Chapter VII: Sandy’s Visit Home

Up to this time we have been following Robert and his brother almost completely. It will do no harm, however, to leave them for a little time and to hark back to another home in the Old Land.

Robert’s influence on Sandy, strengthened by the heroic rescue, was a lasting one. Many times during the return journey the old sailor longed for the companionship and the sturdy manhood association of the lad he had learned to regard so highly. With these thoughts and with his changed life there naturally came into his heart feelings and longings he had not known for years, and with these came a renewed love for his home and parents and a longing to see his dear old mother again, an experience which he could not remember since he had left home in the first place. When the ship docked on her return journey, therefore, Sandy was not long in breaking his long-continued connections and in starting for the old home. He was wise enough to realize, however, that his mother would scarcely like to see him as he was, and out of the savings of his pay a new outfit of clothing was bought, and with a clean shave and his hair trimmed he took the quickest way he knew of getting home. On the way his misgivings were many. He had not written home for over thirty years, and since his mother did not know of his whereabouts it had been impossible for her to write to him. Had he known how his mother had longed for a letter and how his father had tried to cheer her when no news of their boy was forthcoming, he would not have been so indifferent; but, like a good many boys, when he got away from home these things did not trouble him much, particularly when he was busy in new experiences which took up the greater part of his time. His home lay well up in the Highlands, and, on the stage journey, over and over again his thoughts went back to the day his mother said good-bye to him, and he wondered with a good many doubts whether she would still be alive. On the way, too, he remembered that this was the first journey of any length he had made on land since he had left home, and this remembrance was emphasized when he missed the rolling of the sea and was made very uncomfortable by the bumping of the stage over the hilly roads. He missed, too, his old friends among the crew, with whom he had associated for so many years, and who in spite of their roughness had become like brothers to him.

Wishing his visit to be a surprise he left the stage a little distance from the village, and walking toward home along the neatly-kept road he was surprised at first to meet many people whom he did not know. Some of the younger folk, it is true, appeared to have something familiar in their faces, but for a time he forgot he had been away for thirty years and that no one would be likely to remember him. Finally he came to the turn in the old, familiar road and began to climb step by step up the old hill leading to the old, familiar cottage. He remembered as well as if it were yesterday the fun he and the other boys had with their sleds on this hill, and with this came in a flash vivid remembrances of the homespun clothing and the warm mitts his mother had made for him. He remembered again, too, the kisses which had been given him as a little chap when he came back from his sleigh-rides to be cuddled up in front of the big fireplace. As he came up over the brow of the hill his step involuntarily quickened and his longings increased. For the moment he forgot all about his forebodings, and it seemed that he couldn’t quickly enough get to the old home to clasp his dear old mother in his arms and to look into his father’s eyes.

Now he was able to look down into the little valley on the other side of the hill where the cottage stood. Yes, it was still there. The same old thatch roof came into view, though more moss had gathered on one side than had been there. A few minutes later he came to the gate between the low walls and looked up the path leading to the door of his boyhood home. Then his fears came upon him again with a rush. The old gate had fallen down, the hinges falling away from the decayed posts. Along the path where his mother had in his boyhood days carefully looked after the flowers, weeds were flourishing. The climbing rose over the porch, which he remembered so well, no longer bloomed. He waited for a moment, half expecting that his old dog would run out as he used to in former days to bark him a welcome, but the place was quiet with the quietness of a deserted spot. The door of the old home was open. For a moment he hesitated, with his heart in his mouth. Then with a hesitation which he could not understand, he walked in and looked in vain for the smiling face which had been framed in the doorway and for the outstretched arms which formerly had gathered him into them. Half-dazed, he looked through the broken window in the back of the room, as though he expected to see the familiar form of his father in the garden, but no one was there. The silence and loneliness was complete.

Then Sandy spent one of the bitterest moments of his life. Great tears ran down his cheeks, and with bitterness he reproached himself for having forgotten one of the most precious gifts this earth gives a man, a loving, patient mother and a kind, careful father. Then, kneeling for a moment in front of the old fireplace where, as he remembered now but had forgotten so long, his mother had taught him in the old days to say his prayers each evening, he made a resolution that with God’s help he would not disappoint his parents again, but that he would be true to his mother’s prayer as she had told it to him in the note enclosed in the old Bible, and would live so that he would be ready to meet them in a better land when his time came.

After a little time, Sandy realized that his regrets could do no good now, and putting them so far as possible behind him he left the silent, cheerless home and made his way again to the little village. Stepping into the little postoffice, his heart was gladdened at once by the sight of the postmaster who, though up in years, was still young in heart and spirit, and here at least was one person who remembered him, for he was recognized at once and was invited to stay over-night. Then, when the postmaster’s duties for the day were done, the old veteran, who had known the history of every family in the village and throughout the surrounding districts, whose duty it was to keep a record of the births, marriages and deaths, told Sandy something of the experiences of the past years. The old man thought that it would not do the wandering son any harm to suffer a little, since he did not then appreciate the extent of Sandy’s repentance. Many and many a time he had been touched when he had seen the sadness and disappointment on the face of Sandy’s old mother when he had been forced to tell her, “No, there is no letter to-day.” Often he had been asked to go over the mail again, just to see if he hadn’t possibly missed a line from the boy, Sandy. Had he known Sandy’s address, he himself would have tried many a time to get in touch with the wandering son, but, of course, he had been just as helpless as the mother.

Far into the night the old man talked to the sailor, telling him purposely how week after week during the thirty years of his absence the old mother had come, hoping against hope for word of her son, and he said, “It hurt me to have to send her back every time with a heavy heart. She was a good mother though, my boy. Never in all those thirty years did she speak an unkind word of you. Her thought was always that Sandy was a good boy and will be a good man, that he would write if he could.” Then the old man went on, even more pathetically: “The last time your mother walked to the office, Sandy, I knew she would never return. She knew this also. The way she lingered, the way she longed for a letter, all told plainly that it would be her last call, and after she had gone up the road a little piece she turned and came back again to ask me if a letter came that it might be sent on to the old home. Your mother lived for you from week to week, Sandy,” he said, “and her life clung to the hope of a letter. At last her strength was not great enough to be told again, ‘There is no letter from Sandy.’”

The old man went on further, though he saw that the tears were now running unrestrainedly down Sandy’s cheeks. “The love your mother had for you has made a better man of you,” he said. “I do not believe she could have walked home that last day if I hadn’t told her that possibly for some reason we didn’t know you were up in heaven waiting for her. She looked at me so earnestly then and her tears flowed freely, as they did often, and finally she said:

“‘I hadn’t thought of that. Sandy must be in heaven or he would write me.’

“After that she left the office with a lighter step and with even a smile upon the face that before had been cast down.” After a little, when Sandy managed to get hold of himself again, he was told how his mother had been laid away in the old village churchyard five years before. Also that his father had followed her in the next year, and then the old man said:

“There is no one, Sandy, to put up a stone even, to mark where they are laid. You know how poor we all are here. Some of us would have done it if we could, but we had our own loved ones to look after.”

While it added a good deal to his pain, Sandy felt that it was only his duty to visit the little churchyard the next day, and there he was shown the graves of the parents who had loved him so long and faithfully. Glad he was then that he had brought with him the pay he had received from his last voyage. A stone such as he knew his old mother would have been proud of was ordered, flowers were placed on the graves, and every mark of respect arranged for. Even so, Sandy felt in his heart that this did not begin to atone for his neglect for the long years gone by, and for many months he stayed in the village, talking with those who had known his father and mother, keeping the flowers fresh on the graves in the churchyard, and trying to feel himself back in the old home. After a time Sandy went back to his seafaring life. When his old shipmates saw him they exclaimed at the wrinkles in his face and wondered what had happened during his absence to make him look so much older. At first he said nothing, but in the midst of the voyage, when the long roll of the sea or the roar of the wind brought back memories of his experiences with the heroic lad Robert, he told to some of his mates the story of the pain which had come to him during those months in the old home in Scotland.

Sandy lived like a real man for the rest of his life. He was strong and true and clean. He read his Bible and as best he knew he tried to follow the path laid out for him, so that some day he would be sure of meeting his father and mother, when the great call came, in the place where he knew they had gone already.