The World Before Them Volume I Part 15

"No news of Gilly, Lawrence?"

"Why, dame, what makes you think thir wor?"

Dorothy looked hard at the old man. She saw a covert smile on his wrinkled face, while his wife pushed her former inquiry.

"Mothers are allers hoping against hope, Larry. I felt so certain that you would bring us some word of him."

"Father, you have got a letter. I know you have," cried Dorothy. "I can see it in your eyes," and she sprang to his side.

"An' if so be I have, what's that to you, little minx? Reach down my great-coat. You'll find my pocket-book in the right side pocket, but don't toomble any o' the money out."

Dorothy searched for the hidden treasure in desperate haste, and placed the letter on the table before him.

"And you had a letter, Lawrence, all this time, and never told us a word about it," said Mrs. Lawrence, reproachfully.

"I knew the letter wu'd keep," laughed the farmer, "an' I wanted you an'

the la.s.s to eat your victuals in quiet. I know'd if you see'd the letter you'd both gang empty to bed."

"But how could you eat your supper, Lawrence, an' the letter lying unread in your pocket?"

"I know'd all aboot it," said Rushmere, with a jolly chuckle. "I got it by heart afore I left the town. It wor that made me so late home. Here, Doll, thee be'est a better scholar nor I, read the letter out to your mother."

Dorothy's hand trembled with agitation; she could hardly unfold the precious doc.u.ment, and the tears came so thick and fast to her eyes, that when unfolded, she could hardly see to read it.

"What the deuce ails the girl? Read a little louder, Dolly, for mother an' I to hear it."

Dorothy made an effort to control her feelings, and read as follows:--

"Dear and honoured Parents,

"I hope these few lines will meet you in health, as they leave me at this present time, by the blessing of G.o.d; and that you have forgiven me for my undutiful conduct in leaving you as I did. I repented directly the false step was taken, but, like a true Briton, I was too proud to go back.

"The regiment only remained in England a week after I listed, when we were ordered off to Portugal, to join the army under Sir John Moore. We had a fine pa.s.sage, but I was very sea-sick, and home-sick, which I found the worst ailment of the two; and I thought that if I made no better soldier than I did a sailor, I might just as well have remained at the plough.

"But that's all over. I like the life I have chosen better than when I first entered. We have had hard times, and hard marching through this rough country, but thanks be to G.o.d, I have escaped with a whole skin.

"The captain who commands our company is a lad of my own age, born in our part of the country; Lord Fitzmorris, the only son of Earl Wilton, who lives up at the big hall on the hill. By the by, father, he says, that the grand old place once belonged to my forebears. Is that true?"

"In coorse it is," interrupted old Rushmere. "But 'tis a long time ago, when he," nodding to the picture fronting him, "was lord o' all these manors."

"I am the captain's body servant, and he takes great interest in me, and says that he will push me on for your sakes, and make a man of me before the war is over, of which there is no prospect at present. When it comes to fighting, it will be no child's play, I promise you, and so old Boney will find. We are hard pressed by the enemy, and the army is suffering greatly for the want of food and clothing, and we are hourly expecting an engagement with the French, who are encamped upon the heights above Corunna.

"My dear parents, if I should be killed don't grieve for my loss. A man can only die once, and if he falls in a good cause, fighting for his country, it is a credit to himself and his parents. Remember me to all the neighbours. Tell Molly Dawson that her son is well of his wound, and has been made a sergeant.

Has Nancy Watling succeeded in getting a husband? I don't flatter myself that she broke her heart on my account, but what would she think of me in my red coat? I suppose I shall find Dorothy married when I come back, with a house full of children.

Give my love to her, as to a sister, and tell her to pray for the poor soldiers in Spain.

"G.o.d bless you, dear father and mother. I pray that he may once more unite us under the roof of the dear old home. So no more, at this time, from your affectionate son.

"GILBERT RUSHMERE.

"P.S. Tell Dorothy to write a long letter for you. I want to hear all the home news. All about the farm and the horses, and how you got through the harvest without me, and whether Bill Taylor took my place at the last cricket match, and if old Pincher is still alive.

"G. R."

The letter was read and re-read many times, the delighted parents repeating every word after Dorothy. Holding each other by the hand, they exchanged glances of mutual affection and sympathy.

"The dear boy," cries the mother. "G.o.d bless him! I always knew he would be sorry, when he came to his right mind, and love us as well as ever."

"Aye," said the father, "I feel proud o' my son. He's o' the right stuff. He'll fight like a man, an' a true Briton, when the time comes, an' do his duty to his country like a hero."

Dorothy was the only one in the room who was not quite satisfied with Gilbert's letter. She was hurt at the clause about herself. If he loved her as she did him, could he speak in that light way about her marrying another, or send his love to her as to a sister--a t.i.tle, which from boyhood he had always refused to address her by. A change had come over him since they parted; he had grown fonder of his parents, but colder to her. She would not damp their joy, by expressing her disappointment, but she felt it very keenly.

"Mother, you were a true prophet," she said, closing the letter and giving it back to Mr. Rushmere.

"Aye, child, hearts whisper to hearts, let the distance a'tween them be ever so great. Love can travel in a thought over land and sea. I b'lieve that Gilbert never thinks of me but I know it. I told you, Dorothy, that I should hear from him. I felt it in my heart."

"The angels don't whisper such blessed dreams to me," returned Dorothy, sadly.

"Dolly," and the old man spoke to her very gravely. "Art dreaming about Gilly yet? I thought you had clean forgotten him."

"Only as a sister should think of an absent brother," returned Dorothy, ashamed of the subterfuge. "As Gilbert himself wishes me to remember him."

"I b'lieve you ha' a hankering arter the lad yet," said Rushmere, tartly. "Dorothy, do'ant cross that stile, or maybe you'll get into a bad road, an' be left sticking in the mud. It won't do. It won't do, la.s.s. I will never gi' my consent."

He shook his head, settled himself in his deep leather-backed chair, and puffed away vigorously at his pipe.

"Wait, father, till I ask you for it. If ever I marry Gilbert, it will be your own doing. The time may come when you may both regret that I was not his wife."

Her speech was interrupted by a loud rap at the door. Pincher sprang up from the hearth-stone, where he lay basking at Dorothy's feet, with a fierce yell, as if he had received a mortal injury by having his comfortable nap disturbed, and rushed to the heavily barred door, barking furiously.

"Some one has lost their way on the heath," said Dorothy, laying her hand upon the strong iron bolt that secured the door. "It is a bad night to be abroad, father; shall I let them in?"

"In coorse."

"Ask first, Dolly, who they be, an' what they want," suggested his more cautious wife.

Pincher again lifted up his voice, as if he had a right to be heard in the consultation, and in deep spasmodic fits of barking, remonstrated against admitting strangers at that unreasonable hour.

"Be still, sir," and Dorothy pushed the old dog rather unceremoniously from the door. "Go, and lie down in the corner, and behave yourself."

Pincher looked up in her face, and sullenly obeyed, growling as he slowly retreated to the fire, with hair bristling up, and eyes blazing defiance.

Another rap, louder and more importunate, echoed through the large room. "Who's there?" demanded Dorothy.

"A woman, lost in the snow," screamed a shrill voice without. "If you be Christians, open the door. I shall freeze to death, if I stand much longer here."

Dorothy thought of her mother,--back flew bolt and bar, and the heavy door opened to admit a tall gaunt female figure, wrapt up in a red cloak, and carrying a large wicker basket on her arm.

"Mercy, what a night!" cried the stranger, shaking the white flakes from her clothes. "But for the lights in your windows, I must have perished on the heath. Will you give me a bed, good people, for the night, in your barn?"