Phil Hague drove off down the hill at a lively rate, Uncle Ned being started into a gallop, by an Irish howl, which might have been heard a mile off.
“Bring Harry home!” Becky heard it; Mrs. Thompson heard it; Harry heard it. She had triumphed, after all—this little girl, whom Mrs. Thompson folded to her bosom, whom Harry clasped by the hand. Mother and son might well be happy. Reconciliation at last. But for Becky, happiness supreme. She had accomplished this, and hers was the hand commissioned to bring Harry home.
CHAPTER XIII.
DELIA SLEEPER’S SHIP COMES IN.
Becky received the warm thanks and congratulations of the happy mother and son with a grateful heart. She had been enabled to repay, in some part, the love and care they had bestowed upon her. She had conquered the stubborn father, and lifted the cross from the shoulders of the patient wife. But she felt that she had been but an instrument shaped by their hands for the work, and to them she unselfishly gave the credit of her triumph. Not all, however; one other, who had been her counsellor and guide; one to whom all her thoughts and actions had been confessed; one who, with almost supernatural wisdom had taught her wayward feet to tread the path of duty; who out of her own needs, had sought peace in the boundless love of a heavenly Father, and had brought her child into the same tender embrace,—the stricken mother, who for two long years, helpless upon her bed, had borne all so meekly and patiently; to her the grateful daughter gave a generous share of the glory which surrounded this unexpected reconciliation.
That night mother and daughter shared the same couch. Aunt Hulda, who had a great antipathy to strange beds, banished herself from her accustomed pillow without a word of complaint, glad to make the child, who had wound herself about the queer spinster as no other had ever been able to, happy at any cost. Alone with her mother, Becky’s tongue flew fast and furious with the recital of her wanderings and workings, until the weariness of the long, strange day overpowered her nimble organ of speech. In the middle of a sentence, she dropped asleep, her mother’s hand fast clasped in hers, all forgotten, even her accustomed prayer unspoken. But it lay there in the warm, beating, affectionate heart, and the mother’s lips bore it to the heavenly throne, joined to her own earnest plea that blessings from the Unseen hand might strew the path of life with much of happiness for her own precious child.
Having eased his unhappy conscience of the heavy load it had borne so long, the conquered captain went home in a dazed sort of amazement at the act which he had committed. He could not regret it, would not have recalled his words had he the power. There was a warming up of his stubborn spirit when he thought of the girl who had so craftily spread for him the net in which he had been captured, but no desire to loose his bonds, and escape. It was all for the best; they would be a happy family after the first meeting. But the first meeting bothered the captain. What could he say to this son who had been shut out from home so many years? It was a serious question, and one he could not readily answer. He went home thinking about it: went to bed, still thinking; and at last fell asleep, to dream of it.
Mrs. Thompson came home, escorted to her door by Harry; said “Good night,” with a happy heart,—it was to be their last parting in this strange manner; was not surprised to find her husband missing when she entered the sitting-room, nor surprised to find him snoring when she entered the sleeping-room, but had a quiet laugh to herself as she thought how ashamed the captain tried to appear of his good actions. She would not disturb him for the world; said nothing to him of the last night’s work, the next morning, as he fidgeted at the breakfast table, and looked everywhere but in her face.