Coming Home: or sithors to grind. A fireside story, etc

Prologue

. August, one thousand eight hundred and two. A sunny lane in Yorkshire. A lane dazzling white, bordered on one side with cornfields, on the other with green meadows, where mild-eyed cattle bury their noses in cool springs that laugh and dodge them under the warm grasses. Beyond the meadows, looking down over many terraces upon the cattle and the lane and the corn, and away to the many-coloured hills fading into the clouds, a quaint old mansion with a hundred golden suns for eyes. In the lane, clinging to each other, two brothers — poor orphan boys — lonely, friendless, and hungry. They have agreed to separate and seek their fortunes, and have divided their few copper coins. "Good-bye, Tom; oh, good-bye!" cries the younger, with a burst of grief. "Good-bye, Joe," replies the elder, trying to be firm ; " perhaps it isn't for long — turn your face.

God bless us both." He breaks away, running under the shadow of the bank, and the younger with many sobs goes through a slit in the corn ; but he hasn't gone far before, with a wild cry of " Tom, Tom !" he runs back. Check ing himself, however, ere he reaches the lane, he flings himself at the foot of the bank, sobbing wildly. By-and-by comes exhaustion and forgetfulness in sleep. Then a sympathizing breeze presses the whispering corn into its service. With a gentle rush it flings a constant shower of cool shadows upon the boy, driving the hot sun from his brow, while pale blue-eyed flowers bend over and kiss his cheek, cooling it with their joyful morning tears. And when he wakes and goes on his lonely way, the quaint old mansion is getting on its evening frown, and glaring after him with a hundred blood red eyes. 1-2 ; or,

Part I. Mr

HACKUTE'S "RETREAT." December the twentieth, one thousand eight hundred and forty -two. A snug little square house, at the foot of Primrose Hill, built apparently of ivy, half hidden from the road by a closely clipped holly hedge, the house and hedge sprinkled with snow flakes, which the trembling leaves, urged by the moaning wind, try in vain to shake off. Please to follow me, through a green gate — without so much as a keyhole for the inquisitive — and an ivy-roofed path leading to a side door to the right of the house ; through this and a small hall, and round a sharp corner through another door, covered with green cloth, into Mr. Hackute's study. Mr. Hackute is not in ; but he will not be long, for his two-o'clock lunch — dry sherry and biscuits — is upon the table, and it wants but a minute to that hour ; and he is a punctual man.

A cosy study, walled with books, carpeted with crimson cloth, warmed by a fierce little fire, and lighted by a large Gothic window. Just as a clock upon the writing-table points to the hour, the green door opens and there enters a tall, straight, solemn-looking man, clothed in black from his toes to his chin. There is such an harmonious sombre ness about him, that his gloves and his boots, his grave-looking black hat, and ominously grave-looking black bag, seem to be all a part of his dress, and to have been made with it. His face is grave, so is his hair, which is more than thinking of turning grey ; there is a little pool in the centre of his crown, which the jealous-looking tufts on its bank try hard to conceal. Coming sharply over his ears are two cogitating ; or, side-pieces like broken hooks, that look into his eyes as consulting their depths continuously ; and these eyes, in pleasant contrast to all the rest of this visible man, are the merriest pair of grey twinklers that were ever hidden and guarded beneath the gravest of brows and lashes — as if the inner man, knowing the outer to be all gammon, en joys him as an immense joke.

Looking round the room, Mr. Hackute sets his black bag upon a chair, takes off his black gloves, and pulls a cord near the writing-table. While he is waiting for his servant he pours out and drinks a glass of sherry. The servant appears: middle-aged, de voted, and Irish. " Has the man brought the umbrella? " No, sir ; but I expect he will. " It was to have been here at one," Mr. Hackute says, solemnly. ' Yes, sir ; but p'r'aps it may be here by four." Mr. Hackute closes his eyes, and drinks another glass of sherry. The devoted ser vant passes her apron over the back of a chair, and removes a suspicion of dust. " Sithors to grind? Any umberellers to mend?" The cry comes from the road. " Tell him I am angry — and pay him," says Mr. Hackute. " Ye'd bether tell him yerself, sir," is the Devoted's reply, as she backs out of the room ; "ye'll do it so much bether than me.

I'll send him in to you." Mr. Hackute takes a biscuit, and goes to the window. Looking on his right, towards a broad side gate with open bars, he sees there in the cold biting wind and driving snow, an old man and a tinker's barrow. You have often seen such a man and such a barrow — the man white-haired and bent, the barrow made up of odd bits of wood, with sometimes odd wheels, and a smoky Uttle fire in an old saucepan swinging ; or, beneath. The little stone wheel of this barrow, which when at work emits sparks and smoke, is now covered with a thin coating of ice ; and from a sturdy little barrel which holds the water to wet the stone with an occasional drop from its dimi nutive little tap, hangs a choice collection of icicles. Coming from between the shafts of his barrow, the old man, after holding his hands a moment over his smoky little fire, takes an umbrella from the side of his machine and enters the gate.

Seeing Mr. Hackute at the window, he touches his hat and goes round to the back of the house. The next moment he is escorted by the Devoted to the green door. " Good mornin', sir," he says. " Good morning," answers Mr. Hackute, shortly. " Come in." " Thenky, sir." As the old man enters, making many bows, as if it is a holy place and Mr. Hackute a saint, the fire, startled out of a doze, gives a loud roar as of indignation ; then, after grumbling a moment," appears to listen attentively, for the Devoted is heard to close the outer door. " I 'ope I 'aven't kep' you waitin', sir. I'm sorry I'm so late ; but the roads is heavy to-day, sir." Mr. Hackute's anger is expressed in — " Never mind ; dare say they are rough." " It didn't ■ want a spring, sir, ony the ribs straightenin' and fastenin'."

Mr. Hackute takes his umbrella and opens it. " Um — you have made a very good' job of it — thought it was past mending." "No, sir, it'll wear out two or three new uns now. Here's the bill — ninepence, please. It is receipted." Mr. Hackute closes the umbrella care fully, and fastening it, looks sharply at the old man, then taking the bill he puts it on a file, and gives him half a crown. ; or, " Never mind the change," he says, as the old man begins to fumble at his pocket. " Thenky, sir ; you're very kind, sir ; I 'ope you may never know what it is to be pore, wantin' all the time to be rich for the sake of others. If there's any more odd jobs I 'ope you'll think o' me. I'll be proud to serve you, sir." " I will not forget you," is Mr. Hackute's reply, as he rests his umbrella across his hat.

" Thenky, sir." And with many more bows, the old man is going. " You look cold," observes Mr. Hackute, as if prompted by the cogitating side-pieces. " Sit down a moment." And he glances at a chair near the fire. " Thenky, sir," says the old man, gratefully, obeying the glance and the order. Mr. Hackute takes a curious-looking: pocket-book from his black bag, and as he seats himself in a low chair, in front of his writing-table, which is covered with documents, his whole body seems to go into a deep study. " That's a very nice umbereller, sir," remarks the old man, as he moves back a little from the indignant glare of the fire. " Yes," answers Mr. Hackute, absently. " A present from France." " I knowed he was a Frenchman as soon as I felt him." " Indeed ! Have you been in France, then?" And Mr. Hackute turns, fancying for a moment it is some one else who has spoken.

Yes, sir, I was a pris'ner o' war there a once. " Oh — a soldier !" And Mr. Hackute is going into a study again. " No, sir, but I 'ad some one belongin' to me as I thought was one." Mr. Hackute is deep in his subject. " A brother as I hadn't seen for many years." " Ah ! " Mr. Hackute is overwhelmed, and the old man forgotten. ; or, " It would puzzle Old Harry," comes pre sently from the depths of the chair. " No, sir ; Tom his name was." As if he has been lifted by a jerk in the back, Mr. Hackute says " Eh?" " Tom, sir ; my brother." " Oh ! " Mr. Hackute is in a hot chase among the documents upon the table, and the old man is at the Antipodes. " It was a blunder of Stanmore's." The voice is loud, and an excited black arm cleaves through the ocean of papers and strikes the table. " No, sir — Stammers.'' The next instant, Mr. Hackute is on his feet facing the old man ; his sharp eyes twinkling with expectancy, and the cogitating side-pieces fall of a stiff anxiety.

" What did you say ? What name ?" " Stammers, sir — Tom Stammers." What do you know of him ?" " He's my brother, sir, as I was speakin' of " Tour brother ? Who ?" " Tom Stammers, sir." And the old man is ready to tell his simple story at once, as he has told it often, and will tell it again and again to any listener, and be grateful for the favour of a hearing. Mr. Hackute puts down his pocket-book. " What is your name ?" he asks. " Joe Stammers, sir." " Joseph Stammers, you mean, of course ?" " Yes, sir ; but he always called me Joe." " Where do you come from ?" " Pensleigh, in Yorkshire, sir." " Where is your brother now ?" " I don't know, sir. It was in tryin' to find him I was made a pris'ner o' war." " When did you see him last ?" " Six an' forty years ago, sir." " Where ?" " At Pensleigh, sir," answers the old man, his voice full of tearful emotion.

Mr. Hackute, in a big sigh, clears himself as from a great weight or a clogging irri- ; or, taring trouble ; and going over to the fire, he leans upon the mantel-board, gazing down upon the old man. The eager look in his eyes has gone, and the cogitating side pieces, as if their work is over, seem inclined to nap. From the old man his eyes wander to the window ; stopping there a moment they return to the sitting figure — so poor, so ill clad, his simple, wear3r-looking face set in a mass of hair white as snow, glittering yet with wintry gems, and he mutters, " Strange — very, very strange !" " How came you to separate from your brother?" he asks, after a pause. "Did you quarrel?" " No, sir, we couldn't a done that," is the simple answer. "We parted to seek our fortunes." " Indeed ! How old were you ?"

" I was twelve, an' Tom was sixteen, sir. You see, we never knowed our father an' mother, but we'd very good blood in our veins; an' when our old nurse died, we'd only ninepence atween us ; so we agreed to divide it an' go an' seek our fortunes." " What do you mean about good blood — who told you?" " Tom, sir ; they was almost his last words to me. ' Joe,' says he, ' take heart ; remember you have good blood in your veins, and don't disgrace it. If I gain fortune, I will find you ; if you do so, don't forget your brother.' How I clung to him, as I would have clung to anything if I'd bin droundin', for he was my life an' was going away. My tears an' the bright sun light blinded me, and when I see clear agin, he was out of sight — so was everything else to me that day, sir." As the old man bows his head, two glitter ing drops steal down his cheeks, flashing back the indignant glare of the fire as they fall in two big blots at his feet.

" Hush !" cries the wind at the casement, and they listen : — ; or, 16 " Peace and goodwill. The message came "With angels from above ; Peace and goodwill is still the same Sweet melody of love. May grateful happiness attend All people far and near ; Hope lift the lonely hearts that bend To meet a glad New Tear." Mr. Hackute never thinks of carol singers, but of good spirits joining hands round the house, of lowly men watching their flocks in the night, of the star that gleamed, and the angel that clove the darkness to pro claim, " Peace and goodwill to all." Going to the table he brings back the decanter and glass. Filling the glass, he gives it to the old man with one word, " Drink." The old man rises, and looking round the study, says, reverently, " God bless all in this house ;" then drinks the wine, gasping after it, but brightening up directly.

Mr. Hackute takes the glass from his hand. " Did I understand it'was in seeking your brother you were made a prisoner of war ?" " Yes, sir," replies the old man, obeying Mr. Hackute's nod to sit again. " I see his name amongst the wounded as had been fightin' against ' Bony ' at Cadiz, so I got a gentleman doctor to take me out as his servant. It was a dreadful journey, for we was wrecked on the enemy's coast an' made prisoners o' war, till the British guns set us free. Then we joined our side, and I found the man as I took for Tom wasn't him. I didn't care what become o' me then ! But the bullets wouldn't touch me, though they found out my master, and he started to come home to die, but he was buried at sea the night before England peeped at us under the risin' sun. Somehow it didn't seem like home, for Tom wasn't there to meet me, an' he was all I 'ad.

If he'd ony been there to meet me " Mr. Hackute gives the old man more wine ; who, drinking it, says — ; or, " I 'aven't bin myself lately, sir ; trade's fallin' orf, an' it makes me fret, I think ; for I ain't so young as I was." Mr. Hackute looks down into the fire. "Do you think you will ever see your brother again ?" " Yes, sir, please God. You see soon after I come back to England I got married, and I ain't bin able to look after him since, for bread's bin 'ard to get, an' trouble's bin about me ; but he'll find me yet, I allus keep a cheer ready for him aside my fire at home." The old man rises again ; Mr. Hackute looks up. " Can you be easily found?" ' Yes, sir ; I'm pretty well known at Acton." Um. Call here on Mondav. ■I I will, sir ; thenky. Good mornin', sir." " Good morning," returns Mr. Hackute, following him with his eyes till there is nothing left.

The Devoted is ready for him at the outer door, with a bundle and a " There now !" both of which are gratefully received, and the old man goes out under the wintry sky. Mr. Hackute watches him from the window. The thickly falling snow is no whiter than his hair on which it falls, yet isn't seen. Going through the gate, he takes the crusted shafts of his barrow in his hands and, turning it round, passes slowly away. The savage wind rushing in at the open door brings his receding cry — " Any sithors to grind?" it moans all through the house. Mr. Hackute shivers at it, and his fire echoes it with violent indignation, flaring up and roaring, "Certainly not!" Mr. Hackute thinks for an hour. Then putting on his hat and gloves, and taking his umbrella and bag, he goes out. Follow me through the falling snow to 2—2 ; or, 20 Regent's Park.

Through this to a lodge gate, beyond which, in the gloom of the coming night, stands a sombre-looking mansion ; past the gate and along a carriage drive, breaking the ray of rosy light that falls upon a crescent-shaped lawn from a half-curtained window, turning the frozen grasses into a path of brilliant gems, through a hall and several heavily scented corridors, into a magnificent boudoir. The walls are divided into panels of green satin bordered with gold. The carpet is of the same hue as the panels, and looks, with the bright golden buttercups scattered over it and bordering it, and growing in a star shaped bed in the centre, like the moss}7 turf in some ancient park under a spring sun. In the ceiling directly above it is another star, a bright little fellow of amber crystal, alternately dozing and winking at the big one below.

Curtains of amber satin are half drawn across the deep bay window, and it is from this the rosy light streams upon the carriage drive and crescent-shaped lawn. The ottomans and chairs are covered with satin of the same hue as the curtains; their white enamelled frames inlaid with flowers glowing with the soft tints of mother-ofpearl. The toilet table is of massive gilt, supported on the head of a huge frowning satyr ; the mirror upheld by Cupids, laughing at all reflected there, as if enjoying a practical joke. To the left of the table is a large cheval glass, and to the right of it a handsome screen. Opposite, framed in a series of delicately carved columns in white marble, with tinted and gold capitals, which support the mantel-board, a cedar-wood fire is burning in a grate of fluted brass ; from which descend a series of brazen steps or ridges, terminating in a broad semicircular one, with a brazen and highly ornamental railing ; the whole of this shining like burnished gold, reflecting myriads of tiny flames all over the boudoir, and splashing the chastely painted clouds and aerial figures ; or, upon the ceiling with golden freckles.

The mantel-board is covered with a choice col lection of articles in Bohemian glass, gold and silver filagree, and pearl and crystal, scattered amongst dancing figures of Paris ; vases of Minton's, and a clock three feet high, that plays tunes and records the days, the months, and the year, with the changes of the moon ; the outside a marvel of artis tic designing in dead silver and burnished gold, proclaiming Paris ; the inside, with its unfailing truth and sweet peal of bells, pro claiming London. In front of the fire, stretched at full length, is a tiger ; with green glaring eyes, open mouth, and glistening teeth, and his claws buried deep in the carpet ; but with all his passions taken out of him, and all danger from him to be smiled at. Under an alcove to the right, draped with amber satin, is a gem of cabinet work about four feet high, consisting almost entirely of ivory, inlaid with amber, gold, and mother-ofpearl.

On the top, amongst Indian jars filled with choice perfumes, Japanese screens, and Chinese toys of the most beautiful and costly description, is a splendid piece of work in dead gold, illustrating " The Judg ment of Paris." Standing before the half-drawn curtains of the window, is a tall graceful figure in deep mourning. Her face, turned towards a gentleman who, moving from the fire, comes eagerly to meet her, is a noble one, resolute and firm, full of a healthy colour, which is heightened by the glow from the cedar-wood fire, and her eyes are large and lustrous and filled with many joyous lights. Her left hand grasps the curtains as though about to draw them, and she holds with her right the front of her dress, which has been pinned into a pocket, and given way under the weight of holly and laurel.

You can see it has been newly gathered, and that she has gathered it herself, for it is covered here and there with hoar-frost, so ; or, are portions of her dress ; her hair too is sprinkled with it in places, and a little sprig of holly loaded with scarlet berries, which might have taken their colour from her kiss, has fallen upon it, and lies half hidden in its glossy waves. The hoar-frost sparkles in the merry firelights like powdered gold nuggets, and the sprigs of holly and laurel look like merry Christmas spirits eager to dis tribute themselves, and speak of good cheer to all the house. One bright little bit of holly, top-heavy with berries, has mounted above the rest, and is leaning eagerly to wards the fire, as if it recognises something there it has known and missed years ago ; and the fire winks at it as if there is a secret between them to be cautiously guarded from the rest.

" Well, my Lord of the Templemores ?" the lady is saying laughingly, adding, hastily, " Oh, mind my holly !" Disappointed of his embrace, my Lord and Earl of the Templemores caresses his moustache, saying — " I thought you would never come, Eleanor." " I came as soon as I knew from Finnette my lady stepmamma had left you," replies the lady ; " but why so sad, Harry ?" He does look sad, and that's a pity, for he's young and handsome, with a gentle spirit shining from his eyes, easy and graceful in carriage, faultlessly dressed, wanting but that which he has come for to make him what he should be — happy. His sadness is driven away by the lady's laugh, as the frost disappears under the glow of the fire. Such a merry, bell-like laugh. Sad man that ? No ! He lifts himself into her humour at once.

" I am better now," he says, joining in her mirth. " And what have you been doing ?" he ; or, 26 asks, as they sit, she making little bouquets of holly and laurel, he trimming and hand ing her the sprigs. " Superintending festive arrangements," she replies, "and entertaining the carol singers. You should have heard them sing after the spiced wine." " I did," he returns, joining in her laugh again. "And what did your heart say?" she inquires. " It didn't say ; it sung too," he replies. " So it ought," insists the lady. " The cook says I've made the house look ' beau tifully Christmassy.' I should like to go to work on this place," she adds, looking round the boudoir. " It is the only un sociable, unseasonable room in the house. You should see the staircases and my room. Mrs. Stammers is disgusted ; the holly catches at her robe — wants to be friendly, you know — and she is as indignant as if it were beggar-boys with dirty hands wanting pennies !

Are you indignant ?" she asks, pricking him with the holly, and laughing at the start he gives. " No," he returns, quite happy to afford her amusement even so. " I like you to do what pleases you." " And I like to do this," she insists. " What would Christmas be without holly and laurel, and — ha ! ha ! — mistletoe, and carol singers ? They are the good spirits of the season ; take them away, and Christmas is in mourning. I love Christmas," she declares, with an emphatic little stamp of her foot. " So do I," he replies, in the same tone. " Of course you do !" she returns, " and we must pay it all the homage we can. I always feel so well amongst the frost and snow ; it makes my blood sing ! I seem to breathe twice as often, and want to have wings to soar away through the keen air and kiss the sun.

Oh, dear Christmas !" she cries, almost tearfully, clasping her hands ; or, 28 and dropping her half-finished bouquet ; " honoured, merry Christmas, the happiest hours of my life are spent with you !" " The happiest, Eleanor?" And there is almost a tinge of jealousy in his tone, as he gazes upon her animated and noble face. " Some of the happiest," she adds, merrily. " These are the happiest hours of my life, Eleanor," he hastens to say; "it is always warm summer-time when you are near." She smiles at him, and pricks him more than once, asking — " And my stepmamma ?" " The very sharpest winter I ever knew," he replies, hastily, and with a sharp shiver. " Ugh ! I always miss my overcoat when I approach her." " And she dreads the sunshine as if she were an iceberg, and it would melt her," laughs Eleanor.

He laughs himself warm again at this. " Fancy dreading the sunshine," she continues, " of a bright summer's morning, too ! I suppose its sharp-pointed rays are like pricks of conscience to her. You should hear her cry out for her maid to turn them out of the room, instead of getting up to see everything turn to gold, and hear the birds, who are better Christians than we, give it praise." She is silent a moment, and he begins to feel cold again. " Don't stop, Eleanor," he pleads. A smile chases away the shade of sadness that was settling upon her face. " I can't do all the talking," she says, merrily. " Ha ! ha ! Severe that," he returns ; " but I am going to do a little myself to day." He doesn't say this very boldly, however ; but she receives it with a merry seriousness, which is very encouraging to him.

" You are ?" she exclaims, as if he has announced his intention to pay off the ; or, National Debt ; " then come up to the fire." She is there in a minute, holly and all, the red glow full upon her, and the golden lights splashing her all over. He is making a seat of the tiger's head, that he may gaze upon her to his heart's content, when " Oh, Harry !" she cries, "you are sitting upon my stepmamma!" " Good gracious!" he exclaims, springing to his feet in the wildest alarm. "Ha! ha!" laughs Eleanor, making the boudoir ring again. " I meant upon one of her family." Having assured himself, he joins in her laugh, and sitting again without any cere mony upon the head of the beast, he says, " You quite startled me. I really thought you meant it." " You simple Harry," she returns, in a tone which makes him try to draw nearer ; then she continues, " I believe it's the only thing she cares for after herself.

She will talk to it and caress it as if it was some dear friend. No one would mind that, you know, only she's always at her worst after it." " How is it she treats you so unkindly, Eleanor? You never injured her?" "Not that I am aware of; but I think she feels bitter towards me on my poor father's account. She never could have loved him," adds Eleanor, thoughtfully. " She might at least have been grateful to him," returns Lord Templemore, hauling the tiger by the ears and drawing nearer. I will tell you why he is convinced of this, indulgent friends. Eighteen months ago, Thomas Stammers, Merchant, made up his mind to settle in life for good. His daughter and only child was at school in Brussels. Having spent most of his life in the making of money, he had enjoyed but little of the society of his child, doubly dear to him from her resem blance to his young love, who died after help ing him to count four of the happiest years ; or, of his existence.

Looking round him, he chose the widow of a betting lord ; who to escape his creditors, took ship for Australia, with the whole of his resources secreted in a belt. The vessel was wrecked, and he perished ; leaving his wife inconsolable that she was penniless. She was the daughter of a good but impoverished family who lived upon the memory of what had been. And she was not young. So she accepted Thomas Stammers, Merchant, aud his money. Eleanor's father was too hasty in his choice ; but he had scarcely time to dis cover this before there came the news of a bank failure in Calcutta, in which the whole of his property was invested. He started at once to see what remained of the wreck. A long silence — pleasantly passed by Mrs. Stammers safe in the enjoyment of her handsome settlements — then the news of his total ruin and suicide by opium.