AT WILTON ONCE MORE.
"Vengeance" still--Driving to Wilton--At the farm--In the
churchyard--The grammar-school--Wilton left again--Life's business.
Shortly after the departure of Mrs Blewcome, a large parcel was brought
into the room, containing clothes for Harry; and how glad he was when,
in the course of about half-an-hour, he stood fully arrayed before the
looking-glass in his father's bedroom at the hotel. Once more he was
in his rightful position; he was with his father, an outcast no more;
no longer dependent on the doubtful fortunes of two show-people. But
the revengeful feeling had not been stricken down within him. On the
contrary, he only thought to himself, that now more possible than ever
was revenge; now more than ever would there be a chance of his meeting
with Egerton. You see, he was such a mere child still, and knew so
little of the world, that he thought everything was easy.
His father soon noticed the change in his tone whenever Egerton's name
was mentioned--the flushing cheeks, the eyes that lit up with anger;
and though he himself was far, very far, from palliating Egerton's
conduct, yet he felt obliged to speak seriously to his boy. But though
Harry listened, and promised to try and crush out his passion, he could
not rid himself of it; it still clung to him; and when once the chiding
words of his father ceased, he again brooded over his purpose of
revenge.
The following morning they left the hotel. The waiters were now
abjectly admiring, and in the most mellifluous tones that signified
their "great expectations," expressed to the heedless Mr Campbell their
congratulations on the discovery of his son. They could scarcely
believe their eyes at the sight of Harry, the fine handsome boy, with
curling sunny hair and gentlemanly bearing, when they thought of the
untidy, raggedly-clad lad, upon whom they had been obliged to wait, the
previous night.
But then, these sort of people only estimate a gentleman by the
grandeur of his dress, and in the present day it is reasonably to be
expected they make many and serious mistakes.
It was not long before Harry and his father were both seated in the
train that was to carry them to Wilton. A wearisome journey it was,
that hot dusty day, and Harry was very tired, when, about half-past
seven, they reached the nearest station to Wilton, a small town called
Oldwell.
From this place they took a cab and drove to Wilton; and how familiar
it was to them both as they bowled along the leafy summer lanes in the
June twilight, and into the well-remembered village!
By Alan's direction, the cabman drove them to the farm; and there,
having deposited them and their luggage, turned his horse's head, and
departed.
The meeting may easily be imagined. Two years had not made much
difference in the good Mrs Valentine, though that time had done so much
for Harry. And the two years of doubt and anxiety for "her boy," as
she called him, had only increased her affection. But it was a sad,
sad pleasure, this meeting; a sad pleasure this, their return to the
little farm where there had been so much of gladness and so much of
sorrow for them all. And lips quivered, and eyes were red with
starting tears, and scarcely a word was uttered.
While his father wandered from room to room, lingering over each spot
that he associated with her, his dead, loved wife, Harry sat in the
window-seat of the oak-panelled parlour, and, pressing his face against
the glass, looked out across the churchyard, and remembered how he sat
thus on that far-off evening when his father said good-bye for ever to
her who slept yonder near the ivied church-porch.
Presently Alan entered the room, and taking Harry's hand, walked with
him to the churchyard. And there, over the grave carefully, lovingly
tended by Mrs Valentine, they stood, father and son, and not a word was
said. Was not their sorrow too great for words? And, as of old, the
twilight breezes crept in and out among the leaves of the lime-trees,
and round the grey church tower.
The next morning was one of excitement to Harry. There was first a
visit to Mr and Mrs Bromley, who were as delighted as they were
surprised to see the two. And then came the visit to the school.
Never, as long as he lived, did Harry forget that morning. How the
Doctor's sternness all vanished; how he welcomed him and his father as
if they had been his own flesh and blood; how he conducted them to the
big school-room, and told the boys who it was (for Harry was so
altered, scarcely any one knew him); how the room rung with deafening
cheers; how the masters shook hands with them; and how he left, as the
school's hero, he who, but two days since, had been roaming about the
country with a travelling menagerie.
Yes! it was a grand time for Harry. Yet even this joy, even his sorrow
and loneliness at his mother's grave, did not banish from his heart the
wish for revenge. He had shut his ears to the words--"Vengeance is
mine: I will repay, saith the Lord."
Mr Campbell had soon made up his mind with regard to Harry's future.
The two years he had been away from school were, at his age, a most
serious loss to him; and all idea of his going to Oxford must be
abandoned. There was not time for him to make progress sufficient to
enable him to do well there; and unless he could do well, and help
himself by gaining a scholarship, his father could not afford to send
him to the University.
So he arranged that he should remain four years with a well-to-do
farmer of his acquaintance in Herefordshire, and learn farming; at the
end of that time, he should go to Australia, and try his fortune there,
where so many were filling their pockets and returning to England rich
men.
Within a week of the visit to Wilton, Harry was at his new abode in
Herefordshire, and his father once more had joined his vessel.
It had been a sad parting from Wilton. But they had work before them
both; and though their hearts sorely ached at saying good-bye to that
grassy mound in Wilton churchyard, Alan spoke to his boy (feeling,
himself, the truth of what he spoke), in the words of the noble-hearted
American poet:
"Life is real, life is earnest,
And the grave is not its goal!"
And again,
"Let us then be up doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait."