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Chapter XVIII.

‘The precious jewel of thy home—return.’

The last page of his sister's history had been turned before Randall's eyes. He had known what would be written at the end; he had felt that his search could only lead him to a grave, but he had not thought to find her last abiding-place so soon, or that her path had so nearly met his own. They had been very near to each other without knowing it.

He went to the cemetery, whither she had been carried over five years before. It was not far away, and his road led him through the town, by a gradually ascending path. When he reached the highest part he saw all the glittering expanse of the harbour beneath him; the islands resting like clouds upon another heaven, blue as the one that was spread above; the vessels lying at the wharves, the white-winged sailing-boats slowly moving before the breeze, and, on the shore, street above street, where the crowd went to and fro, and whence all the cheerful sounds of a busy port were rushing on his ear.

It was the voice of life and its endeavour that spoke to him; another voice murmured amongst the saddened trees and flowers of the cemetery. When page 291 the first dead were laid in this graveyard it was an open place, where fern and wild-flowers grew, and trees clothed the banks of the stream flowing by. Streets hemmed it in now, and the living encroached upon the dead. Some time, perhaps, when they were forgotten, it would no longer be a place of tombs. There would be nothing then but nameless dust, and people would step lightly over it, ignorant that they trod on the sepulchres of the past. But, meanwhile, many sleep soundly here, and their home is as fair a one as long wanderings could have found them.

He found the grave without much difficulty. It was not unmarked: there was a headstone (placed there by Mr. Wishart's orders), and on it initials and a date. People strolling among the graves had often noticed this one, and wondered why there was no name. He flung himself down beside the mound, and thought there in the silence of the place, which was quiet amidst the uproar of a city,—thought how often he had gone down that street near by, and had never dreamed that any of his lay buried here.

After an hour Mr. Wishart came to him, and they went away together. Mr. Wishart protested against going home in a commonplace prosaic manner by the closed-up clattering train. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we will drive: what are fifteen miles? In the good old times they would have made a triumph of such a return as yours. We ought to have outriders, and a long cavalcade following after us; there ought to be page 292 arches raised before us, and if Murdoch has any spirit he will have made one.’

They drove therefore. As they passed down the street one of the crowd on the side-walk recognised them, and nodded gaily, as if it rejoiced his heart to see them. It was Mr. Godfrey Palmer, and it testified to the wisdom of this gentleman that he was never heard to repine at the sudden caprice of Fortune which had dashed the cup from his lips. He gnashed his teeth in private, however.

Onward they drove, as if the horses were glad as themselves to go—westward, away from the town, with the river flowing on their right hand, and the hills before them. And first the houses were near together, and stood in the midst of gardens, and then they shunned each other, and stood among the fields, and then it was the sweet country which only lately had been vexed with the vulgar bustling traffic of the railway, and scored across with telegraph lines. Then they toiled up the hills, in the midst of the forest, and within hearing of the murmur of streams. An old road—they know it by heart, and at the end of it is home.

Yes; at last! If ever house spoke, this speaks to them now. It smiles a welcome from every window. Its parterre of flowers flashes like a ring of jewels in the sunlight. And there is actually an arch, which Murdoch has made in fearful haste, and which, therefore, is flimsily built, and sways before the breeze. All the house-folk are outside to meet them, page 293 the servants drawn up in a respectful but imposing phalanx in the background. On the verandah there is a little group of three—Maud, Mrs. Randall, and Mrs. Meade. When the carriage stops one of these runs before all the rest to meet her son, and clasp him in her arms. For he is her only child, and death has so nearly parted them. And then—but it need not be told, for we know how the lost are welcomed when they are found again, and how, after toil and travel, after wandering and waiting, one moment on the threshold of a home is worth it all.

It matters nothing now to the wanderer returned that the way has been long, the labour hard, that health is broken and years of his life have gone. No, those are churlish indeed who pause to count the cost when they have won their heart's desire. This is what he has worked for, to come home again with a name free from reproach, with fortune and with fame honourably earned. Not all the world's vain gauds and toys, not all the flattering praise of crowds, but this—this is success.

Since the evening of the day before this return had been expected, and since then the whole household had been disorganised, if not demoralised, with joy. One may be quiet under the pressure of great grief; no one accepts tidings of great joy with quietness. They could not rest for it; they had not been able to sleep for thinking of it; they had not cared to eat for joy, and there was little need, for one may live a long while on this same ambrosial food. In this page 294 state of general upheaval, when even the pillars of government were shaken, Harry, who was now a big boy of eight or nine, but not less unruly than he had ever been, had taken advantage of a relaxed discipline to run riot everywhere, working such mischief as had not previously been heard of, even in his career. He was found and captured, just when the carriage had come in sight. Mrs. Grigsby wanted to see the arrival herself, but was determined not to neglect Harry's salutary punishment, so, according to her favourite plan, she thrust him into an empty room, and turned the key on him.

He had often been in this room before, and he had wondered each time why two locked trunks stood there, and what they contained. He had asked, as he was in the habit of asking about everything that puzzled him; but had never had a satisfactory answer. He conceived the bold idea of opening them. They were locked, but in his eyes this was only a trifling circumstance. Had he not broken open a box in which Mrs. Grigsby had locked up all his toys, because, as she said, he did not deserve to have them? Had he not also, when she had confined him in a dark closet, cut the bolt out of the door with his right trusty knife, which fortunately had been in his pocket? He had a more wonderful knife with him now—his average use of knives was twenty-five per annum. Besides three blades, sharp as razors, it had a file, saw, gimlet, and tweezers, hooks and corkscrew—in fact, it was a compendium page 295 of useful tools. He inserted first one and then the other of these into the keyhole, he worked round and round, he scraped and tugged, until at last something snapped. He worked again, and was satisfied by the sounds that the flimsy lock was broken. Then he tilted the trunk a little, took hold of the handle, placed the copper-plated toe of one little boot just under the edge of the lid, steadied himself on the other foot, and with a violent pull the box came open. He was up to the arms in beautiful dresses, richer and handsomer than any he had ever seen. Some shone like gold, some were of delicate tints, or clear ivory white; some were black, and heavy with deep laces or fringes. There were shawls, and he put one on, and looped another round the waist like a sash. Deep down in the trunk he found a little case which he managed to open. It was full of jewellery. He panted with delight. What a glow of colour! What a beautiful soft brilliance from these precious things, each resting on its cushion of blue velvet! He put rings on his fingers, and clasped bracelets of jewelled serpents on his arms. The rings would fall off, so instead he took a necklace that had stones set in gold, some milk-white, some blood-red. There was a glass in the room, and he climbed on the trunk to look in it, and, child though he was, admired his own dark Oriental beauty, heightened by the splendour of gold and jewels, and the Indian shawls he had looped around him. Something came to him like the dim memory of a half-forgotten dream. page 296 Once he must have seen that necklace beneath another face, like, but not exactly like his own. He wondered whose these beautiful things were. If they were Aunt Maud's, why did she not wear them?

He played with them a long time, parading the room with silken trains yards long dragging after him, veiling himself with lace scarves, or making turbans of the shawls. lie grew tired, and no one came to let him out. Wearied of his fanciful play, he sat down on the floor beside the ransacked trunk, and his head began to bow a little, and his eyelids to droop, till at last he fell asleep.

They were talking of him then, and Mrs. Grigsby was ordered to bring him. She went to his prison, and feeling sure from her long experience that his silence was very ominous, quietly opened the door a little way and peeped in. What she saw made her rush back again. ‘Do just come and look,’ she entreated them; ‘It's like a picture.’ They all went, and were not ashamed to sit down on the floor round the sleeping child, admiring him. When he woke Mrs. Randall had him on her knee, and Randall was unclasping the bracelets from his arms. ‘I haven't hurt them,’ he said, a little frightened, for he expected to be reproved for the mischief he had done. ‘I looked in the box, because Mrs. Grigsby said there was nothing in it, and I knew’—darting a glance at the housekeeper— ‘that was a story.’

And no one even said he was a naughty boy. Harry could not understand it. Instead of that, first page 297 one petted him and then another, and they tried to explain that something had happened which made him dearer to them than ever. He was half-pleased, half-bewildered, at having two new relations thrust upon him. ‘But you are my aunt yet, aren't you?’ he asked, looking wistfully into Maud's face.

‘Of course she is,’ said Mr. Wishart slily, ‘an aunt elect, Harry, if you know what that means.’

He was enthroned by them, and throned so high that he almost cast the other Harry into the shade. ‘If that precious child wasn't spoiled before,’ said the sagacious Mrs. Grigsby, ‘he will be now.’ But are children really spoilt by such unmeasured kindness? —who knows?—or is it by other things not counted by their unwise guardians? Whether it were for his good or not, one child's heart held a heaven of happiness that night which did not seem less real when he slept and, once again, dreamed of his mother.

And the others sat on the verandah until it was late, talking of things new and old. They watched the sky darken till the planets beamed on high, and the pall of night came down. It falls between them and us, and we see them no more.

‘Long have we fared together, thou and I:
Thou hast grown dearer, as old friends must grow:
Small wonder if I dread to say good-bye.’

There must needs be an epilogue. We would fain pry into the future of those of whom these pages contain the most veracious history likely to be page 298 written. And we have a crystal, truer than necromancer e'er put faith in. It shows us, as we gaze into its translucent depths, that Harry was duly proved, even to the satisfaction of lawyers hard of belief and prudently averse to conjecture, to be Mr. Moresby's rightful heir, and that his uncle had more pleasure than perhaps any one supposed in changing places with him. But he was trustee and guardian still, though Mr. Wishart put in such a touching plea, on the score of having had possession of the said Harry long enough to give him indisputable rights, that no one could have had the heart to disallow it. And then he pleaded for another thing. ‘Why should I be left alone in this large house?’ he said. ‘Why should it be turned into a monastery of one friar? My sister is leaving me’—Mrs. Meade had decided to return to England; ‘Harry will have to go soon to school or college; and now you and Maud will go. I am left to mope and pine in solitude. It is all very well to smile at one another and suggest a remedy—no, no, my bachelorhood is too firmly imbedded in the cake of custom.’

They stayed with him, and though they did not promise to stay always, he guessed shrewdly when he foresaw that the place would become their home as much as any place could be. For Randall had not lost all his old restlessness. He could not altogether give up his fondness for travelling, nor was he likely ever to renounce his profession and lead a life in which it had no part. page 299 It had been said oftentimes of him that he was something of a genius, and we know that people who suffer from that incurable complaint cannot be expected to live as those who are hale and well.

Our crystal shows us other things. By it we are assured that, after three or four years, Stephen committed himself for life to the care of a lady who must have been both fair and wise, for she was the oracle of her mother- and sisters-in-law, and admired by all her husband's kinsfolk, even to remote degrees of consinship. She was truly a charming, sensible woman, and she believed (having no reason to believe otherwise) that no other woman had had a chance of becoming Mrs. Stephen Langridge.

There is another picture as pleasant as this. It is that of the home of the Bailey family,—a most enviable farm, whose fields change every year from green to gold, and whose garners and rickyards overflow with, fulness. Although, as old Mr. Lang-ridge still says, ‘farming does not pay’, Bailey, mysteriously enough, has prospered with his farm. And all his boys and girls have done well in the world; indeed one or two of them have done so very well that discretion prevents us from telling you where and what they are now. They might be ill-pleased with such officiousness. Some people, dear friend, though you may wonder to hear it, would rather have you believe that they were born to greatness than that it has been the reward of their energy and talent.

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Professor Crasher still continues to thump at concerts and drawing-room entertainments, and to ruin pianos, with great benefit to the trade of Broad-wood, Brinsmead, and their compeers. As long as he is in life he will be in debt; but no one, except perhaps his tailor, will like him less for that. He has beaten his rival, Emanuel Paul Peters, out of the field, and since that signal victory has grown perceptibly stouter, and has dressed more gorgeously than ever. Peace to him, and also to his tailor, unhappy wight, who now builds his hopes on the future success of Miss Adelaide Crasher, who promises to be a fine singer.

Mrs. Sherlock no longer keeps open house for strangers and pilgrims. The good lady has retired from business, and finds life somewhat dull without it. No one knows (at least we do not) how many shares in the Bank of New Zealand she holds, how many in companies of good repute; but this is certain, she holds to nothing which does not pay a fair dividend. She reveres the memory of Sherlock, and for his sake occasionally reads a leading article in the newspaper, the parliamentary news, or—rare sacrifice this!—the speech of some wordy colonial politician, ‘because, poor dear man, he understood politics, and was so fond of them.’

Do not expect to hear that Philimore has retired from business. Such a man must die in harness. He is always yoked to some genius or other, or on the trail, hunting down men of talent, and when he page 301 has caught them, running too and fro with them over the world. Familiarity with genius has not made him less fond of it; no, for he knows what a fine thing it is in the world's market; but it no longer dazzles him. To him writers, orators, musicians, actors, men of science even, are only-common everyday fellows. He knows them all: he knows too much. He is like a lighted shell, a torpedo, or any other deadly explosive which may burst without a moment's warning, only—what a blessing!—he does not go off. But lately a horrible suspicion has been awakened in the breasts of those who are at his mercy. It has been whispered that Mrs. Philimore keeps a diary, that she has a box full of manuscripts—sketches, anecdotes, memoirs. Alas,—alas!

And what became of Godfrey Palmer? What does become of such men? Men who live luxuriously and fare daintily to the last, on the fruit of another's labour; who are free from care, they say, because they are not burdened with wife or child; who can be happy, they would have us believe, without love or friendship, without honour or respect: who have a sneer for the faith and reverence of other men; a doubt or a scoff for their beliefs. What becomes of them, when age chills them to the heart, and they are left alone with the only thing they profess to believe in—themselves? There is a road which leads to bitterness, darkness, despair, and they have chosen it There is a coldness, — wealth page 302 cannot warm it, poverty itself does not freeze so hard,—and they feel it. There is a laughter on lips that never smile, a joyless mirth that comes near to madness,—and they know it. And somewhere—have you not seen such a one? neglected, forgotten, dishonoured—there is a grave; no tear has ever fallen on it,—and it is theirs.

One other figure shows itself faintly to us. That poor Doctor who tended Randall in his illness was not forgotten by him. He employed Bailey to seek for him, and to do whatever a friend might in his behalf. But he seemed to shrink from accepting kindness from Randall, though he was much comforted to hear that his life had been saved. He refused all assistance; he was able to maintain himself and his wife, and he sought for nothing more. Of him it may be said that he won some way back towards the peace that he had ruined; but never to the happiness which had once been his, for that was impossible. A crime may be expiated, but can never be forgotten. There are scars on the soul which only an eternity can cure.

And even of the others who have borne company with us so long, we do not find that they were ever so fortunate or so happy as they wished or expected. It is human to desire always a greater happiness than that which we possess. It is human to be surprised and offended when, instead of happiness, care shows her face, as if it had not been proclaimed, ever since earth was young, that we must have fellowship with both. And this happiness is a very subtle creature, page 303 who hardly lets her hand rest long enough in ours to be tightly clasped, and will smile in our face one moment, to vanish from our sight the next. But, after all, most men may say that she comes as often as she goes. There is no country so desolate that her enchantment may not make it a paradise; no saddened, toiling wayfarer so forsaken that once at least she has not smiled upon his path. And the magic of that smile is remembered long upon the weary way; the heart is fed with hopes that at the next turning he will find her, that she waits for him by the styles, in the quiet lanes and by-paths of life. Ah! when she comes, flowers will blossom, and springs gush forth in the barrenness of the desert. Yet there are those, the strong and firm of purpose, who will not tarry for her laggard steps, who never look back or falter from their aim because she has gone. For them another leads the way, whose face though grave may soften to a smile divine; who, even while she chides whispers sweet counsel in the ear, and whose wreath can never wither on the brow.

The End.

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