"Then you have been a soldier longer than I've been born," said Frank.

"How glad your mother will be to see you! I think I should run all the way; I would not stop at all till I got home."

"But could you run, Frank, if you were as lame as I am?"

"No, sir, I could not; but then I would ride--I would never stop anywhere until I got home."

"But if you were in pain what would you do?"

"Oh, I would not mind it at all; soldiers ought never to mind pain. When Charley wheeled the big barrow over my feet I did not cry, though he hurt me dreadfully, because I am going to be a soldier. But that is grandfather calling me. Good bye, sir."

In an instant the boy was gone; and Hubert, bending forward, looked out along the side pathway down which he had run. He watched him until he was out of sight, and then his thoughts turned upon himself. Why was he contented in tarrying there? How was it that he felt no spirit to hurry onward? He looked up at the sky; the clouds were breaking, and the sun shone brightly.

"Oh that I were at home," he uttered, "and all the past forgiven! How can I face it?" But no good thought came into his mind to help him in his difficulty; and he sat for some time gazing vacantly into the garden.

"Yes, little Frank," he suddenly exclaimed, "they will be glad to see me; I'll not stay here." And taking his stick in his hand, he drew his cloak around him, and went into the house. The good people were somewhat unwilling to part with their visitor, but Hubert was determined to go; and, as he parted with the kind people, they were astonished to see him kiss little Frank, and then to hear him say--

"Good bye, Frank. I'm not going to stop any more till I get home. Learn to read your Bible; and I hope you will make a good soldier."

The old landlord felt honoured at the notice Hubert had taken of his grandson, and as he removed his own little old black hat from his head, he turned to the child, and said--

"Your bow, Franky; make a bow to his honour--it may be he's a general."

General or not, it mattered but little to Frank, for, taking Hubert's hand, he said--

"Good bye, sir; I _will_ try and be a good soldier."

Many little incidents, besides the one here recorded, befell Hubert as he journeyed homeward; and, though he was long upon the way, he might have been longer, had not little Frank's words--"How glad your mother will be to see you!"--so rung in his ears, that he felt compelled to go on; and the next afternoon to that on which he left the village inn, his heart began to beat as he thought he recognized some old places. Ah, yes! there was the old white toll-gate--he knew it was just one mile from his home; so here he alighted from the coach, and, leaving his luggage with the man who kept the gate, he walked gently on his way.

The day was closing, the labourers were returning from the field, and Hubert looked earnestly into the face of many he met, to see if he could recognize any of them. He did not in his heart quite wish to be known, but the incentive to find some friend of other years was powerful, and there was a slight hope for a familiar face; he, however, met no one that he knew, so he turned aside into a shady lane. Hubert knew the place well; often in his boyish days that lane had been his play-place--it was his favourite haunt; and there now he sat down upon the same old grey stone, round which so many memories of the past still hovered. From that large stone seat nearly every house in the village could be seen, and there in the valley it lay, in all the same calm beauty in which it had often risen before his view as he lay down beneath the sultry skies of India; there, too, was the cottage, with its white walls, over which the ivy still roamed at will--the same garden, not a path or tree seemed changed; there was the same white-painted gate, near which his family stood when he said the last good bye to them; everything, indeed, looked the same--there appeared no change, save that which his heart led him to expect; and his coat felt tighter than usual across his chest as he looked down from the hill upon his early home. He knew the way well--he saw the narrow pathway that would lead him out against the gate of his father's house, and yet he had not courage to go there.

Night drew on, and still Hubert sat upon the stone; many persons pa.s.sed him, and more than one gazed earnestly at him, for his dress was not familiar to them; and he heard them whisper as they pa.s.sed, "Who is he?"

A few, more curious than the others, returned to take another look at him, but he was gone. "I am a coward," he had whispered to himself, and in the closing shadow of the night had trodden the narrow pathway, and reached the white gate of his home. The walk down the hill-side had wearied him, and he stayed a moment to rest upon his staff before he entered. He may have stayed longer than he intended, for an aged man, leaning also upon a staff, startled him by saying--

"You appear tired, sir; pray, have you far to go?"

"Not far; I hope to lodge in the village to-night. Does Mrs. Bird keep the White Swan now?"

"Mrs. Bird? Nay, she's in yonder churchyard; it's many a year since she died. You may have been here before, but it must be long since."

"Very long," said Hubert, with a sigh. "It is more than twenty years.

Since then I have been fighting in the wars in India. Sir, I am a soldier."

"A soldier!" said the old man. "Ah! and from India--come in and rest a bit. From India, did you say? I once had a son there--come in, talk with me, if only for an hour. It may be that I may hear something of my boy.

He went away nearly twenty-four years ago, and I never heard from him afterwards. Sometimes I think he is dead, and then sometimes I don't.

The neighbours feel sure he is dead, but sometimes I have an idea that I shall yet hear from him--I scarcely dare to hope it, though. Come, soldier, don't stand here, the evening is cold: walk up to the house; my little Richard will know where you can lodge for the night. He knows every one in the village."

Without uttering a single word, Hubert followed the old man. Richard saw them coming, and, at his grandfather's bidding, drew another chair to the fire for the stranger.

The old man changed his shoes, and then, putting his feet upon a stool before the fire, turned his face to Hubert, as he said--

"There was a time when the very name of a soldier was hateful to me, but circ.u.mstances change one. I had a care for all my lads, but for that one that went into the army I had the most care, and it was better, perhaps, that he should be taken from me. For more than twenty years, though, I refused to be comforted for his loss, but I now do feel that it was G.o.d's will, for that boy was our eldest, and we thought a deal too much of him until he rebelled against us. He often stood between us and our Maker--I mean he had our first and best thoughts. It will not do, soldier, for the heart to worship more than one, and that one must be G.o.d. Our poor lad, G.o.d forgive him! paid us ill for our care--he was ungrateful--he forgot us. Bitterly, indeed, we felt the truth of the proverb, that 'sharper than a serpent's tooth is an unthankful child,'"

And the old man brushed away a tear; then, looking into the stranger's face, he added, "Did you ever hear of a Hubert Goodwin in India?"

"Hubert Goodwin?" repeated Hubert, with a husky voice. "Goodwin?--but why should you think your son is dead, or that he has forgotten you? He may have written, or something may have prevented him. His letters may have been lost, or a thousand things happened, and he may have regretted the silence as much as you have."

"Is it possible," replied the old man, much excited, "that my poor lad ever thought I had forgotten him?" and he bowed his whitened head.

Before this little scene was half finished, the unworthiness of the part he was playing smote Hubert's heart; he had never intended offering any excuse for his past misconduct, and he felt so self-convicted at the sight of the grief he had so unwittingly caused, that, raising up the old man's head, he said, with deep emotion, "No, father! father, I had forgotten--not you."

"What, Hubert!" cried the old man, pushing him back, and wildly gazing at him. "Hubert! my Hubert! No!" Then he laughed, and then, pointing upward, he added: "Perhaps he's up in heaven with the others, poor lad.

I'll tell him there that I never forgot him: poor lad, he'll forgive me; I never forgot him."

While the old man was speaking, young Richard whispered something to Hubert, who immediately moved behind his father's high-backed chair.

"Grandfather, dear," said the boy, as he kissed his cheek, "why do you cry?"

"I don't know, boy. Oh, yes, just some thoughts of your uncle Hubert!

but--" and he stared about, "where is the soldier? where is he, Richard?

Was I dreaming? Was it Hubert?--has he returned?--where, where is he?

Fetch him, Richard."

"I'm here, father;" and Hubert, as well as he was able, knelt before the old man.

"Oh, Hubert!" were the only words that were uttered, for the recognition in one moment was complete; long, very long, the old man wept upon the bosom of his son, and Hubert wept too; young Richard cried, perhaps because his dear old grandfather did; but Martha, the faithful servant of forty years, knew all the sorrows of her good old master--knew, too, all about the wandering sheep that had come home. She remembered when he was a little lamb in the fold, and she mingled the overflowings of her heart with the others; then she went and closed all the cas.e.m.e.nt shutters, for they wished to have the joy of that first meeting to themselves. The prodigal had indeed returned, but friends and neighbours must not come and make merry yet--the fatted calf must not be killed till to-morrow.

No one intruded upon the scenes of Hubert's home on the evening of his return. The joy of once again seeing him--the answer to so many prayers--came as a new link in the chain of the old man's existence; he would have no supplication, no confession from his erring son: it was enough that the wanderer had returned; and it was _more_ than enough; it was a joy that he had often prayed for, though his hope of knowing it had long since died, that Hubert might become a child of G.o.d. Poor old man! how tenderly and lovingly he strained his long-lost son to his bosom! and the most severe reproofs, denied forgiveness, or the bitterest reproaches, would not have been so hard for Hubert to endure as the tender affection of his deeply-injured father.

Night closed around, and the old man sat later by the fireside than he had done for years, for much of life's vigour had returned with his hopes and joy; he breathed the evening prayers with a deeper fervour; he joined in the evening hymn with a voice less tremulous than the others, and he walked without his staff to his bed.

Poor bereaved heart! nearly all had been taken from him; none save the little orphan grandson had been left for him to love; the waters of affliction had rolled deeply over his head; but the heart, consecrated to heaven, had learnt to bow meekly to the rod, and now the most bitter cup of his life had been filled with joy. "Thy will be done," was the old man's closing prayer, as he lay down upon his pillow that night, and there was a holy calmness upon his brow, for peace and grat.i.tude filled his heart.

Different, indeed, were the feelings Hubert endured; and, as he shut himself in his bed-room--the bed-room of his boyhood--there was a deep struggle in his heart. More vividly than ever came the sins of his past life before him, and great indeed was the remorse he felt for the long years of woe he had caused. How he longed to tell all his repentance to his father! but the old man had forgiven him without: it would not, however, wipe away the sin he had committed; and the remembrance was like an inward fire--burning and burning continually. There was One, however, who _would_ listen to his woe; and Hubert, on bended knee, poured it out from his swelling heart; no eloquence, no effort was needed; and as the hours of that night of deep repentance pa.s.sed on, Hubert drew nearer and nearer to his Father in heaven, and the chastened heart became lightened; then he sank to sleep as calmly as his father had done.

CHAPTER XII.

MEMORIES OF CHILDISH DAYS.

I stand on the brink of a river, The river of life to me, Where the billows of memory quiver, And rise and fall like the sea.

I read in their tremulous motion The records of many a year, And like voices that come from the ocean Are the m.u.f.fled words I hear.--ANON.

A bright morning beamed upon Hubert as he awoke from his slumber in his childhood's home. He looked round the room; somehow there were many things in it that he could recollect. There was the dark oak chest, with curious figures carved upon the front, which had often been a source of terror to him in early days, because on one occasion he was told that they were the likenesses of certain naughty boys, whose remains he verily believed were within that black chest, and though for many years he had forgotten all about it, the story, and the nurse who told it, came all back fresh into his memory. Then there was the old-fashioned furniture upon the bed. "Why!" and he looked at it again, "it is the same, the very same that covered me when last I slept here." And that large arm-chair behind the door, he knew _that_; he remembered that it was taken up there when his grandfather died, and he also remembered that it was where he always put his clothes when he went to bed. Many other things there were that he remembered: very little, indeed, seemed changed; and, as he looked round, his eyes lighted upon a stick, a bow, and a kite, tied together, hanging on the wall. He arose from his bed, and began to dress himself, scanning as he did so the various objects in his room. Presently he saw a small picture over the mantel-shelf, and went to look at it. He started back--it was intended for himself.

Whether it had been a good likeness he was not able to judge, but it represented him as a young soldier just going from home, and beneath it was written, "Our Hubert." It had been drawn from memory, and placed there in remembrance of the lost one. Beneath it, on the mantel-shelf, was a little box, and Hubert raised the lid. Something more! Yes, something more. In that box lay a pair of slippers; they were little ones--a child of eight years old might have worn them; and Hubert, as he was just closing the lid, saw written inside it, "Our Hubert's." "Mine, mine!" he said, as he took them out. "Not mine!" But then some flash of memory lighted up the past, and he thought he could remember when they were his. Over these little slippers the soldier sat down and wept; for the truth had suddenly come to him, and he pictured his parents, gathering up every little thing that he had owned, remembering all about him, except that he had gone away and forgotten them; placing from the heart upon canvas the features of the rebellious one, and loving him fondly to the last. Perhaps over these little slippers they had shed many a tear; since they had covered the little feet, those feet had gone astray. What a dear relic they were of the past! how they reminded him of a time when he was pure and innocent! And he said, as he brushed away the tears from his cheeks--