WITHIN THE OLD HOME
Eleven long years. Yes, it was that since I had last stood by the hall door. I had left it with a mad passion in my heart, with fierce grief raging within me; I returned saddened by sin, stained by crime, yet subdued and repentant and hopeful.
I could not help thinking of this as the bell clanged within the wide hall and echoed through the silent house, while memories of the old days flashed like lightning through my excited brain.
How singular it was, that I, the rightful owner, should stand ringing for admission like a stranger, and more singular still it seemed at the time, that I should for long years have been a wanderer away from the home of my fathers. And I stood there as a culprit. I was about to enter my home, only to come out a prisoner, a man accused of an awful crime. I was not sure if they would hang me, for his death was an accident. I did not hurl him from me; he slipped from my hands in spite of me, and yet murder was in my heart.
And thus I stood at my own door after eleven years of weary wandering, of lonely agony, of God-forsaken life, waiting excitedly, yet with a numbing pain at my heart, for the meeting with my mother. Ah, how should I look her in her face when she asked me for her son; how should I withstand her withering scorn, her terrible wrath? It was eventime, and the October winds had shorn much of the foliage from the trees, what remained being russet brown. The wind, too, as it played amongst the shivering leaves, told only a tale of decay and death.
At length I heard a step along the stone, corridor, an aged step, as though the one who came was weary and tired. All this I noted as I stood waiting while the door opened.
It was Peter Polperrow, who had been servant of Trewinion long before I was born. He looked at me with some astonishment, not unmixed with fear.
"Whom do you want to see, sir?" he asked.
"Mrs. Trewinion," I said.
He eyed me from head to foot, as if afraid that by admitting me, he should be doing wrong.