secretly alarmed her. Would Vineyard
Cottage be a happier place for its new inmate?
'Yes, it is better for you and me to be talking over it quietly,' he
went on; 'and I am glad Mat took that restless turn an hour ago. You
see, the place is small, and he has been used to bush-life; and after he
has sat a bit and smoked one or two pipes, he must just go out and dig
in the garden, or take his mile or two just to stretch his muscles; but
he will be back by the time Prissy has got the tea.'
'And he came back three nights ago?' observed Audrey.
'Ay. We were going upstairs, Prissy and I; the girl had been in bed for
an hour. I was just smoking my last pipe over the kitchen fire, as I
like to do, when we heard a knock at the door, and Prissy says to me:
'"I expect that is Joshua Ruddock, father, and Jane has been taken bad,
and they cannot get the nurse in time." For Prissy is a good soul at
helping any of her neighbours, and sometimes one or other of them will
send for her to sit up with a sick wife or child. And then she goes to
the door, while I knock the ashes out of my pipe. But the next moment
she gave a sort of screech, and I made up my mind that it was that
rascal Joe asking for a night's lodging--not that he would ever have
slept under my roof again. I confess I swore to myself a bit softly when
I heard Prissy fly out like that.
'"Father," she says again, "here is a vagrant sort of man, and he says
he is Uncle Mat."
'"And she won't believe me, Tom; so you had better come and look at me
yourself;" and, sure enough, I knew the lad's voice before I got a sight
of his face.
'I give you my word, Miss Ross,' he continued, somewhat huskily, 'I
hardly know how I got to the door, for my limbs seemed to have no power.
'"Do you think I don't know your voice, lad?" I said; and, though it was
dark, I got hold of him and pulled him into the light.
'We were both of us white and shaking as we stood there, but he looked
me in the face with a pitiful sort of smile.
'"I could not stand it any longer, Tom," he said; "I suppose it was
home-sickness; but it would have killed me in time. I have not got a
creature in the world belonging to me. Will you and Susan take me in?"
And then, with a laugh, though there were tears in his eyes: "I am
precious tired of the husks, old chap."
'Well, I did not seem to have my answer ready; for I was fairly choked
at the sight of his changed face, and those poor, pitiable words. But he
did not misunderstand me, and when I took his arm and pushed him into a
chair by the fire, he looked round the place in a dazed kind of way.
'"Where's Susan?" he asked. "I hope she is not sick, Tom." And with that
he did break me down; for the thought of how Susan would have welcomed
him--not standing aloof as Prissy was doing--and how she would have
heartened us up, in her cheery way, was too much for me, and I fairly
cried like a child.
'Well, I knew it was my lad--in spite of his gray hairs--when he cried,
too--just for company. Mat had always a kind heart and way with him.
'"I never thought of this, Tom," he said, when we were a bit better.
"All to-day Susan's face has been before me bonnie and smiling, as I
last saw it. Prissy there is not much like her mother. And so she is in
her coffin, poor lass! Well, you are better off than me, Tom, for you
have got Prissy there to look after you, and I have neither wife nor
children."
'"Do you mean they are gone?" I asked, staring at him; and he nodded in
a grim, sorrowful kind of way.
'"I have lost them all. There, we won't talk about that just yet. What
is it Susan used to say when the children died? 'The Lord gave, and the
Lord hath taken away.' Those are pious words, Tom." And then he looked
at me a bit strangely.
'Well, it was Prissy who interrupted us, by asking if Mat wanted food.
And then it turned out that he was 'most starving.
'"I think I was born to ill-luck, Tom," he went on; "for some scamp or
other robbed me of my little savings as soon as I reached London, and I
had to make shift to pay my fare down here. It is a long story to tell
how I found you out. I went to the old place first, and they sent me on
here. I had a drop of beer and a crust at the Three Loaves, and old
Giles, the ostler, knew me and told me a long yarn about you and
Prissy."
'And then we would not let him talk any more. And when he was fed and
warmed Prissy made up a bed for him, for we saw he was nearly worn out,
and there was plenty of time for hearing all he had to tell us.
'But I could not help going into his room before I turned in, for there
came over me such a longing to see Mat's face again--though it was not
the old face. And I knew my bright, handsome lad would never come back.
Well, he was not asleep, for he turned on his pillow when he saw me.
'"If one could only have one's life again!" he said--and there was a
catch in his voice. "I could not sleep for thinking of it. I have shamed
you, Tom, and I have shamed all that belonged to me; and many and many a
time I have longed to die and end it all, but something would not let
me. I was always a precious coward. Why, I tried to shoot myself once;
but I could not do it, I bungled so. That was when things were at the
worst; but I never tried again, so don't look so scared, old chap!"
'Well, it was terrible to hear him talk like that, of throwing his life
away, and I said a word or two to show what I thought of it; but he
would not listen.
'"Don't preach, Tom: you were always such a hand at preaching; but I
will tell you something you may care to hear. It was when I was out in
the bush. I had been down with a sort of fever, and had got precious
low. Well, it came over me one day as I was alone in the hut, that, if
that sort of life went on, I should just lose my reason; for the
loneliness, and the thought of the prison life, and all the evil I had
done, and the way I had thrown aside my chances, seemed crowding in upon
my mind, and I felt I must just blow my brains out, and I knew I should
do it this time; and then all at once the thought came to me: 'Why not
go to Tom? Tom and Susan are good sort; they won't refuse a helping hand
to a poor wretch;' and the very next day I packed up my traps and
started for Melbourne."
'"My lad," I said, "it was just Providence that put that thought in your
head;" and then I left him, for my heart was too full to talk, except to
my Maker. But I dreamt that night that Susan came to me, and that we
stood together by Mat's bedside looking down at him while he slept.
'"He looks old and gray," I heard her say quite distinctly; "but he will
grow young again beside my Tom." And then she looked at me so gently and
sighed: "Be patient with him; he is very unhappy," and then I woke.'
'Oh, I hope you told him that dream!'
'Ay, I did. I told him a power of things about Susan and myself and
Prissy, and he never seemed tired of listening; but after that first
evening he did not open out much of his own accord. He told us a few
things, mostly about his bush-life, and where he went when he got his
ticket-of-leave; but somehow he seemed to dislike talking about himself,
and after I had questioned him pretty closely, he suddenly said:
'"Look here, old chap: I don't mean to be rough on you, but I have grown
used to holding my tongue during the last few years. What is the use of
raking up bygones? Do you suppose I am so proud of my past life that I
care to talk about it? Why can we not start afresh? You know me for what
I am, the good-for-nothing Mat O'Brien. I know I am no fit companion for
you and Prissy; and if you tell me to go, I will shift my quarters
without a reproachful word. Shall I go, Tom?"
'"No," I said, almost shouting at him, and snapping my pipe in two; "you
will just stay where you are, lad. Do you think I will ever suffer you
to wander off again?" And then, as he looked at me very sadly, I opened
the big Bible we had been reading in that morning, and showed him the
verse that was in my thoughts that moment: "The Lord do so to me, and
more also, if aught but death part me and thee."
'"Do you mean that, Tom?" and his voice was rather choky.
'"Ay, I do," was my answer. And then he gripped my hand without
speaking, and went out of the room, and we did not see him for an hour
or two. And that is about all I have to tell you, Miss Ross.'
'Thank you, old friend,' returned Audrey gently.
And she looked reverently into the thoughtful face beside her. The
rugged, homely features were beautified to her. He was only a small
tradesman, yet what nobleman could show more tender chivalry to the
fallen man who had brought disgrace on his honest name? In her heart
Audrey knew there was no truer gentleman than this simple, kindly Tom
O'Brien.
'There's Mat,' he observed presently; and Audrey roused herself and
looked anxiously at the door.
She was longing, yet dreading, to see this much-loved prodigal.
Priscilla's description of 'a vagrant sort of man' had somewhat alarmed
her, and she feared to see the furtive look and slouching gait that so
often stamp the man who has taken long strides on the downward path.
She was greatly surprised, therefore, when a tall, fine-looking man,
with closely-cropped gray hair and a black moustache, came quickly into
the room. On seeing a young lady he was about to withdraw; but his
brother stopped him.
'Don't go away, lad. This is Miss Ross, the young lady who I told you
was with Susan when she died.'
'And I am very glad to welcome you back, Mr. O'Brien,' observed Audrey
cordially, as she held out her hand.
Mat O'Brien reddened slightly as he took the offered hand with some
reluctance, and then stood aside rather awkwardly. He only muttered
something in reply to his brother's question of how far he had walked.
'I think I will go to Priscilla,' he said, with a touch of sullenness
that was mere shyness and discomfort. 'Don't let me interrupt you and
this young lady, Tom.' And before Mr. O'Brien could utter a
remonstrance, he was gone.
'I am afraid I am in the way,' suggested Audrey. 'Perhaps your brother
does not like to see people. It is growing dark, so I may as well start
at once. Mr. Blake has promised to meet me, so I shall not have a
solitary walk.'
'Nay, you must not go without your cup of tea,' returned the old man,
rubbing up his hair in a vexed manner; 'I hear Prissy clattering with
the cups. Don't fash your head about the lad; he is a bit shamed of
looking honest folk in the face; but we'll get him over that. Sit you
down, and I will fetch him out of the kitchen.' And without heeding her
entreaties to be allowed to go, Mr. O'Brien hurried her into the next
room, where the usual bountiful meal was already spread, and where Mrs.
Baxter awaited them with an injured expression of face.
'I think father has gone clean daft over Uncle Mat,' she observed, as
Mr. O'Brien departed on his quest. 'Draw up to the table, Miss Ross.
Father will be back directly; but he won't touch a mouthful until he
sees Uncle Mat in his usual place; he fashes after him from morning to
night, and can hardly bear him out of his sight. It is "Mat, come here,
alongside of me," or "Try this dish of Prissy's, my lad," until you
would think there was not another person in the house. It is a bit
trying, Miss Ross, I must confess; though I won't fly in the face of
Providence, and say I am not glad that the sinner has come home. But
there, one must have one's trials; and Heaven knows I have had a
plentiful share of thorns and briars in my time!'
'I am sorry to hear you speak like this, Mrs. Baxter. I was hoping that
you would rejoice in Mr. O'Brien's happiness. Think how he has longed
for years to see his brother's face again!'
Mrs. Baxter shook her head mournfully.
'Ay, Miss Ross; but the best of us are poor ignorant creatures, and,
maybe, the blessings we long for will turn to a curse in the end. I
doubt whether our little cottage will be the restful place it was before
Uncle Mat came home. He has gone to a bad school to learn manners; and
wild oats and tares and the husks that the swine did eat are poor crops,
after all, Miss Ross,' finished Priscilla a little vaguely.
Audrey bent over her plate to conceal a smile; but she was spared the
necessity of answering, as just then the two men entered.
It was the first meal that Audrey had failed to enjoy at Vineyard
Cottage; and notwithstanding all her efforts to second Mr. O'Brien's
attempt at cheerfulness, she felt that she failed most signally. Neither
of them could induce Mat O'Brien to enter into conversation; his gloomy
silence or brief monosyllabic replies compelled even his brother at last
to desist from any such attempt.
Now and then Audrey stole a furtive glance at him as he sat moodily
looking out into the twilight. The handsome lad was still a
good-looking man; but the deep-seated melancholy in the dark eyes
oppressed Audrey almost painfully: there was a hopelessness in their
expression that filled her with pity.
Why had he let that one failure, that sad lapse from honesty, stamp his
old life with shame? Had he not expiated his sin? Why was he so beaten
down and crushed with remorse and suffering that he had only longed to
end an existence that seemed God-forsaken and utterly useless? And then,
half unconsciously, she noted the one serious defect in his face--the
weak, receding chin; and she guessed that the mouth hidden under the
heavy moustache was weak too.
'I will not ask you what you think of Mat to-night,' observed Mr.
O'Brien, as he accompanied Audrey to the gate; 'he has not been used to
a lady's company, and he has grown into silent ways, living so much
alone.'
'He looks terribly unhappy.'
'Ay, poor chap, he is unhappy enough; he has got a load on his heart
that he is carrying alone. Sometimes it makes my heart ache, Miss Ross,
to see him sitting there, staring into the fire, and fetching up a sigh
now and then. But there, as Susan says, "The heart knoweth its own
bitterness"; but if ever a man is in trouble, Mat is that man.'
And Audrey felt that her old friend was right.