CHAPTER XII.

BETTER THAN GOLDEN GUINEAS.

AT an early hour of the next day, a young man in sailor's garb might have been seen in the streets of Wakefield, asking the way to the workhouse, but he lost his way so often, in spite of all his questions, that he began to think the people were misleading him on purpose. He was standing at the corner of a street, wondering which of the two that lay before him he was to take, when a pretty, tidy young woman with a basket on her arm passed him.

She started a little when she saw him. Presently she turned and came back. As she drew near, she looked at something "very" interesting at the other side of the street, and said in a low voice, "I wonder is it—Tom Adderley?"

Tom looked at her. "Did you call me?" he said.

"Why, then, you 'are' Tom," said the girl, putting her hand on his arm. "Oh, Tom, what years and years it is since I saw you last! I kept your secret, Tom. No one ever knew that I saw you that day."

"If this ain't Lucy Trayner!" cried Tom, his face brightening a little. "Ah, Lucy, things are sore changed since that day. I got to Burdeck yesterday, to find strangers in the old home, and a new mistress in yours. I didn't see Wat, and not a soul knew me."

"But did no one tell you? Oh, poor Tom!"

"Yes, your sister-in-law told me; and a kind soul she is. And mother is in the workhouse here. Oh, Lucy, that's the worst of it all. She that was so clever and so busy, to be shut up there with no one to care for; and it's my fault! I declare I wonder you can bear to look at me, Lucy."

"Your fault, for running away? Well, 'twas wrong, I know, but your mother never says a word of blame to you, and—"

"Mother never blames me?"

"Never once—never to me, anyhow. I go to see her when I can. And oh, but I am glad you've come back to her! You'll make up to her now for all."

"Lucy, will you show me where the workhouse is?"

"In this street. Come, and I'll show you. I must not stay too long; I'm in service here. But my mistress is very kind."

She stopped presently at an iron gate in a high wall.

"This is the House, Tom. I know the matron; shall I just tell her who you are?"

"If you would, 'twould be a kindness."

"And you'll tell me what you mean to do? Ask for Dr. Cartwright's house in George Street; I live there."

A man came to the gate, and Lucy asked to see Mrs. Good, the mistress. They were admitted, and were soon in Mrs. Good's neat parlour.

Mrs. Good was a kindly, sentimental little woman, who cried over Lucy's story, and said it was real touching. "And I'll send for Mrs. Adderley, and then you can see her here comfortably, sir."

Lucy left them, as she could spare no more time.

Mrs. Good went away; she felt that the mother and son would be happier alone.

Tom thought that his mother would pass the window of the little parlour, so he stood watching for her.

But she came in by a back door, and Mrs. Good only told her that there was a young man wanting to see her.

Ah, some years ago—not many, for she had been but four years in the House—Mrs. Adderley would have suspected in a moment that the "young man" was Tom! But hope and expectation had died out of her, in the sameness and dreariness of her life. She just walked in and said, when the tall figure at the window did not turn round—

"What's your will, sir?"

She had fancied it might be Wat Trayner, who sometimes came to see her. Seeing that it was not he, she wondered a little why she was wanted.

Tom turned now, took a hasty step forward, and stopped. A little bent old woman, with a patient white face and weak eyes (much crying had dimmed them)—this was not his mother!

"It was Mrs. Adderley, from Burdeck—Oh, mother, mother!" For he knew her—suddenly.

"Who calls me 'mother'?" she said. "Come here; let me see you. Why, 'tis my Tom, my darling boy that I haven't seen these eleven years! Oh, Tom, be it really you?"

"Mother, it is. Your bad boy that robbed you and ran away, and left you to come to—this."

She was sobbing and laughing, and holding him by the arm, going on altogether like a crazy creature.

"My Tom! Grown a man, and such a fine man, too. My boy! The same curls on his head, and the same look in his eyes. Yes, you were bad, Tom, to run away and disobey poor father and me. And I hope you've repented of it. But don't fret, my boy; don't ye be 'too' sorry. Your poor father often said, 'Tom will get on; he were too stirring for Burdeck ways.' And he left his blessing for you, and his forgiveness—he did, Tom, truly. Oh, my own boy, I can die in peace now."

"Sit down, mother dear; you're all of a tremble. Tell me all, mother. I only know that poor father and Sam are both dead."

Mrs. Adderley told her story, but not very lucidly. She went backwards and forwards, she made mistakes and corrected them, and she told many particulars which had nothing to do with it. But all this was only doing after the fashion of women of her class when excited, and Tom understood very well. He gathered that she had never told any one that he had robbed her, not even her husband. Also, that if she had had a little money when Adderley died, she could have set up a little shop in Burdeck, and have supported herself and Dolly. Dolly was in service—put out by "the Board," they called themselves—and her grandmother had not seen her for many months.

"And she such a pet, Tom! I do fret after Dolly, the pretty little dear."

"Mother," answered Tom, "every word you say is like sticking a knife into me. I ought to have been here to work for you and little Dolly, and I've worse than that to confess to you. I can't be easy till I've told you all. But can you listen now?"

"Yes, I can," she said promptly. "The sound of your voice, Tom, though 'tis changed a bit, do make me feel so happy that I could listen for ever. But I don't know that I could give my mind to the meaning."

But she did give her mind to it, when Tom was fairly launched on his story. He concealed nothing. When he ceased, she knew his history as well as he knew it himself.

"So now, you see, mother, what a bad son I've been to you. Time and again I might have paid you back what I took—your golden guineas that you never said a word about, for fear I should be blamed. If I had sent that money by Captain Collins, it would have kept father in comfort and you from overworking yourself. If I'd come home when the 'Imogene' was paid off, I'd have been in time to set up the little shop for you. Now I've come at last, nearly empty-handed. But, mother, see; I'm kneeling here before you. Put your blessed old hand on my head, and say, 'Tom, I forgive you.' Do say it, mother. I was wrong all through—proud, and selfish, and careless—but forgive me, if you can, knowing all."

She put her hand on his head, but stopped to pull out one of the close curls and look at it lovingly.

"The times I've dreamt that the deep sea was hiding them curls!" she said. "Forgive ye, child? Mothers don't forgive; they don't need to." And she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him again and again.

"From this moment, mother, I belong to you. I'll get work here; I'll make a home for you and Dolly, and—and you'll be like yourself again."

To see how her changed face brightened, and how, in a moment, her business-like faculties were at work again! She made him tell her what money he had, and advised him to get Lucy Trayner to help him to look for lodgings—furnished, for he had not enough to buy furniture—they could do that by-and-by. Then he was to get her some clothes—

"For, you know, these I have on are not my own; and mind, now, 'very' little will do for a time."

And then he was to go to Mr. Samuel Trotter, in the main street. This was the fruiterer and vegetable dealer who used to buy all her fruit and honey in the good old days. And he would help Tom to get a place, for he was a kind man, and would remember her. And he was on no account to take Dolly from her place until Mrs. Adderley was ready to see after her.

Tom laughed, and promised obedience. "I know you again now, mother," said he.

All this was done as Mrs. Adderley directed, only Lucy and Tom were extravagant, she declared, in the purchase of clothes for her. A queen, she said, might have worn that plaid shawl, and thankful! Mr. Trotter took Tom into his own employment to drive his light cart, both for leaving goods at purchasers' houses, and going here and there in the season to buy fruit—a part of his work—for which Mr. Trotter had got too fat and lazy. Poor little Dolly was taken from a very hard, rough place, and began to go to school regularly. The church schools in Wakefield were very good, and Dolly, naturally clever, was soon able to teach her uncle to read, and even, as time went on, to write.

But for many a long day it was only by a great effort of his strong will that Tom kept up a cheerful demeanour before his mother and Dolly. He had really loved his profession, and had left it just when his prospects were very bright. He had got Lucy's master to write to Captain Egerton for him, begging him to tell Gideon how things were with him, and to explain to Admiral Elliott that he could not go to sea again. But life seemed very dull and his work very uninteresting. And sometimes he wondered, if his mother knew how he hated it, would she not insist on his going to sea again?

But he never told her. He fought against his feelings like a brave man—nay, better than that, like a Christian man; and, by God's help, he conquered himself, and came out of the conflict a better and a stronger man. And his mother was wonderfully happy, "keeping house" for him.

Tom saved and pinched his own personal expenditure, until he had saved up ten guineas. It took him a long time, but he got several Christmas-boxes in money from Mr. Trotter's customers, and this helped him. He bought a little wooden box, as like the old one as he could get it, and took box and all to his mother.

"Mother dear, take this. There's no interest, mother; it's only what I robbed you of."

Mrs. Adderley laughed at first, then cried a little, and finally counted the guineas.

"Ten," said she. "That's one too many, Tom. You only took nine."

Tom started.

"Right you are, mother. I said I'd always reckon that I took ten, and I declare I had forgotten that I put one back."

"And you needn't have done this, Tom, for you are better to me than any number of golden guineas."

"Lay them by to be a fortune for Dolly, by-and-by," said Tom, laughing.

But Tom was far too clever and painstaking to remain always in such a place as that of van-driver. He learned to read and write, and to keep accounts without the help of notched sticks. And, as old Mr. Trotter had no children and liked Tom very much, he took him into the shop as foreman, and afterwards as partner. Tom's cleverness and energy increased the business very much, and he found plenty of scope for both in his new employment.

After a while he married Lucy Trayner, who had never forgotten her promise to marry him when he came home. And some time after his marriage, old Gideon Terlizzeck paid him a long-promised visit, when Mrs. Adderley and Lucy heard more of Tom's life at sea than he had ever told them. One day Gideon happened to mention his intention to go with Admiral Elliott when he returned from visiting his mother. Tom had never spoken of it.

"Tom," said his mother, "if I'd known what a fine prospect you had before you, I don't believe I'd have let you give it up."

"Ah yes, ma'am, you would," said Gideon. "'Twas his clear duty, all the more because of the way he left you before. He'd have had no blessing on his life if he had left you again. And I don't see that a man could be happier or better off than he is now."

"That's very true," said Tom, "and I'll tell you the whole truth, mother. I did love the sea, and the excitement, and everything about it, and when I came here first I had a tough battle before I could take to my new life. A craving, it seemed; just like what poor Dick Carr used to say 'he' had when he went to sea after a time ashore, when he had been drinking. But I always felt that it would leave me, and it did. And since then, I've been happier than I ever was before. For I always felt that I was doing wrong, even when I denied it most. And I always had a feeling that, sooner or later, I'd be punished, if I didn't repent. When I lost my money, I knew I had expected it, though I would not say so. Well, if I got another trial, as I surely did, I owe it to you, Gideon. 'Twas you put the truth before me, so that I 'had' to face it. All through, you've been a true friend to me."

"That's pleasant for an old man to hear," said Gideon. And then he added, simply and reverently, "But let us give God the glory. His hand was over us for good."

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.