He came first to London and found, on examining the map of
Hampshire, that the village of Thorpe (I will call it), where
he was born, is three miles from the nearest station, in the
southern part of the county. Undoubtedly it was Thorpe; that
was one of the few names of places his father had mentioned
which remained in his memory always associated with that vivid
image of the farm in his mind. To Thorpe he accordingly went
- as pretty a rustic village as he had hoped to find it. He
took a room at the inn and went out for a long walk - "just to
see the place," he said to the landlord. He would make no
inquiries; he would find his home for himself; how could he
fail to recognize it? But he walked for hours in a widening
circle and saw no farm or other house, and no ground that
corresponded to the picture in his brain.
Troubled at his failure, he went back and questioned his
landlord, and, naturally, was asked for the name of the farm
he was seeking. He had forgotten the name - he even doubted
that he had ever heard it. But there was his family name to
go by - Dyson; did any one remember a farmer Dyson in the
village? He was told that it was not an uncommon name in that
part of the country. There were no Dysons now in Thorpe, but
some fifteen or twenty years ago one of that name had been the
tenant of Long Meadow Farm in the parish. The name of the
farm was unfamiliar, and when he visited the place he found it
was not the one he sought.
It was a grievous disappointment. A new sense of loneliness
oppressed him; for that bright image in his mind, with the
feeling about his home, had been a secret source of comfort
and happiness, and was like a companion, a dear human friend,
and now he appeared to be on the point of losing it. Could it
be that all that mental picture, with the details that seemed
so true to life, was purely imaginary? He could not believe
it; the old house had probably been pulled down, the big trees
felled, orchard and hedges grabbed up - all the old features
obliterated - and the land thrown into some larger neighbouring
farm. It was dreadful to think that such devastating changes
had been made, but it had certainly existed as he saw it in
his mind, and he would inquire of some of the old men in the
place, who would perhaps be able to tell him where his home
had stood thirty years ago.
At once he set about interviewing all the old men he came upon
in his rounds, describing to them the farm tenanted by a man
named Dyson about forty years ago, and by and by he got hold
of one who knew. He listened for a few minutes to the
oft-repeated story, then exclaimed, "Why, sir, 'tis surely
Woodyates you be talking about!"
"That's the name! That's the name," he cried. "Woodyyates-
how did I ever forget it! You knew it then - where was it?"
"I'll just show you," said the old man, proud at having
guessed rightly, and turning started slowly hobbling along
till he got to the end of the lane.
There was an opening there and a view of the valley with
trees, blue in the distance, at the furthest visible point.
"Do you see them trees?" he said. "That's where Harping is;
'tis two miles or, perhaps, a little more from Thorpe.
There's a church tower among them trees, but you can't see it
because 'tis hid. You go by the road till you comes to the
church, then you go on by the water, maybe a quarter of a
mile, and you comes to Woodyates. You won't see no difference
in it; I've knowed it since I were a boy, but 'tis in Harping
parish, not in Thorpe."
Now he remembered the name - Harping, near Thorpe - only Thorpe
was the more important village where the inn was and the
shops.
In less than an hour after leaving his informant he was at
Woodyates, feasting his eyes on the old house of his dreams
and of his exiled father's before him, inexpressibly glad to
recognize it as the very house he had loved so long - that he
had been deceived by no false image.
For some days he haunted the spot, then became a lodger at the
farm-house, and now after making some inquiries he had found
that the owner was willing to sell the place for something
more than its market value, and he was going up to London
about it.
At Waterloo I wished him happiness in his old home found again
after so many years, then watched him as he walked briskly
away - as commonplace-looking a man as could be seen on that
busy crowded platform, in his suit of rough grey tweeds, thick
boots, and bowler hat. Yet one whose fortune might be envied
by many even among the successful - one who had cherished a
secret thought and feeling, which had been to him like the
shadow of a rock and like a cool spring in a dry and thirsty
land.
And in that host of undistinguished Colonials and others of
British race from all regions of the earth, who annually visit
these shores on business or for pleasure or some other object,
how many there must be who come with some such memory or dream
or aspiration in their hearts!
