Part 28 (2/2)

He drank his tea, but appeared to have little appet.i.te for the crisp b.u.t.tered toast which Mother Hubbard pressed upon him, and he took a rather absent part in the desultory conversation which accompanied the meal. I did not think it right to reveal the curiosity I felt, but after a while he made an opening.

”I only heard of Farmer Brown's death as I entered the village,” he said. ”I met a boy, of whom I inquired, and he told me the farmer was buried here in the beginning of the year.”

Mother Hubbard put on her gla.s.ses and looked at him with a new interest, and removed them again in a minute or two as if satisfied.

”He died early in January,” I said; ”did you know him?”

”Yes,” he said, and there was no sign of emotion in his voice or face; ”but I have not seen him for several years. He had a wife and daughter; are they living, and still at the old place? I forgot to ask the boy.”

I thought it curious that he should have overlooked so natural a question, if, as seemed likely, he had come to the neighbourhood with the intention of finding them; but after all, the explanation lay upon the surface--he manifestly did not wish to arouse too much curiosity.

”Yes, they are still at the farm, and both are well,” I replied; ”I often see them. If you knew the farmer you will perhaps recognise his photograph. It was taken only a little while before he died.”

I got up and handed it to him, and I saw his mouth twitch at the corners as he took the card in his hand. All the same he examined it critically, and his voice was still firm as he replied:

”He had evidently aged a good deal since I knew him, but I am sure it was a good likeness.”

”It was trouble that aged him, Joe,” broke in Mother Hubbard's gentle voice; ”the good Lord overrules all things for good, but it was you who brought his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

There was a mild severity of tone which astonished me and revealed Mother Hubbard in a new light, but I was too interested in the change which came over the startled man's face to think much of it at the time.

”So you recognise me,” he said. ”I thought your face was familiar, though the young lady's is not so. Well, everybody will know of my return soon, so I need not complain that you have antic.i.p.ated the news by a few hours. Yes, the prodigal has come home, but too late to receive his father's blessing.”

”Not too late to receive _a_ Father's blessing, Joe,” replied Mother Hubbard; ”not too late to find forgiveness and reconciliation if you have come in the right spirit; but too late to bring the joy-light into your earthly father's eyes: too late to hear the welcome he would have offered you.”

”I do not ask nor deserve to be spared,” he said, with some dignity, ”and my first explanations shall be offered to those who have most right to them. But this I will say, for I can see that you speak with sincerity. I came back to seek forgiveness and to find peace, but I am justly punished for my sin in that I forfeit both. You have not said much, but you have said enough to let me realise that the curse of Cain is upon me.”

”It is not,” said Mother Hubbard calmly and with firmness; ”your father would have told you so. Go home to your mother, and you will find in her forgiveness and love a dim reflection of the forgiveness and love of G.o.d, and peace will follow.”

He rested one elbow upon the table and leaned his head upon his hand, whilst his fingers tapped a mechanical tune upon his forehead, but he did not speak for several minutes--nor did we. Then he rose and took the still damp overcoat from the clothes-horse before the fire, and said as he put it on:

”Since I left home I have had many hard tasks to perform, But the hardest of them all now lies before me, and though I have made some little money I would give every penny I possess if the past could be undone and that grey-haired man brought back to life. I am accounted a bold man, but I would sooner face a lion in the Rhodesian jungle than my mother and sister on yonder farm.”

”Go in peace!” said the little mother. ”G.o.d stands by the side of every man who does his duty, and your mother, remember, is about to experience a great joy. Let them see that you love them both, and that you loved your father too, and that will heal the wound more quickly than anything else.”

He shook Mother Hubbard's hand, bowed to me, and stepped out into the rain; and I watched him walk briskly forward until the mist swallowed him up.

Two days afterwards I heard the sequel. The rain had cleared away and the roads were fairly dry when I set off with the intention of walking as far as Uncle Ned's. Before I had gone very far I overtook Farmer Goodenough, who was journeying in the same direction, and almost immediately afterwards we met Jane Brown.

”I was just comin' to see you, Miss Holden,” she said, ”but as you're going my way I'll walk back with you if you'll let me. Mother wants to know if you can take our photographs--hers and Joe's and mine--on Monday.”

I told her it would be quite convenient, and Farmer Goodenough began to question her about her brother's home-coming. I hardly expected much response, for Jane is not usually very communicative, but on this occasion she was full of talk.

”I came o' purpose to say my say,” she explained, ”for I must either talk or burst.”

We encouraged the former alternative, and she began: ”If you want to be made a fuss of, and have people lay down their lives for you, you mustn't stop at 'ome and do your duty; you must go wrong. Only you mustn't go wrong just a little bit: you must go the whole hog an' be a rank wrong 'un--kill your father or summat o' that sort--and then when you come back you'll be hugged an' kissed an' petted till it's fair sickenin'.”

”Gently, la.s.s, gently!” said Farmer Goodenough; ”that sounds just a trifle bitter.”

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