"I hope you have no bad news, my dear Mrs. Barnicott," said Miss Flamstead, wondering at her agitation.
"No! no!" said old Beckey. "Good news! good news!" and she shook her head as with an agony of emotion, and then burst out, "Luke's alive! I've heard of him—this—this—oh! he's seen him! he's seen him in th' Indies!"
Miss Flamstead sprang to her feet, gave a look at Luke, and then uttering a sort of shriek, she clasped her hands, and crying, "Oh! it is he!" she sank on the seat. Luke sprang forward, seized her clasped hands, kissed them passionately; and then Miss Flamstead standing up and looking at him in wonder and as in a dream, they thus stood for some time holding each others hands, while poor old Beckey and Amy cried silently and plentifully for joy.
We may leave them awhile under the old hanging elder tree, and let some days and weeks roll on, as they did roll joyously at the Reckoning House, and at Langlee farm. All the old courtship of childhood was renewed. Luke and Sally Flamstead have strolled about the old farm-yard and the old fields. They have laughed as they stepped by the old bramble-bush, by the paddock-gate, and remembered the hidden pork-pie, and the hidden little bottle of beer, and of cold days there. The bells have rung out merrily from the tall stone tower of Monnycrofts church, and a gay wedding party has descended the long churchyard steps, and taken its way through the swarming villagers, along the village street, and down the lane to Langlee farm. There Luke and Sally live as happily as if they were in a Robinson Crusoe's island, or more so; and more so than if he had been a king and had made Sally a queen. Luke has bought the old mill on the hill, Ives's old mill, and it still swings its great arms as if beckoning everybody up to see something wonderful. Old Beckey still lives in the Reckoning House, and Luke always looks in as he goes up the hill to the mill, and often the old woman is fetched down to Langlee farm to pass whole days and weeks with him. There she has a nice tall-backed cushioned chair set for her in a sunny corner, and she delights to ramble about the garden and smell the flowers, and about the farm-yard, and listen to the fowls and ducks and geese and pigeons, and fancy that she sees them.
"There's only one thing that troubles me," said old Beckey soon after Luke had been recognised, "and that is, that Welland and his wife were transported for nothing. Thou'st plenty of money, Luke, and if I were thee, I'd send for them back."
"Granny," said Luke, "they would not thank me to do that. If I sent, they would not come."
"No!" said Beckey, "do they like slavery better than Old England?"
"Slavery!" said Luke. "Why, granny, they live in a finer house than Squire Flaggimore, keep a fine carriage, and their children are finer gentlemen and ladies than the Flaggimores by half."
"Ah, say'st thou so!" exclaimed old Beckey in wonder. "How in the world have they managed that?"
"I will tell you, granny," said Luke. "When I was in Australia, and had got a good lump of gold, the first thing I did was to set sail for Sydney in order to find out the Wellands and set them free, and send them home. When I got there I found a very fine city, fine as London, though not so big. There were fine shops, and carriages driving about, and fine ladies and gentlemen riding and walking about, and fine streets; and all round the city were the most beautiful gardens and plantations, and houses like palaces, with beautiful lawns running down to the sea-side. 'This a fine city,' I said to a decent man who stood at a shop-door, 'but where are the convicts lodged?' The man smiled and said, 'It just makes all the difference as to what convicts you mean. If you mean those who are lately come, you may find some in the convict barracks in the old town there, and some everywhere working on the quays, and in warehouses, and many are up the country farming and shepherding. But if you mean the convicts that came out ten or twenty years ago, look round. They inhabit the greater part of the palaces you see. 'There!' said he, pointing to a very fine carriage with a handsome pair of greys, and a coachman and two footmen before and behind in rich liveries, 'that is the equipage of a convict of past days. There! and there! and there! all those are carriages of quondam convicts.'