“Friends, Mas’r Harry! Why, she were allus giving me spanks in the face. I do wish you wouldn’t be so foolish, Mas’r Harry.”
“All right, Tom,” I said, for he was speaking in quite an ill-used tone. “There, what’s that?” I cried, as with beating heart, longing to look into the old home and yet almost afraid, I stopped short at the corner of the lane, and caught Tom by the arm.
“What’s that?” cried Tom grinning, as he took a long sniff. “Taller. Say, Mas’r Harry, after missing it all this long time, it don’t smell so very bad after all.”
“Well, it is not nice, Tom,” I said smiling, “but how familiar it all does seem! What days and nights it does recall! Why, Tom, we hardly seem to have been away.”
“Oh, but don’t we though?” said Tom, pulling down the front of a new waistcoat and pushing his hat a little on one side. “We went away nobodies like, at least I did, Mas’r Harry, and I’ve come back an independent gentleman. I wonder whether Sally’s altered.”
I did not make any reply, but walked steadily on till I reached the familiar gates leading into our yard, and through which I had seen the laden van pass so many hundreds of times. There beyond it was the soap-house with its barred window, the tall chimney, and, on looking over, there were the usual litter of old and new boxes, while an unpleasantly scented steam was floating out upon the evening air.
How strange and yet how familiar it all seemed! How old and shabby and forlorn everything looked, and yet how dear! I wanted to creep in and catch my mother in my arms, but something seemed to hold me back, so that I dare not stir.
I walked straight by, with Tom following me slowly, looking across at the opposite side of the road, and whistling softly, and as we walked on I could see into the garden, and my heart gave a throb, for, instead of being neat and well stocked as of old, everything appeared to have been neglected—creepers had run wild, the apple and pear trees were covered with long shoots, and tall thistles and nettles stood in clumps.
My heart seemed to stand still, and I hesitated no longer. My father must be ill, I thought, or the garden in which he took so much pride would never have been allowed to run wild like that.
“Tom,” I said, “there’s something wrong.”