CHAPTER X.
TOM'S ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS.
THE "Juno" was back in Plymouth in less than two years. And when Tom and Gideon were paid off, Tom was in a fever of anxiety to see Robins and hear how his venture had prospered. He chose to go alone. Robins had a house in the Barbican, where his wife and children lived, and there Tom found him, and was informed that his twenty-five guineas had been turned and turned again to such advantage that one other voyage would make him the owner of one hundred and fifty guineas.
Now, Tom Adderley, though ignorant, was no fool, and Gideon's words had opened his eyes. He knew as well as any one could that money is not made thus rapidly in honest, lawful trade. Robins told him nothing, and he asked no questions, but he knew perfectly that the man was a smuggler, and that he ought to have nothing to say to him. But—a hundred and fifty guineas! Fancy walking into Burdeck the owner of such a sum as that! Why, no one in Burdeck had ever seen so much money! Very likely there were few that could count it. Tom felt that he could not give up the chance of this triumph, and he told himself that even if he took his money now, it had been made in the same way, so where was the use of stopping short of that magnificent hundred and fifty? And he did not actually know that Robins was a smuggler—only that Gideon was sure to say so.
Gideon did say so, and said a good deal more than that. In fact, he made himself so unpleasant that he and Tom had high words for the first time, and Tom went off and entered his name on board the "Inconstant," a frigate which had been in commission for some little time, and had put into Plymouth for repairs and a few new hands. She sailed the next day, so that Tom did not see Gideon again even to tell him what he had done.
Charlie Egerton was on board the "Inconstant," and when Tom came to himself and was very sorry for his behaviour to Gideon, he got Mr. Egerton to write a letter for him, which was sent to Captain Egerton, now living near Plymouth, who would, Tom was sure, do his best to find the old sailor.
The "Inconstant" was paid off in about a year, and Tom found himself once more in Plymouth, and free.
As soon as he could shake off the companionship of his late shipmates, he hastened to the house in the Barbican where he had left the Robins family. Alas! He found strangers living there, who did not even know the name of Robins. Tom knew no one in the neighbourhood, but he felt that he must make inquiries, at any risk; and it seemed possible that at the nearest public-house he might hear something of Robins.
He walked into the bar, asked for a glass of ale, and said to the lad who drew it for him, "I came here to see an old messmate of mine—a man called Peter Robins—and he lived over the way there, at the corner house. Do you know where he is now?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said the youth, carelessly.
But a door, which was already half-way open, was now opened a little more, and a jolly, good-tempered-looking woman, with bright ribbons in her cap, looked in at Tom. After watching him for a few moments, she said—
"Look here, you Jack ashore—you in the blue cap. Step this way. I want to speak to you."
Tom followed her into her snug little parlour, and she shut the door.
"Was it you I heard asking about Peter Robins just now?"
"It was, ma'am. He is an old shipmate of mine."
"Don't tell me! Robins never sailed in a king's ship!"
"No, ma'am; merchant ship—'Star of the Sea,' from Liverpool. I was in her too, but was pressed for the navy."
"Ay—that's more likely! Well, you're a decent looking lad, and I'll do you a good turn. Don't be heard asking for Robins any more. Robins—well, truth's best—he was a friend of mine, and many and many a keg of Hollands—But that don't matter to you. He got too venturesome, did Robins, with lace. 'Twas the lace that ruined him. His boat was seized, and he had a mighty narrow shave of being hung. And if you want to find him now, you may start for Botany Bay. That's the truth, young man. Why, what's the matter now?"
"My money!" moaned poor Tom. "Oh, mother, mother! What's to become of me now?"
He broke away from her, and ran out of the house. The fresh air brought him so far to himself that he walked along quietly. The next thing he knew, he was standing on the Hoe, near the Citadel, gazing out to sea.
All his money gone! Mother's golden guineas, father's little farm, his own fortune that he was so proud of—all gone! What was he to do now? He had about ten guineas—no more. For, counting on the money from Robins, and being without old Gideon's care and kindness, he had been a little extravagant of late. Only last night he had lost a good deal of money at some game, and still more in betting on his own play. He could never face his mother and father now! To be more than ten years away, and to return no richer than he went! That he would never do. To set to work again to save money? There was no prize-money to be had now, and it would be years before he could scrape together any considerable sum. To go to sea again, to forget his mother, put away all thoughts of home, to forget Gideon and his teaching, and enjoy life like other sailors;—this, he thought, was the only thing left for him to do.
"I'll go back to the 'Royal Tar,' treat the fellows all round, spend my money as fast as I can, and go to sea again. It's no use thinking of anything else. Gideon warned me, and I wouldn't heed him. I've lost him, and I've lost my own people, and there's no use in trying to be good; the bad comes more natural. I give up, and I'll have some fun, anyhow."
And in order to begin as soon as possible to be exceedingly jolly and merry, Tom here began to sing. He had a fine mellow voice, sweet and tuneful. And as he strode along, meaning to go through Plymouth and make his way to the public-house in Dock (as Devonport was then called) where he had left his comrades, he shouted out a long ditty about "the saucy 'Arethusa,'" and dashed along at a great pace.
Presently he almost ran against a gentleman with only one arm, who was coming out of a shop. And at the same moment, some one laid hold of him, saying—
"I'd know his pipe among a thousand! Stay a moment, Tom."
Tom turned. The speaker was Gideon Terlizzeck, and the gentleman was Captain Egerton.
"Why, Adderley, is this you?" said the captain, doubtfully; not doubting that this was Tom, but doubting much whether Tom was in a fit condition to be spoken to by his old captain.
"'Tis me, sir," said Tom. And he added, after a pause, "I'm all right, sir. I'm quite sober."
"Yes, I see you are.—Gideon, bring him home with you.—Mrs. Egerton's waiting for me, but I shall see you again presently, Tom. Gideon has been looking for you. We heard this morning that the 'Inconstant' was paid off."
"Yes, sir. You're very kind, Captain Egerton.—Oh, Gideon, Gideon, but I wish I'd never left you!"
"Come along, my lad; come with me now. Where have you been staying, Tom?"
"'Royal Tar,' near the dockyard gate."
"Ay, I know it. Your kit will be safe there; 'tis an honest house. The captain lives out the other way, on the Laira Road; and I live with him."
"Don't go to sea no more?" asked Tom.
"No more—unless the captain goes, and wishes to take me. He's served his time for his flag, and will be an admiral pretty soon, and his health has not been the same since he lost his arm. So I think his sea-going days are over; and, if so, mine are over too."
"Ay, ay," said Tom, in a dreary, absent tone. He did not more than half understand what Gideon said, and though he walked along beside his old friend, he did not know where he was going. His mind was in such a tumult of grief and anger—anger with Robins, not with himself—that he could think of nothing else. And all the time a small voice kept saying to him, "You are rightly served; you deserved to lose your money."
Gideon became silent when he saw that Tom did not attend to him. They left the town behind them, and walked along a fine open road, with the Laira (an inlet of the harbour) on one side, and on the other pretty little domains with gardens and comfortable houses, mostly inhabited by half-pay naval officers. At the gate of one of these Gideon stopped. There was a tiny red-brick gate-house, and to this he led the way.
"Here's where I've slung my hammock," said he, as he unlocked the door.
Tom roused up for the first time, and looked round with some interest. The one room was in the most exquisite state of cleanliness and order, but to our eyes it would have looked very bare. There was just enough furniture for one person, with an extra chair for a visitor. The floor was tiled, and the tiles were rubbed till they were as red as if new. Before the clumsy, comfortable, wooden armchair lay a small square of carpet, neatly edged round with fringe. On the white walls, which might have been white-washed that morning, hung a model of a frigate, and a picture representing a sea-fight, wherein smoke was the most conspicuous feature; a coffee-pot, a frying-pan, and a small tin saucepan. The little grate held a spark of fire, and a shining kettle set on the hob. Big hooks in the walls showed that when Gideon said he slung his hammock here, he had used no figure of speech; indeed, the hammock, its canvas as white as snow, lay rolled up neatly on a low shelf. Another shelf held a few cups and saucers and plates, and there was a cupboard for provisions. Gideon drew Tom in, and shut the door.
"My house, Tom. You're welcome, my son, right welcome. Do you know, I've prayed for this moment, many and many a time. Isn't it snug, Tom? Isn't it, now?" the old man said, looking proudly round.
He had taken Tom's hand in his. But now Tom pulled it away, dropped into the armchair, and laid his arms on the table. Down went his head, till his face was hidden on his outstretched arms, and then great sobs shook his broad shoulders, and poor Tom, quite broken down by Gideon's kindness and a sudden sense of his own unworthiness, cried like a baby.
"My lad! My dear lad! I sought you all yesterday and this morning, for to break the bad news to you like, but never went to the 'Royal Tar.' I went to the quiet old place where you and I used to stop."
"You know, then, about Robins, Gideon?" said Tom, raising his head and rubbing the tears away.
"Yes. The captain was in Plymouth the day his boat, and some others too, were seized, and he happened to mention it to me."
"Does the captain know about my money?"
"Yes; I told him as how Robins was an old comrade of yours, and that you had trusted him with some money to trade with. I had for to tell him that much—I'll explain why presently. How did you hear of it?"
"I went to his house, and the woman who has the public-house opposite told me. I was going back to the 'Royal Tar' when you met me."
GREAT SOBS SHOOK HIS BROAD SHOULDERS,
AND POOR TOM . . . CRIED LIKE A BABY.
"Tom, I'm sorry, 'very' sorry for you."
"Gideon, you're not sorry that I've lost that money. You can't be; for you 'are' good and upright. You warned me. I mind you said,—
"'Get back your twenty-five guineas that you gave him, and don't take another shilling, for his earnings are dishonest money, and you'll have no blessing on it.'
"Those were your words, and I wouldn't mind them. And now I'm ruined altogether."
"You've lost the money, Tom, but you've escaped a much worse thing than that. You'll soon see that you've a deal to be thankful for. That fellow Robins saved his life by turning king's evidence, and he gave your name as having given funds towards the business. 'Twere then I told the captain about it. And he went and got a lawyer, and they saw Robins, and made him own up that he told you 'twas all honest trade. And so, by saying how you had sailed with him, and giving you a good character, the captain got you out of that scrape, which might have been a very ugly one."
"Gideon, I'll tell you the truth. Robins told me 'twas all right, as you say, but I didn't believe him—not that last time."
"Well, I never was asked about anything but the first time. You never gave him any more, did you?"
"No. 'Twas very good of the captain to do all this for me, but 'twas better of you, Gideon, for I behaved ungrateful to you."
"You was angry, but you wrote, if you remember. Indeed, I didn't wait for that to forgive you, Tom. That letter was the means of bringing me to my present comfortable anchorage. I'm gardener, under the mistress, and I mind the pony, under the captain; and I get my dinner at the house, and live here in great peace and comfort. At first I had a girl to do for me, but, bless you, she made work for me—she did indeed. Females don't seem to me to know straight from crooked, nor yet how to put a real finish on anything. I do for myself now. Have a pipe, Tom? 'Twill soothe your spirits."
Pipes being lighted, both men were silent for a time. Presently a well-known voice called—
"Lodge ahoy! Are you there, Terlizzeck? Gate!"
Gideon hurried out to admit the pony carriage. Mrs. Egerton was driving, and as soon as she was inside the gate, she drew up.
"Adderley here?" said the captain.
"Ay, ay, sir," answered Tom, appearing at the door.
"Oh, come here, Tom Adderley," said Mrs. Egerton, "and let me thank you for saving my boy. It's an old story now, I know, but, you see, I never met you before."
"I'm sure, ma'am, you're very welcome," said Tom, blushing all over.
"Come up to the house to dinner with Gideon," said the captain, "and you'll see Mr. Egerton. He is at home, you know."
"Is he going afloat again, sir?" inquired Tom.
"Oh no, not just yet," Mrs. Egerton replied hastily.
The captain laughed, and said, "Drive on, Carrie." And off they drove.
"Nov, Tom, you stay here and make yourself at home, till such time as I hail you from the other end of the drive; then come to me. I must go to take the pony and make all snug."
"Let me go along and help you," said Tom. "I haven't forgotten how to tackle a pony yet."
By the time the pony was rubbed down, and the carriage washed, and the neat little stable, coach-house, and yard made snug, a bell rang.
"That's for dinner," said Gideon. "I used to live altogether in my own berth, but the mistress found out that I am no great hand at cooking, beyond a slice of fried bacon or an egg, so she regulated that I should dine here, and the moment the captain is served—and of course Mr. Charlie or any visitor—she carves for me, and I has my dinner in a little room off the kitchen. All to myself, like Joseph and his brethren—ye mind that, Tom? This way."
After dinner, Tom had a few kind words from the captain and Mrs. Egerton, and was then taken by Gideon to see the garden. Mrs. Egerton understood gardening well, and in Gideon she had a most zealous and painstaking assistant. The rows of peas and beans were as straight and even as if made by machinery. The cabbages were cut in rows—no looking about for the best was permitted here; and as each row disappeared, the ground was dug over and raked smooth. Not a morsel of rough ground was to be seen. As to weeds, they never had a chance of getting beyond two saucy little leaves.
The only point upon which Gideon and his mistress differed was that he, in his love of order, wanted to tie the rose trees to sticks, and to force every one of them to grow in exactly the same form; also, when a bed of mignonette began to look a little bit straggling, though still in full blossom, Gideon would have liked to pull it all up and rake the bed over, "trim and tidy." These things Mrs. Egerton would not allow, but, in spite of her, the flower garden was somewhat severely tidy.
Tom, however, approved of all he saw, and thought of mother's little garden at home with the bees in the flowers—mother's garden that he would never see again.
CHAPTER XI.
THE JOURNEY HOME.
AT six o'clock Gideon "knocked off" work, Tom having pulled off his jacket and handled a spade in fine style ever since dinner. In fact, he was able to teach Gideon a thing or two about digging, and Gideon was not above learning.
They returned to the lodge, where Gideon prepared an abundant meal for his guest—fried bacon, coffee, baker's bread, everything of the best, and plenty of it. After supper they sat by the fire, though it was very warm, and Gideon asked—
"And when do you go north, Tom?"
"North! Why, is there anything particular going on thereaway?"
"Going home, I mean," answered Gideon.
"Never," said Tom shortly.
"Ay, and why, my lad, if one may ask?"
"I think you hardly need ask, Gideon. I've been more than ten years away now, and to go back just as I left them—not even a few poor shillings to give mother, over and about the ten guineas I stole from her! I'd be the laughingstock of the place. They've forgot me by this time."
"Mothers don't forget, nor yet fathers, I'm told, but I never had one—I had only a mother. She was a good mother, and so is yours, kind and loving-hearted as a woman should be. And I tell you, Tom, if she has forgotten aught about you, 'twill be that you took that money without her leave."
"No, not she," answered Tom. "Mother's as good as gold, but she ain't one of your soft sort, and she—well, Gideon, she has a tongue, not scolding or brawling, but a tongue you'll have to mind."
There was a short silence. Then Tom said—
"I've done wrong, and I own to it. I began badly when I took that money. Having taken it, I ought to have got Captain Collins to write after my first voyage, and pay it back. I could have done it even then. I did not do that, and then came the time I was pressed. Well, when I was leaving the 'Star,' I had a notion to leave my money with Captain Collins to send to mother. I didn't do that, and in five minutes more the money was at the bottom of the sea. Then, when I had money again, you urged upon me to go home for a bit. But no, I must have more money to take with me. Then I met Robins, and you warned me again and again, and I only fell out with you. I see it all plain enough, now that it's too late. The money's gone, and I have no heart to begin again. It's just my punishment—to go on being a sailor, all alone in the world except for you, Gideon, all the rest of my life."
Terlizzeck gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
"You own up that you were in the wrong?" said he.
"I do, Gideon. My pride is broken down. I see that I was all wrong."
"No, Tom, your pride's not broken down. First time you and me ever had a yarn, I mind well reading you the parable about the son that went home after wasting his substance, and you said how you would never do that—go home empty-handed, asking to be forgiven. Since then, you've been changed in many ways, Tom. You've learned many a lesson, and you're a steady, decent lad, and not without the fear of God neither, but always your pride stands in your way. You don't like to be forgiven—you'd like to earn it; and you can't earn it, not even from your mother; and no one can earn it from God Almighty."
Gideon ceased to speak, but Tom made no attempt to reply.
"Seems to me," Gideon went on presently, "that you're mistaken when you think you've learned the lesson all this ought to have taught you. And another mistake—'twas you did wrong, and you're going to punish your mother."
"No, no; she won't want me. She has father and Sam."
"You can't say for sure. A many things can happen in ten years. Anyway, to my eyes, your duty is plain. And that is, to go home, confess your fault, pay back what you can, and hear what your mother may have to say to you; then to sea again with a good conscience. If you don't do this, you'll never be happy in your mind. You'll go to sea; the temptations are great—you'll not keep straight because you won't be helped. You know yourself how it's like to end."
Gideon here got up and busied himself in slinging his hammock, and a second, which Captain Egerton had lent him, for Tom. Then he read a chapter in the Bible aloud, said his prayers, and remarked—
"I'll turn in, my lad, for I've got to be early."
Gideon was soon asleep. Not so Tom. He lay there, thinking, then dozing, and then thinking again. He dreamed of his mother. He saw her working in her garden, busy and happy, and he was a boy again, helping her. Then suddenly she looked sad and ill, and she said to him, "Where are my golden guineas, Tom? Now the rainy day has come, I miss them."
Tom woke up and could sleep no more.
In the morning he said to Gideon—
"Old friend, you are right all round. I ought to go home and say I'm sorry, but I don't feel able to do it. That's the truth."
"You was never a coward, Tom," said the old man quietly.
They had breakfast, and then Tom said—
"I'd better go and see after my kit, and, if I may, I'll come back in the evening."
"You'll never be aught but welcome, my son," replied Gideon.
Tom came back in the evening in great spirits, saying—
"Oh, Gideon, I've had such a piece of luck. I met Mr. Egerton, walking with an old gentleman—I didn't take him for a sailor, but it was Sir Michael Elliott, who is going to hoist his flag aboard the 'Conqueror,' in the Mediterranean. And Mr. Egerton had been recommending me to him, as he wanted a sober young man for cox of his own boat! And he don't sail for two months, so I've plenty of time to go home; and I am going, Gideon."
"And you'll always be glad as you did so," remarked Gideon. "I'm real glad, Tom."
Tom made the voyage to Liverpool on board a collier brig returning for a cargo, and to see Mr. Tom turning up his nose at the dirt and untidiness of that collier was an amusing sight. But the collier was slow as well as dirty, and by the time Tom was landed in Liverpool, he had lost the glow of his good intentions and felt very much inclined to—run away. The idea of facing his people under his present circumstances was so galling that he lingered a whole day in Liverpool, and it is hard to say what he might have done, if he had not happened to meet Captain Collins. The last time he saw his old captain he was a hale, hearty man: now he was bent and aged and weak. Tom hardly knew him. Having with difficulty made the old man remember him, Tom inquired politely for Mrs. Collins. The old man sighed.
"I've buried her, Adderley. Lost her five years ago. Never the same since. I'm getting old—getting old. Time flies. Seems to me only yesterday I was a young fellow like you."
Somehow, this made Tom set off inland the next morning.
It was a longish tramp, but the worst of it was that he had to spend some of his money for food and lodging. Footsore and weary, he at last found himself in a familiar place. He knew that he was close to Burdeck.
Tom sat down and rested. He ate some food that he had with him, and then carefully arranged his dress and shook off the dust. He did not want to look weary and forlorn. Then he walked on. Ah! There was little Burdeck nestling in its valley, and that smoke came from the chimney of his old home.
And now he stood at the garden gate, half-hoping that mother would look-out and know him. The garden—what ailed it? And the apricot was dead; the pear tree hung loose and ragged from the wall. Half frightened, he opened the gate and strode to the door.
"Who's within?" he cried, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. He had to call more than once. At last, just as he was making up his mind to open the door for himself, it was opened by a dirty looking woman with a baby in her arms.
"What d'ye want?" said she, looking half frightened.
"Who are you?" he answered. "Your name is never Adderley?"
"No—I don't know the name. Be off now; I want no tramps about."
"Hold hard, mistress," said Tom, as she was going to shut the door. "Where is Thomas Adderley that lived here once?"
"'Twas before our time," she answered, and she shut the door.
He heard her lock it. After a moment or so, he walked away, and went up the garden of the next house, where the Trayners used to live. He felt quite stupid. A decent looking young woman was at the door. She, too, had a baby in her arms.
"Does Matthew Trayner live here still?" Tom said.
"No, Wat, his son. What do you want with the Trayners?"
"Mistress, I'm not a tramp," said Tom quickly. "I belong to these parts, and have been away at sea for years. All I want is to know where I may find my people."
"My husband is away at work, but he'll be back soon after six. Maybe I can tell you, but I'm not Burdeck born. I came from Wakefield."
"Thomas Adderley, my father, he lived in that cottage—where is he?"
"Are you an Adderley? Come in and sit down. I've heard my sister-in-law Lucy talk of you. You're Tom, that went away?"
"Yes. Oh, tell me, if you know, where I'll find my people."
"Sit down," she said gently, and she went and laid her baby in the cradle. "'Tis little I can tell you, and—it's not good news. Your poor father is dead; dead some years."
"My father dead!" said Tom. "A great strong man like he, and not to say old neither. I can scarce believe it."
"It is true; and I do wish Wat was here, for I hate telling you bad news. It wouldn't sound so bad in a friend's voice. 'Twas a fever that was very bad here; it was nine years ago. Wat's father and mother died of it, and your father got it and lived through it. But he was never the same again. He took on so about—" Here she paused.
"Go ahead, mistress. Tell me every word."
"'Twas about his oldest son. He was the first to get the fever, and he died. Your poor father, he got to be like a child—no sense, and not able to work. His master was very kind and left him in the cottage, and Mrs. Adderley worked for him and kept him wonderful comfortable. When he died, of course, she had to leave the cottage."
"And where is she now?" cried Tom, standing up and groping for his hat. "Poor father! Poor old Sam! But tell me where mother is, that I may go to her."
The young woman looked away from him.
"When Wat comes home," she said, "he'll be able to tell you; I can't. I can tell you no more."
She went and brought him a mug of clear, cold water, saying, "You look mazed—so you do. Drink some water, and sit here till Wat comes."
Tom drank the water. He really was not quite himself. He sat down, and Mrs. Trayner hoped he would stay quiet till her husband came in. But in a few minutes Tom was up again.
"Where are you going?" she asked him. "Do sit still a bit; you look—"
"I'm smothering. I must get out into the air," said Tom.
"Well, walk up that way, towards the church," she said, not wanting him to go on into the village.
He had left his bundle, so she knew he would come back. He walked a little way towards the church, then came back to her.
"Lookey here; you 'knows,' and you may as well tell me. Is she dead too?"
"Oh no. And Wat knows and will tell you where you'll find her."
Tom turned away, but this time he went on to the village.
The shop, the forge, all as of old, but no one knew him, nor did he look at any one. At last he was at the gate of the garden, in the corner of which old Master Dwight used to sit in the sun and "mind his latter end—" at least, so he said. Not thinking of what he did, Tom opened the gate and sought the well-remembered sunny corner. And there, looking as if he had never moved since Tom said good-bye to him, sat old Master Dwight, blinking in the hot sun, and mumbling to himself in a querulous tone—
"Too long! Too long! I'm living too long. They're all tired of my stories; no one comes to listen to 'em now. Who's this? A sailor; ay, and a king's man, too! Trust old Dwight to know that. What d'ye say, eh? Speak up! I'm getting a 'little' bit deaf."
"Don't you know me, Master Dwight?"
"To be sure I do," said the old fellow, genially. "You're Ben Benson, master of the 'Rosy Dawn.' But no; Ben's dead, so you can't be Ben. Adderley, is it? No, I don't know any one by that name, do I. Yes, to be sure, but only of late years, and things slip out of my head. Adderley! Yes, he died of the great fever, and so did his son Sam. And the other boy was run away; and the mother, foolish woman, blamed me for that.
"But, for all that, I stood up for her. When she buried her husband, and was ill with hardship and overwork, I stood up for her, though she had tongued me more than once. I said plainly as it was a shame to the whole village to let a decent, good woman like her go to the House. I said, 'One of ye take her in, and when she gets better, her work will be worth her keep.' But they're a mean lot here, and disgraceful poor. And there was the little maid, too—a pretty little maid, and of a good stock. But who'll marry her now, bred up in Wakefield Workhouse?"
Tom stood as if turned to stone. He had all the English peasant's horror of the workhouse. His mother—his tidy, thrifty, busy mother! So this was her fate! And pretty little Dolly! Ah, no wonder Wat Trayner's wife had disliked telling him this!
Old Dwight was still talking away, but Tom did not hear a word he said. He started after a few minutes, and, leaving the garden, walked quickly back to the Trayners' cottage.
"Mistress," he said, "I know all now. Old Dwight told me. You've a kind heart; you couldn't bring yourself to do it. And there's old Dwight, not a day older to look at; and my father and—Give me my bundle, like a good soul. I can reach Wakefield before night."
"You are not able for it. Do stay a bit, and Wat will tell you—"
"There's nothing more to tell. She buried her husband and her good son; and the son that ought to have been her support had run off; and worse, and—"
"If you had stayed, maybe you would have died of the fever too."
"And better I had," returned Tom. "Good-bye. You've been very kind to me."
CHAPTER XII.
BETTER THAN GOLDEN GUINEAS.
AT an early hour of the next day, a young man in sailor's garb might have been seen in the streets of Wakefield, asking the way to the workhouse, but he lost his way so often, in spite of all his questions, that he began to think the people were misleading him on purpose. He was standing at the corner of a street, wondering which of the two that lay before him he was to take, when a pretty, tidy young woman with a basket on her arm passed him.
She started a little when she saw him. Presently she turned and came back. As she drew near, she looked at something "very" interesting at the other side of the street, and said in a low voice, "I wonder is it—Tom Adderley?"
Tom looked at her. "Did you call me?" he said.
"Why, then, you 'are' Tom," said the girl, putting her hand on his arm. "Oh, Tom, what years and years it is since I saw you last! I kept your secret, Tom. No one ever knew that I saw you that day."
"If this ain't Lucy Trayner!" cried Tom, his face brightening a little. "Ah, Lucy, things are sore changed since that day. I got to Burdeck yesterday, to find strangers in the old home, and a new mistress in yours. I didn't see Wat, and not a soul knew me."
"But did no one tell you? Oh, poor Tom!"
"Yes, your sister-in-law told me; and a kind soul she is. And mother is in the workhouse here. Oh, Lucy, that's the worst of it all. She that was so clever and so busy, to be shut up there with no one to care for; and it's my fault! I declare I wonder you can bear to look at me, Lucy."
"Your fault, for running away? Well, 'twas wrong, I know, but your mother never says a word of blame to you, and—"
"Mother never blames me?"
"Never once—never to me, anyhow. I go to see her when I can. And oh, but I am glad you've come back to her! You'll make up to her now for all."
"Lucy, will you show me where the workhouse is?"
"In this street. Come, and I'll show you. I must not stay too long; I'm in service here. But my mistress is very kind."
She stopped presently at an iron gate in a high wall.
"This is the House, Tom. I know the matron; shall I just tell her who you are?"
"If you would, 'twould be a kindness."
"And you'll tell me what you mean to do? Ask for Dr. Cartwright's house in George Street; I live there."
A man came to the gate, and Lucy asked to see Mrs. Good, the mistress. They were admitted, and were soon in Mrs. Good's neat parlour.
Mrs. Good was a kindly, sentimental little woman, who cried over Lucy's story, and said it was real touching. "And I'll send for Mrs. Adderley, and then you can see her here comfortably, sir."
Lucy left them, as she could spare no more time.
Mrs. Good went away; she felt that the mother and son would be happier alone.
Tom thought that his mother would pass the window of the little parlour, so he stood watching for her.
But she came in by a back door, and Mrs. Good only told her that there was a young man wanting to see her.
Ah, some years ago—not many, for she had been but four years in the House—Mrs. Adderley would have suspected in a moment that the "young man" was Tom! But hope and expectation had died out of her, in the sameness and dreariness of her life. She just walked in and said, when the tall figure at the window did not turn round—
"What's your will, sir?"
She had fancied it might be Wat Trayner, who sometimes came to see her. Seeing that it was not he, she wondered a little why she was wanted.
Tom turned now, took a hasty step forward, and stopped. A little bent old woman, with a patient white face and weak eyes (much crying had dimmed them)—this was not his mother!
"It was Mrs. Adderley, from Burdeck—Oh, mother, mother!" For he knew her—suddenly.
"Who calls me 'mother'?" she said. "Come here; let me see you. Why, 'tis my Tom, my darling boy that I haven't seen these eleven years! Oh, Tom, be it really you?"
"Mother, it is. Your bad boy that robbed you and ran away, and left you to come to—this."
She was sobbing and laughing, and holding him by the arm, going on altogether like a crazy creature.
"My Tom! Grown a man, and such a fine man, too. My boy! The same curls on his head, and the same look in his eyes. Yes, you were bad, Tom, to run away and disobey poor father and me. And I hope you've repented of it. But don't fret, my boy; don't ye be 'too' sorry. Your poor father often said, 'Tom will get on; he were too stirring for Burdeck ways.' And he left his blessing for you, and his forgiveness—he did, Tom, truly. Oh, my own boy, I can die in peace now."
"Sit down, mother dear; you're all of a tremble. Tell me all, mother. I only know that poor father and Sam are both dead."
Mrs. Adderley told her story, but not very lucidly. She went backwards and forwards, she made mistakes and corrected them, and she told many particulars which had nothing to do with it. But all this was only doing after the fashion of women of her class when excited, and Tom understood very well. He gathered that she had never told any one that he had robbed her, not even her husband. Also, that if she had had a little money when Adderley died, she could have set up a little shop in Burdeck, and have supported herself and Dolly. Dolly was in service—put out by "the Board," they called themselves—and her grandmother had not seen her for many months.
"And she such a pet, Tom! I do fret after Dolly, the pretty little dear."
"Mother," answered Tom, "every word you say is like sticking a knife into me. I ought to have been here to work for you and little Dolly, and I've worse than that to confess to you. I can't be easy till I've told you all. But can you listen now?"
"Yes, I can," she said promptly. "The sound of your voice, Tom, though 'tis changed a bit, do make me feel so happy that I could listen for ever. But I don't know that I could give my mind to the meaning."
But she did give her mind to it, when Tom was fairly launched on his story. He concealed nothing. When he ceased, she knew his history as well as he knew it himself.
"So now, you see, mother, what a bad son I've been to you. Time and again I might have paid you back what I took—your golden guineas that you never said a word about, for fear I should be blamed. If I had sent that money by Captain Collins, it would have kept father in comfort and you from overworking yourself. If I'd come home when the 'Imogene' was paid off, I'd have been in time to set up the little shop for you. Now I've come at last, nearly empty-handed. But, mother, see; I'm kneeling here before you. Put your blessed old hand on my head, and say, 'Tom, I forgive you.' Do say it, mother. I was wrong all through—proud, and selfish, and careless—but forgive me, if you can, knowing all."
She put her hand on his head, but stopped to pull out one of the close curls and look at it lovingly.
"The times I've dreamt that the deep sea was hiding them curls!" she said. "Forgive ye, child? Mothers don't forgive; they don't need to." And she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him again and again.
"From this moment, mother, I belong to you. I'll get work here; I'll make a home for you and Dolly, and—and you'll be like yourself again."
To see how her changed face brightened, and how, in a moment, her business-like faculties were at work again! She made him tell her what money he had, and advised him to get Lucy Trayner to help him to look for lodgings—furnished, for he had not enough to buy furniture—they could do that by-and-by. Then he was to get her some clothes—
"For, you know, these I have on are not my own; and mind, now, 'very' little will do for a time."
And then he was to go to Mr. Samuel Trotter, in the main street. This was the fruiterer and vegetable dealer who used to buy all her fruit and honey in the good old days. And he would help Tom to get a place, for he was a kind man, and would remember her. And he was on no account to take Dolly from her place until Mrs. Adderley was ready to see after her.
Tom laughed, and promised obedience. "I know you again now, mother," said he.
All this was done as Mrs. Adderley directed, only Lucy and Tom were extravagant, she declared, in the purchase of clothes for her. A queen, she said, might have worn that plaid shawl, and thankful! Mr. Trotter took Tom into his own employment to drive his light cart, both for leaving goods at purchasers' houses, and going here and there in the season to buy fruit—a part of his work—for which Mr. Trotter had got too fat and lazy. Poor little Dolly was taken from a very hard, rough place, and began to go to school regularly. The church schools in Wakefield were very good, and Dolly, naturally clever, was soon able to teach her uncle to read, and even, as time went on, to write.
But for many a long day it was only by a great effort of his strong will that Tom kept up a cheerful demeanour before his mother and Dolly. He had really loved his profession, and had left it just when his prospects were very bright. He had got Lucy's master to write to Captain Egerton for him, begging him to tell Gideon how things were with him, and to explain to Admiral Elliott that he could not go to sea again. But life seemed very dull and his work very uninteresting. And sometimes he wondered, if his mother knew how he hated it, would she not insist on his going to sea again?
But he never told her. He fought against his feelings like a brave man—nay, better than that, like a Christian man; and, by God's help, he conquered himself, and came out of the conflict a better and a stronger man. And his mother was wonderfully happy, "keeping house" for him.
Tom saved and pinched his own personal expenditure, until he had saved up ten guineas. It took him a long time, but he got several Christmas-boxes in money from Mr. Trotter's customers, and this helped him. He bought a little wooden box, as like the old one as he could get it, and took box and all to his mother.
"Mother dear, take this. There's no interest, mother; it's only what I robbed you of."
Mrs. Adderley laughed at first, then cried a little, and finally counted the guineas.
"Ten," said she. "That's one too many, Tom. You only took nine."
Tom started.
"Right you are, mother. I said I'd always reckon that I took ten, and I declare I had forgotten that I put one back."
"And you needn't have done this, Tom, for you are better to me than any number of golden guineas."
"Lay them by to be a fortune for Dolly, by-and-by," said Tom, laughing.
But Tom was far too clever and painstaking to remain always in such a place as that of van-driver. He learned to read and write, and to keep accounts without the help of notched sticks. And, as old Mr. Trotter had no children and liked Tom very much, he took him into the shop as foreman, and afterwards as partner. Tom's cleverness and energy increased the business very much, and he found plenty of scope for both in his new employment.
After a while he married Lucy Trayner, who had never forgotten her promise to marry him when he came home. And some time after his marriage, old Gideon Terlizzeck paid him a long-promised visit, when Mrs. Adderley and Lucy heard more of Tom's life at sea than he had ever told them. One day Gideon happened to mention his intention to go with Admiral Elliott when he returned from visiting his mother. Tom had never spoken of it.
"Tom," said his mother, "if I'd known what a fine prospect you had before you, I don't believe I'd have let you give it up."
"Ah yes, ma'am, you would," said Gideon. "'Twas his clear duty, all the more because of the way he left you before. He'd have had no blessing on his life if he had left you again. And I don't see that a man could be happier or better off than he is now."
"That's very true," said Tom, "and I'll tell you the whole truth, mother. I did love the sea, and the excitement, and everything about it, and when I came here first I had a tough battle before I could take to my new life. A craving, it seemed; just like what poor Dick Carr used to say 'he' had when he went to sea after a time ashore, when he had been drinking. But I always felt that it would leave me, and it did. And since then, I've been happier than I ever was before. For I always felt that I was doing wrong, even when I denied it most. And I always had a feeling that, sooner or later, I'd be punished, if I didn't repent. When I lost my money, I knew I had expected it, though I would not say so. Well, if I got another trial, as I surely did, I owe it to you, Gideon. 'Twas you put the truth before me, so that I 'had' to face it. All through, you've been a true friend to me."
"That's pleasant for an old man to hear," said Gideon. And then he added, simply and reverently, "But let us give God the glory. His hand was over us for good."
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.