CHAPTER X.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Lead, kindly light, amid the evening gloom, Lead thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead thou me on!--KEBLE.

Nearer and nearer drew the vessel homeward. Hubert and his friend had that morning kept below; there was a little luggage on a table upon the deck, and two or three people were standing near it; some of the sailors were evidently busy about one of the boats, but a casual observer could not have perceived that anything unusual was going on. Many, nearly all in the vessel, were gladdening their eyes with the first glimpse they were having of Europe; and as the coast of Portugal became more distinct, many hearts burst out with joy, for they were nearing home.

Hubert and his friend at length came on deck: Lisbon, with its noble bay and high lands, could be seen in the distance, and the boat was lowered to convey the passengers to the small vessel that would take them up the river to the town. "Farewell!" it was the last word from Hubert's lips that sounded upon the traveller's ears as he was wafted over the billows that rolled upon the shores of Portugal; "Farewell!" echoed back upon the air, and Hubert, drawing a deep sigh, began already to feel lonely: he had made no other friend in the ship, and he returned to his cabin; he sat down, and began to think over the conversations he had had with his friend, and he wondered again and again whether he himself was not indeed that once reckless boy, who in years gone by had won the sympathies of the noble heart which had now won his. So many incidents in that short narrative had a counterpart in his memory, that at last nothing could persuade him but that it all referred to himself; then how sorry he felt that he had not told his friend more about himself; and, less at ease than he had felt for many months, he closed the door of his cabin, and buried his face in his hands.

Poor Hubert! His heart was growing as tender as it was once hard, and recent sickness had unfitted him to encounter, without emotion, the many visions of that youth-time which now came so vividly before him.

"God grant that I may find them living!" he said earnestly; but then his memory brought back again some of the forebodings and inward whisperings which had often, in bygone years, checked for a moment his reckless course, and his heart told him again that his mother was no more. It came like a deep sorrow to Hubert, like a mighty wave throwing back every torrent upon which it rolled; but he had learnt how to contend with grief, and soon the dim cabin lamp was lighted, and, as night grew dark, he sat and read the much-treasured portion of his mother's Bible. He gained comfort as he read page after page, and it may have been that the lamp grew brighter; at any rate, Hubert's face wore a happier beam, and when the sailor came into the cabin, he said, "Good evening, your honour; glad to see your honour looking better and cheerful like."

"Better, Ben! have I looked ill to-day?"

"Not ill, exactly, your honour," said Ben, "but a little landsman-like, just about the time the passengers for Portugal got adrift, when Mr. Collinton, yer honour's friend, left."

"Well, Ben, I was sorry to lose him; but how late it is! why, I have been reading two hours."

With the assistance of the sailor, Hubert retired to rest, but, just as Ben was leaving the cabin, Hubert requested that he would reach him the Bible that lay upon the table.

"I have a better Bible than this, yer honour," said Ben, as he handed the book; "I mean one that has it all in, not torn as this is; and, if yer honour likes, I'll fetch it, though it's not to every one I'd lend it."

"Why do you offer to lend it to me, then?"

"Because, yer honour, I'm sure you think a great deal of the Bible, and it's a pity you haven't one with all in; this has been bad enough used, at any rate, but some folks don't care how they destroy the Bible. I'm glad it's got into yer honour's hands; but, if you'll accept the loan of mine, I shall be proud to lend it to you; there's not a leaf out; it was the last thing my poor mother ever gave me, and I have used it now over twenty years."

"Thank you, Ben, I do not wish it; mine is torn, I know, but it will do for me. Thank you all the same. Good night."

Hubert was glad when he found himself alone; he was in the habit of talking with Ben, but the sailor's homely remarks were not quite agreeable to him now. Poor untaught fellow! how nobly he appeared to rise in that night's shadows; children of penury, perhaps, he and his mother, yet how rich in affection! Hubert thought many times of that sailor's Bible; like his own, it was a mother's gift, but it had _all_ in, while his had been ruthlessly destroyed. Memory brought back many a long-forgotten scene, when his hard heart strove to rise against the silent admonitions which the sight of that book was ever wont to give; and, as he grasped all that was left to him now, a deep and heartfelt prayer from his penitent heart ascended to the throne of God.

The vessel in which Hubert sailed had made a quick run to England, and, in a few days after the passengers left for Portugal, Hubert landed upon the shores of his native country; and never before had he felt so lonely. He was home without a home; however, being still under orders from the East India Company, he referred to his papers, and then immediately proceeded to London. Lame, without friends, and amongst strangers, Hubert longed to be making his way to his own native village, but he was compelled to tarry some time in London; at length, however, he received his discharge with a handsome pension, and was at liberty to go where he pleased.

Now Hubert felt undecided; he scarcely knew what to do. At one time he thought of writing home, and telling them he was coming; but to whom could he write? Then he thought of taking the coach at once home, but another thought made him abandon that; for his heart was not yet schooled to the task of facing those he had so cruelly injured.

Hesitating what to do, another week passed by, and his conscience, at length, so smote him for lingering, that after arranging about his luggage, which was still at the custom-house, and which he preferred should for the present remain there, he set out with one small trunk, and commenced his journey northward. So many years had passed since Hubert had come along the road by which he was returning, that he might have been In a foreign land: he remembered nothing, but he thought the country beautiful; and, when evening came on, he alighted from the coach, and stayed for the night at a small town. The journey had been rather too much for him: still he felt anxious to be getting on; so, when the coach passed through the town on the following day, he proceeded some distance further. Four days had passed. Hubert, by short stages, was drawing near his home, and the nearer he came to it, the more anxious and nervous grew his heart; he would have given much to have known which of his family remained. Once, years ago, while in a frenzied mood, when rage and passion overcame him, he was suddenly called back to reason by a mystic shadow crossing his vision: it may have been that a heated brain brought before his fierce eye that which startled him; but the remembrance of that moment had seldom left him, and he felt certain that his mother, at least, was missing in his father's household.

Another short journey had been made, and a candle was placed upon the parlour table in the little village inn where Hubert, tired and weary, intended staying for the night. Many of the villagers had seen him leave the coach at the inn door; he was wrapped in a blue cloak, and walked lame, resting upon a stick; his bearing, perhaps, or it may have been a whisper, told them that he was a soldier, and there was a fair chance of a good evening for the landlord of the King George.

One by one the parlour received its guests, and more candles were brought in; a log too--for it was the month of October--found its way to the fire, and the landlord told his wife to see to the customers, for he was going to join the company in the parlour.

Hubert saw with some uneasiness the people coming in, and he would gladly have retired to rest; but his coming was an event they were unwilling to let pass unobserved, and they gathered round him with so much kindness and sympathy, that Hubert felt constrained to stay with them.

The old arm-chair in the corner, which was sacred to two purposes--namely, once a year, when they had beaten the bounds, the vicar sat in it in the tent to partake of the roast beef, which was bountifully provided for those good old observers of ancient customs; and, once a year, when the village club was held the lord of the manor occupied it again. Duly polished every week was that dark oak chair, and not even the sage-looking cat attempted to usurp it. This evening, that honoured seat was drawn up to the fire, a large cushion was placed in it, and there the tired soldier rested.

They saw he was lame, and one went and fetched a soft stool for his wounded leg; then as they sat around him, with their honest sympathetic hearts beating warmly towards the brave defenders of their country, what could Hubert do but tell them of the battles won, and many incidents that make up the soldier's life in India? He had much to tell, and they listened eagerly to him till the hour grew late, and Hubert felt that a soldier's heart still beat in his bosom, and the fire of his youth had not died out. They felt it too, but their enthusiasm was tempered by the constant reference that Hubert made to the God who had preserved him. They parted for the night as the village clock struck eleven, and many of them wondered, as they walked homeward, where he was going, and why he was travelling alone--questions they had not yet ventured to ask; but they promised each other before they parted that they would come again to the inn on the morrow.