CHAPTER XXII.—HOME AGAIN.
Three passengers and the newspapers were brought to Dunthorpe station by the early London train on Wednesday morning. One of the passengers was a tall old gentleman, with straight silvery hair, a clean-shaven fresh face, and an expression of gentle kindliness which was habitual. But there was a firmness about the lips and chin which indicated that his benevolence was not to be trifled with easily. He stooped a little, but it was the stoop of one accustomed to much reading and thinking, not of any physical weakness, for his frame was stalwart, his step steady and resolute.
He asked the porter who took his travelling-bag in charge if there was any conveyance from Kingshope waiting.
‘There’s only one fly, sir, and that’s from the King’s Head for Mr Beecham. That you, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then here you are, sir: it’s old Jerry Mogridge who’s driving, and he can’t get off the seat easy owing to the rheumatics. The Harvest Festival is on at Kingshope to-day, and there wasn’t another man to spare. But you couldn’t have a surer driver than old Jerry, though he be failed a bit.’
Mr Beecham took his place in the fly; and after inquiring if the gentleman was comfortable, old Jerry drove away at an easy pace—indeed, the well-fed, steady-going old mare could not move at any other than an easy pace. A touch of the whip brought her to a stand-still until she had been coaxed into good-humour again. It was the boast of the King’s Head landlord that this was a mare ‘safe for a baby to drive.’
There was something in Mr Beecham’s expression—an occasional dancing of the eyes—as he gazed round on the rich undulating landscape, which suggested that he had been familiar with the scene in former days, and was at intervals recognising some well-remembered spot.
September was closing, and stray trees by the roadside were shorn of many leaves, and had a somewhat ragged, scarecrow look, although some of them still flaunted tufts of foliage on high branches, as if in defiance of bitter blasts. But in the Forest, where the trees were massed, the foliage was still luxuriant. The eyes rested first on a delicate green fringed with pale yellow, having a background of deepening green, shading into dark purple and black in the densest hollows.
The day was fine, and as the sun had cleared away the morning haze, there was a softness in the air that made one think of spring-time. But the falling of the many-coloured leaves, and the sweet odours which they yielded under the wheels, told that this softness was that of the twilight of the year; and the mysterious whisperings of the winds in the tree-tops were warnings of the mighty deeds they meant to do by sea and land before many days were over.
‘You have been about Kingshope a long time?’ said Mr Beecham, as the mare was crawling—it could not be called walking—up a long stretch of rising ground.
‘More’n eighty year, man and boy,’ answered old Jerry with cheerful pride. ‘Ain’t many about as can say that much, sir.’
‘I should think not. And I suppose you know everybody here about?’
‘Everybody, and their fathers afore ’em.’ As Jerry said this, he turned, and leaning over the back of his seat, peered at the stranger. Then he put a question uneasily: ‘You never ’longed to these parts, sir?’
‘No, I do not exactly belong to these parts; but I have been here before.’
‘Ah—thought you couldn’t have ’longed here, or I’d have known you, though it was ever so many years gone by,’ said old Jerry, much relieved at this proof that his memory had not failed him. ‘Asking pardon, sir, I didn’t get right hold of your name. Was it Oakem, sir?’
‘Something of that kind,’ said the stranger, smiling at the mistake. ‘Beecham is the name.’
‘Beecham,’ mumbled Jerry, repeating the name several times and trying to associate it with some family of the district. ‘Don’t know any one of that name here away. May-happen your friends are called by another.’
‘I have no friends of that name here.’
‘Hope it ain’t makin’ too bold, sir, but may-happen you’re a-goin’ to stay with some of the Kingshope families?’
‘I am going to stay at the King’s Head, for a few days,’ Mr Beecham replied, good-naturedly amused by Jerry’s inquisitiveness; but wishing to divert his garrulity into another channel, he put a question in turn: ‘Shall we be in time for the Harvest Service in the church to-day?’
‘Time and to spare—barrin’ th’ old mare’s tantrums, and she don’t try them on with me. You’ll see the whole county at the church to-day, sir. Parson’s got it turned into a reg’lar holiday, and there’s been mighty fine goings-on a-deckin’ the old place up. Meetings morn and even, and a deal more courtin’ nor prayin’, is what I says. Hows’ever it’s to be a rare thanksgivin’ time this un, and the best of it is there’s some’at to be thankful for.’
Jerry nodded confidentially to the stranger, as if he were letting him into a secret.
‘Is that such a rare occurrence?’
‘Well, sir,’ replied Jerry cautiously, and peering round again with the manner of one who is afraid of being discovered in the promulgation of seditious doctrines, ‘there be times when it is mighty hard to find out what we are to be thankful for, when the rot has got hold of the taters, and them big rains have laid wheat and barley all flat and tangled, and the stuff ain’t barely worth the cuttin’ and the leadin’ and the threshin’, and wages ain’t high and ain’t easy to get—them be times when it takes parson a deal of argyfying to make some people pretend they’re grateful for the mercies. But Parson Haven knows how to do it, bless ye. He gives ’em a short sermon and a long feed, and there’s real thanksgivin’ after, whats’ever the harvest has been like.’
Jerry chuckled with the pleasures of retrospection, as well as of anticipation, and made a great ado putting on the skid as they began to descend towards the village.
Mr Beecham listened to this gossip with the interest of an exile returned to his native land. Whilst everywhere he meets the signs of change, he also finds countless trifles which revive the past. Even the comparison of what is, with what has been, has its pleasure, although it be mingled with an element of sadness. The sweetest memories are always touched with tender regret. We rejoice that sorrow has passed: who rejoices that time has passed?
He watched with kindly eyes the people making their way across the stubble or round by the church. The latter was a sturdy old building with a solid square tower, that looked as if it had foundations strong enough to hold it firmly in its place whatever theological or political storms might blow.
Old Jerry Mogridge had reason to be proud of that morning’s work, and made his cronies of the taproom stare with his descriptions of the strange gentleman’s friendly ways and liberal hand.
After seeing his rooms at the King’s Head, Mr Beecham sauntered slowly towards the church. When he reached the porch, he paused, as if undecided whether or not to enter. The people had assembled and the bells had ceased ringing. He passed in, and despite the courtesy of an ancient verger, who would fain have given the stranger a conspicuous place, he took a seat near the door.
The ordinary aspect of the inside of Kingshope church was somewhat bare and cold-looking: at present it was aglow with sunbeams and rich colours. The pillars were bound with wisps of straw and wreaths of ground ivy, while the capitals were sheaves of wheat and barley, with a scarlet poppy here and there, and clusters of dahlias of many hues. On the broad window ledges, half-hidden in green leaves, lay the yellow succulent marrow, the purple grape, the ruddy tomato—bright-cheeked apples and juicy pears: giant sunflowers and ferns guarded the reading-desk; and on the altar was a pile of peaches and grapes, flanked by early Christmas roses—deep-red, orange, white and straw-coloured.
But the pulpit attracted most attention on this bright day. Madge and Philip had been visited by an inspiration; and, with the vicar’s sanction and the aid of Pansy and Caleb, had carried it into effect. The entire pulpit and canopy were woven over with wheat and barley, giving it the appearance of a stack with the top uplifted. Round the front of the stack-pulpit were embroidered, in the bright scarlet fruit-sprays of the barberry, the opening words of the anthem for the day, ‘The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.’ There was a feeling of elation in the air, to which the organist gave expression by playing the Hallelujah Chorus as the opening number. And then it was with full hearts and vigorous lungs that all joined in the hymn,
Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.
As he listened to the voices, rising and falling in grateful cadence, old times, old faces, old scenes, rose out of the midst of the past, and the stranger dreamed. Was there any significance to him in what he saw and heard? Was it not a generous welcome to the wanderer home? Home! His thoughts shaped themselves into words, and they were sung in his brain all the time he sat there dreamily wondering at their meaning:
‘Home again, in the twilight of the year and of my life.’
He could see the Willowmere pew, and his eyes rested long on Dame Crawshay’s placid face; still longer on that of Madge. On the other side he could see the Manor pew, which was occupied by the three ladies, Alfred Crowell and Philip. Mr Hadleigh and Coutts were not there. Coutts considered it hard enough to be expected to go to church on Sunday (he did not often go); but only imbeciles, he thought, and their kin—women—went on a week-day, except on the occasion of a marriage or a funeral.
Mr Beecham’s gaze rested alternately on Philip and Madge. They occupied him throughout the service. He retained his seat whilst the people were passing out, his eyes shaded by his hand, but his fingers parted, so that he could observe the lovers as they walked by him. He rose and followed slowly, watching them with dreamy eyes; and still that phrase was singing in his brain:
‘Home again, in the twilight of the year and of my life.’ But he added something now: ‘It is still morning with them.’