“Why, to Old Calabar Cottage, in course!” he replied, indignantly. “Do you think Jane won’t be glad to see you? Why, she’s been fretting her heart into fiddle-strings arter you all these last six months that you never wrote, thinking you was gone down to Davy Jones’s locker!”
“I’m very sorry I couldn’t write from Melbourne,” I said. “We were so hurried that I had hardly time to get once ashore. You got my other letters, though, eh?”
“Oh, aye,” replied Sam, as we went along the familiar old Stoke road that I knew so well, although it was now so long since I had seen it. “You’ve been main good in writin’, laddie, an’ I don’t know what Jane would ha’ done without your letters. She thinks you’re Teddy still, I believe, and seems to have got fonder than ever of you since you left. Do you know what the woman did when Cap’en Billings came to tell us how he’d seen you, and you was goin’ on first-rate?”
“No, I’m sure I can’t say,” I answered.
“Blest if she didn’t throw her arms round his neck and kiss him—just because he had last seen you!”
I did not laugh at this, as Sam did; I only thought of the great affection, which, so undeserved by me, I had drawn from Jane Pengelly’s great heart!
Presently, we came in sight of the cottage.
There it was, porch, creepers, and all, just as I had left it, only now the glow of the fuchsias had gone, with that of the scarlet geraniums and other flowers of summer; still, the autumn tints of the Virginian creeper, hanging down in festoons of russet and yellow and red from the roof, gave all the colouring that was wanted.
Sam opened the door and walked in, as usual; but it was before his usual time for returning from Plymouth, so Jane came out of the kitchen in surprise—this I could hear, for I remained without in the porch till he had warned her of my coming.
“Deary me, Sam, you are early,” she said. “Why, the pasty won’t be done for an hour and more.”