at the door; and glancing into the house, perceived the younger of the two in the passage. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. After debating with himself whether he should further seek an interview, which, though, now in his power, was so sedulously shunned by the other party, he decided in the negative; and contenting himself with writing upon a slip of paper the hasty words — “You are known by the villagers — be upon your guard,”— he gave it to the ostler, with instructions to deliver it instantly to the owner of the horse he pointed out, and pursued his course.
Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. Bordered by fine timber, the road occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley, until a wider opening gave a full view of a delightful and varied prospect. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house.
Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. Wood’s dwelling — a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. The progress of time was marked in Mr. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision — by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. A world of haystacks, bean-stacks, and straw-ricks flanked the granges adjoining his habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry, pigeons were feeding at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the stall, horses led to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain, and stalking majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of farming-men were passing and repassing about their various occupations. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruit-trees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring.
Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. Wood turned to look at him. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger.
“I need not ask whether this is Mr. Wood’s,” said the latter, “since I find him at his own gate.”
“You are right, Sir,” said the worthy carpenter, rising. “I am Owen Wood, at your service.”
“You do not remember me, I dare say,” observed the stranger.
“I can’t say I do,” replied Wood. “Your voice seems familiar to me — and — but I’m getting a little deaf — and my eyes don’t serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light.”
“Never mind,” returned the stranger, dismounting; “you’ll recollect me by and by, I’ve no doubt. I bring you tidings of an old friend.”
“Then you’re heartily welcome, Sir, whoever you are. Pray, walk in. Here, Jem, take the gentleman’s horse to the stable — see him dressed and fed directly. Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?”
Mr. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever — as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter’s daughter.
Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child — but that was the only drawback to her beauty. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. Her figure was perfect — tall, graceful, rounded — and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. On the stranger’s appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle.
“My wife and daughter, Sir,” said the carpenter, introducing them to his guest.
Mrs. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. Winifred’s reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation.
“This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear,” said the carpenter.
“Ay, indeed! And who may that be?” inquired his wife.
“One whom you may perhaps have forgotten,” replied the stranger, “but who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at those of your excellent husband.”
At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred’s cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand.
“I have a token to deliver to you,” continued the stranger, addressing her.
“To me?” gasped Winifred.
“This locket,” he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her — “do you remember it?”
“I do — I do!” cried Winifred.
“What’s all this?” exclaimed Wood in amazement.
“Do you not know me, father?” said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand. “Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?”
“God bless me!” ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, “can — can it be?”
“Surely,” screamed Mrs. Wood, joining the group, “it isn’t Thames Darrell come to life again?”
“It is — it is!” cried Winifred, rushing towards him, and flinging her arms round his neck — “it is my dear — dear brother!”
“Well, this is what I never expected to see,” said the carpenter, wiping his eyes; “I hope I’m not dreaming! Thames, my dear boy, as soon as Winny has done with you, let me embrace you.”
“My turn comes before yours, Sir,” interposed his better half. “Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!”
To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction — to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one’s imagination. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink — their hearts were too full.
Thames
