“I allow you’re from foreign parts,” said he, at last.
“Yes; I’m from foreign parts,” said Tom, shortly. Nothing more was said between them after this. Tom sat buried in thoughts and the driver sat chewing vigorously at his quid of tobacco, looking steadfastly over the leader’s ears the whiles.
So they began the slow climbing of the last hill; they reached the top of the rise, and then the country lay spread out before them, hill and valley, field, meadow-land and wood, all brown and golden in the mellow autumn sunlight. The houses clustered more thickly about the village, and over the rusting foliage peeped the white spire of St. James’ Church. A lump arose in Tom’s throat at the sight of the dear old place, and his eyeballs felt hot and dry. Then a keen and sudden thrill shot through him, for, away beyond the village and over to the right, he could see the yellow sunlight shining on the white walls of a house. Close to it stood an old stone mill and back of it was an apple orchard. Then Tom felt, indeed, that his darling was near to him.
The driver gathered up his reins. “Click!” said he, and the coach dashed down the hill, and house and mill were hidden from Tom’s sight. So they reached the level road and went rumbling along it; they turned the corner and Eastcaster was before them. The scattered houses grew thicker and thicker; they turned another corner sharply and were in Market street.
Everything was the same as when Tom had last seen them: trees, houses, stores, people, everything. Shipwreck, death, loneliness and misery had been around him for a year and a half, and yet Eastcaster was the same as though he had not come back to it through the valley of the shadow of death. It seemed strange to him that it should be so; it was as though he had left everything but yesterday. Here was Pepperill’s store, there the blacksmith shop. They passed Parkinson’s tobacco store; a number of men were sitting on chairs around the door in the sunshine. They looked up at the stage with dull interest. Tom knew them all, but not one of them recognized him. A little further along, on the opposite side of the street, was Mr. Moor’s office. As they rumbled by it, Tom saw that two men were standing at the window looking absently into the street; one of them was Mr. Moor, the other was Isaac Naylor. A thrill darted through him when he saw Isaac Naylor; it was strange that the sight of his former rival should seem to bring Patty so near to him. The two men looked at the stage as it passed, but they saw nothing, for their minds were evidently fixed upon other things. Mr. Moor was talking, looking anxious and worried; Isaac Naylor was listening, cold and impassive.
Tom noticed this in the moment that he was passing.
Then the stage stopped, for it was in front of the Crown and Angel, and Black Jim—the identical Black Jim that Tom had left a year and a half ago, who was standing out in the road, waiting the coming of the stage—loosened the straps at the horses’ necks. The passengers tumbled out from the inside, and Tom got down from the box, and stood looking about him. There were a group of loungers sitting along the tavern porch in the warm sunlight; their feet on the railing, and their chairs tilted back. Tom knew nearly all of them, but they did not recognize him;—he never fully realized till then, how changed he was in his appearance. Even Mrs. Bond, the landlady, who was standing at the door with her hands under her apron, did not know him.
Some one came walking along the street and stopped, for a moment, to look at the stage—it was Will Gaines. “He’ll know me, at least,” said Tom, to himself, but he did not; he looked at Tom, but there was no other light than that of curiosity in his eyes.
“Will,” said he, at last; “Will Gaines, don’t you know me?”
Then sudden recognition flashed into Will’s face. He stood for a moment as though bereft of speech; then he strode forward, and clutched Tom by the shoulder.