Chapter 23 - Page 2

beauty of the afternoon when he rode up
the avenue on his home-coming! His home-coming! Yes, 'twas that he
called it in his thought, and for the first time since his parents'
death it seemed so. In the tenderness of his heart and for the sake of
his long and true love for his dead kinsman, he scarce dared explain to
himself why he now could use this word and could not before--and yet,
he felt that in the depths of his being the thought lay that at last he
was coming home.

"God forgive me if there is lack of kindness in it," he cried to
himself. "Kinsman, forgive me! Nay, you know now and will have pity. I
am but man and young, and have so madly loved and been so tortured. Now
I may look into her eyes and do no wrong, but only great Love's
bidding. My blood beats in my veins--my heart leaps up so and will
_not_ be still."

'Twas deep autumn and a day of gold--the sunset burned and flamed and
piled the sky with golden mountains such as had heaped upon each other
on the evening he had stood with his mother at the Long Gallery window
before their last parting; the trees' branches were orange and amber
and russet brown, the moors had gold hues on them, and on the terraces
the late flowers blooming blazed crimson and yellow as if the summer
had burned all paler and less sumptuous colour away. The gables and
turrets of the tower rose clear soft grey, or dark with ivy, against a
sky of deepest blue, the broad tree-studded acres of the park rolled
yellowing green to Camylott village, where white cottages nestled among
orchards and fields of corn and were enfolded by wooded hills and
rising moorland. Occasional farm-yard sounds were to be heard mingled
now and then with voices and laughter of children, rooks cawed in the
high tree-tops with a lazy irregularity, and there was an autumn
freshness in the ambient air. In the courtyard the fountain played with
a soft plashing, and as he rode in some little birds were chirping and
fluttering as they drank and flirted the water with their wings. The
wide doors were thrown open, showing the beauteous huge hall with its
pictures and warm colours, its armour and trophies of the chase; the
servants stood waiting to receive him, and as the groom took his horse,
Mr. Fox approached to greet him on the threshold. Every face had kindly
welcome in it, every object seemed to recall some memory which
belonged to his happiest youth--to those years when all had been so
warm and fair.

"Yes," he said later, as he stood at the window in the Long Gallery and
looked forth. "God grant I have come home."

What hours, what days and nights he spent in the weeks that followed.
In truth they were too full of intense feeling to be wholly