Because it was autumn, I found some slight difficulty in traveling across country from Plymouth to Beechcot, and it accordingly was several days before I reached York and entered upon the final stage of my journey. At Plymouth I had bought a stout horse, and pushed forward, mounted in creditable fashion, to Exeter, and from thence to Bristol, where I struck into the Midlands and made for Derby and Sheffield. It took me a fortnight to reach York, and there, my horse being well-nigh spent, though I had used him with mercy, I exchanged him for a cob, which was of stout build, and good enough to carry me over the thirty miles which yet remained of my journey.

Now, as I drew near the old place, in the twilight of a dull October afternoon, my heart beat within my breast as if it would suffocate me. I had been away two years, and had gone under circumstances of the strangest character. Those whom I had left behind had probably long since given me up as dead. Worse than that—how did I know what malicious story might not have been invented and set forth by my cousin Jasper as to my disappearance? Well, the time was now at hand when all should be explained. But yet—what changes might there not be? I dreaded to think of them. I might find my good uncle dead, Jasper in possession, my sweetheart married—but nay, that seemed hardly to be believed. And yet if she thought me dead?

Thus I went forward, my heart torn by many conflicting emotions. Then I began to think of the changes that had taken place in me. Two years ago I had set out a light-hearted, careless lad, full of confidence and ignorance, knowing naught of the world nor of its cruelties. Now I came back a man, full of strange experiences, my mind charged with many terrible memories, my body bearing witness of the sufferings and privations which I had undergone. It was not the old Humphrey Salkeld that rode down Beechcot village street. Nay, it was not even the old Humphrey Salkeld in looks. Stopping a few hours at the inn in York I had examined myself in a mirror, and had decided that it would be hard work for my old friends to recognize me. I had grown an inch or two, my face was seamed and wrinkled, and wore a strange, grim, wearied look, my beard was a good three inches long, and my mouth covered by a moustache. Changed I was indeed.

I rode up to the door of the inn at Beechcot, where I had first seen Pharaoh Nanjulian, and called loudly for the host. There was no one about the door of the inn, but presently Geoffrey Scales, looking no different to what he did when I had last seen him, came bustling along the sanded passage with his lantern, and turned the light full on my face. I trembled, and could scarce control my voice as I spoke to him; but I soon saw that he did not recognize me.

“How far is it to Scarborough, master?” I inquired.

“A good twenty miles, sir, and a bad road.”

“What, are there thieves on it?”

“There are highwaymen, sir, and ruts, which is worse; and as for mud—there, your honor would be lost in it.”

“Then I had better stay here for the night, eh?”

“Much better, if your honor pleases.”

So I dismounted and bade him take my cob round to his stable, and followed him myself to hear more news.

“What place is this?” I inquired.

“Beechcot, sir—a village of the Wolds.”

“And who owns it, landlord?”

“Sir Thurstan Salkeld, sir.”

“Is he alive and well, landlord?”

Now, whether it was my voice or the unwonted agitation in it that attracted his attention, I know not, but certain it is that when I asked this question Geoffrey Scales held up his light to my face, and after anxiously peering therein for a moment, cried out loudly:

“Marry, I knew it! ’Tis Master Humphrey, come home again, alive and well!” and therewith he would have rushed away to rouse the whole village if I had not stayed him.

“Hush! Geoffrey,” I said. “It is I, true enough, and I am well enough, but prithee keep quiet awhile, for I do not wish anyone to know that I have returned for a season. Tell me first how is my uncle and Mistress Rose. Are they well, Geoffrey? Quick!”

“Oh, Master Humphrey,” quoth he, “what a turn you have given me! Yes, sir, yes; your uncle, good man, is well, though he hath never been the same man since you disappeared, Master Humphrey. And as for Mistress Rose, ’tis just the same sweet maiden as ever, and hath grieved for you mightily. But what a to-do there will be, Master Humphrey! Prithee, let me go and tell all the folk.”

“Not now, Geoffrey, on thy life. Let me first see my sweetheart and my uncle, and then I will cause the great bell at the manor to be rung, and you shall take it for a signal and shall tell who you like.”

So he promised to obey me, and I left him and took my way towards the vicarage, for my heart longed sore for the presence of my sweetheart.

Now, as I came up to the front of the house there was a light burning in the parlor, and I stole up to the window and looked in, and saw Rose busy with her needle. Fair and sweet she was, aye, sweeter, I think, than ever; but it was easy to see that she had sorrowed, and that the sorrow had left its mark upon her. I had always remembered her in my trials and torments as the merry, laughing maiden, that had flown hither and thither like a spirit of spring; now I saw her a woman, sweet and lovely, but with a touch of sadness about her that I knew had come there because of me.

I went round to the door and tapped softly upon it. Presently came Rose, bearing a candle, and opened it to my knock, and looked out upon me. I drew farther away into the darkness.

“Is this the abode of Master Timotheus Herrick?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, “but he is not in at this moment. You will find him at the church, where he has gone to read the evening service.”

“I had a message for his daughter,” said I.

“I am his daughter, sir. What message have you for me?”

“I have come from sea,” I answered. “It is a message from one you know.”

“From one I know—at sea? But I know no one at sea. Oh, sir, what is it you would tell me?”

“Let me come in,” I said; and she turned and led the way into the parlor, and set down the candle and looked steadily at me. And then she suddenly knew me, and in another instant I had her in my arms, and her face was upon my breast, and all the woes and sorrows of my captivity were forgotten.

“Humphrey!” she cried. “O, thank God—thank God! My dear, my dear, it is you, is it not? Am I dreaming—shall I wake presently to find you gone?”

“Never again, sweetheart, never again! I am come back indeed—somewhat changed, it is true, but still your true and faithful lover.”

“And I thought you were dead! O my poor Humphrey, where have you been and what has been done to you? Yes, you are changed—you have suffered, have you not?”

“More than I could wish my worst enemy to suffer,” I answered. “But I forget it all when I look at you, Rose. Oh, sweetheart, if you knew how I have longed for this moment!”

And then, hand in hand, we kneeled down together and thanked God for all his goodness, and for the marvelous mercy with which he had brought us through this time of sore trouble. And on our knees we kissed each other solemnly, and so sealed our reunion, and blotted out all the bitterness of the past from our hearts, so that there was nothing left there but memories, sad indeed, but no longer painful.

“And now,” said Rose, “tell me, Humphrey, where you have been and how it was you went away. Oh, if you knew how we have sorrowed for you.”

“First tell me, Rose, how is my uncle?”

“He is well, Humphrey, but he has mourned for you ever since Jasper came home and told us of your death.”

“Ah! Jasper came home and told you of my death, did he? And by what manner of death did I die, according to Master Jasper?”

“He said you were drowned at Scarborough, in coming from some vessel where you and he had been paying a visit at night to the captain.”

“And did no one doubt him, Rose? Were there no inquiries made?”

“I doubted him, Humphrey. I felt sure there was some strange mystery, but how could I find it out? And what could be done—they could not drag Scarborough Bay for your body. Humphrey, did Jasper play some trick upon you—did he get you out of the way?”

“He did, Rose. Yea, he got me out of the way so well that I have been right round the world since last I set foot in Beechcot. Think of that, my dear. Right round the world! I have seen Mexico and the Pacific and Java and the Celebes and Africa, and I know not what, and here I am again.”

“But you have suffered, Humphrey? Where—and how?”

So I told her very briefly of what had happened to me in the cells of the Inquisition, and as I spoke, her sweet face was filled with compassion and her eyes were bright with tears, and she held my hands tightly clasped in her own as if she would never let them go again.

“Can such things be?” she asked. “Oh, why God does allow them I cannot understand. My poor Humphrey!”

“Naught but God’s help could have brought us through them, dear heart,” I answered. “And, indeed, I think naught of them now, and would cheerfully face them again if I thought they would cause you to love me more.”

But she answered that that was impossible, and scolded me very prettily for thinking of such a thing.

And then came Master Timotheus back from reading prayers, and entered the parlor, carrying a great folio in his hand and blinking at us through his big spectacles. And when he saw me, he stopped and stared.

“Here is a visitor, father,” said Rose. “Look closely at him—do you not know him?”

But the good man, taking my hand in his own, did stare at me hard and long ere he discovered me, and then he fell upon my neck and embraced me heartily and wept with joy.

“Of a truth,” said he, “I might have known that it was thee, Humphrey, for two reasons. First, I have been of an uncommonly light-hearted nature all this day, and did once detect myself in the act of singing a merry song; and secondly, I saw on entering the parlor that Rose’s face was brighter than it hath been since last we saw thee.”

Then he laid his hand on my head and blessed me, and thanked God for sending me home again; and he shed more tears, and was fain to take off his spectacles and polish them anew. And he would have had me sup with them, but on hearing that I had not yet seen my uncle he bade me go to him at once, so I said farewell for that time and took my way to the manor.