The Wanderer's Return.
"And he had learn'd to love--I know not why,
For this in such as him seems strange of mood,--
The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
To change like this, a mind so far imbued
With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
But thus it was; and though in solitude
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow,
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow."
Within a period of two months, from the interview we have described, the
stranger found that his arguments had not been thrown away; as he shook
Sir Henry's hand on the deck of a vessel bound for Valparaiso. His love of
travel and of excitement, had induced such an habitual restlessness, that
Delmé was not prepared at once to embark for England. He crossed the
Cordillera de los Andes--traversed the Pampas of Buenos Ayres--and
finally embarked for his native land.
It was the height of summer, when the carriage which bore the long absent
owner to his ancestral home, neared the ancient moss-grown lodge.
Fanny Porter, who was now married, and had a thriving babe at her breast,
started with surprise; as, throwing open the gate, she recognised in the
care-worn man with bronzed face and silver hair, her well known and
beloved master. As the carriage neared the chapel, it struck Sir Henry,
that it would be but prudent, to inform Clarendon of his near approach; in
order that he might prepare Emily for the meeting. He ordered the
postilion to pull up--tore a leaf from his memorandum book--and wrote a
few lines to Clarendon, despatching Thompson in advance. He turned into
the chapel, and as he approached its altar, the bridal scene, enacted
there nearly seven years back, seemed to rise palpably before him.
But the tomb of Sir Reginald Delmé, with its velvet dusty banner--the
marble monument of his mother, with the bust above it, whose naked eye
seemed turned towards him--his withered heart and hopes soon darkened his
recollections of that bright hour. With agitated emotions, Sir Henry left
the chapel; and in a spirit of impatience, strode towards the mansion,
intending to meet the returning domestic. His feelings were strange,
various, and not easily defined.
He was awakened from his day-dream by the sound of children's voices,
which sound he instinctively followed, until he reached the old orchard.
It was such an orchard, as might be planted by an old Delmé, ere any
Linnean or Loudonean horticulturist had decided that slopes are best for
the sun, that terraces are an economical saving of ground, that valleys
must be swamps, and that blights are vulgar errors. The orchard at Delmé
was strikingly unscientific; but the old stock contrived to bear good
fruit. The pippins, golden and russet--the pears, jargonelle and
good-christian--the cherries, both black and white heart--still thrived;
while under their shade, grew hips, haws, crabs, sloes, and blackberries,
happy to be shaded from rain, dews, and fierce sun-shine, and unenvious
of roses, cherries, apples, damsons, and mulberries; their self-defended,
and more aristocratic cousins.
Sir Henry stopped unseen at the gate of the orchard, and for some minutes
looked on the almost fairy group, whose voices had led him thither.
Lying on the bank, which enclosed the orchard, was a blue-eyed
rosy-cheeked little girl;--the ground ashes had been cut down; and her
laughing face was pillowed on the violets and oxlips, that burst from
between the roots. She was preparing to take another roll into the clayey
ditch below. Another little girl was gazing at the child from within the
orchard; half doubtful whether she should encourage or check her. One
pale-blue slipper and her little sock were half sunk in the clay, while
the veiny and pink-soled foot, the large lids half closed over her deep
blue eyes, the finger thrust between her red and pouting lips, her bonnet
thrown back and hanging by the strings round her swelling throat, her hair
dishevelled and stuck with oxlips, primroses, cowslips, violets, and
daisies; and wreathed with the spring-holly, or butcher's-broom--made her
a perfect picture of English beauty, and of childish anxiety and
indecision.
Beside her stood a boy older than herself, and evidently as perplexed.
There was Julia perched cock-horse on the bank--there was Emily, her hair
undone, her bonnet crashed, with one shoe and stocking lost--and yet he
had promised Mamma, that if she would but once trust his sisters to him,
that he would bring them home, "with such a pretty basket of
spring-flowers."
The beautiful blossoms of the cherry hung around the boy--the bees buzzed
in its bells--the apple and pear blossoms shook their fragrance in the
warm air--and the shadows of the flying clouds hurried like wings over the
bright green grass. The boy had dropped his basket of fresh-blown flowers
at his feet--tears were trembling in his eye-lids, as he gazed on his
sisters. His look was that of George.
"Childhood too has its sorrows," said Sir Henry, half aloud, "even when
seeking joy on a bank of primroses. Why should _I_ then repine?"
The boy started as he heard and saw the stranger:--he involuntarily put
one foot forward in an attitude of childish defiance: but children are
keen physiognomists, and there was nothing but affection beaming from that
mournful face.
"My boy!" said Delmé, and his eyes were moist, "did you ever hear of your
Uncle Henry?"
"Emily! Emily! Julia!" exclaimed the little fellow, as he rushed into Sir
Henry's arms, "here is Uncle Henry, my god-papa, and he will help us to
reach the blackberries."
We need follow the wanderer no further. It is true that in his youth he
had not known sympathy; in his manhood he had experienced sorrow; but
it is a pleasure to us to reflect, that despair is not the companion of
his old age.
The End.