Volume I Part 22 (1/2)

Yet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detect The figure of Mary Charlworth. 'It's just what we all might expect,'

Was uttered: and: 'Didn't I tell you?' Of Mary the rumour resounds, That she is now her own mistress, and mistress of five thousand pounds.

'Twas she, they say, who cruelly sent young Tom to the war.

Miss Mary, we thank you now! If you knew what we're thanking you for!

VIII

But, 'Have her in: let her hear it,' called Grandfather Bridgeman, elate, While Mary's black-gloved fingers hung trembling with flight on the gate.

Despite the women's remonstrance, two little ones, lighter than deer, Were loosed, and Mary, imprisoned, her whole face white as a tear, Came forward with culprit footsteps. Her punishment was to commence: The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense.

IX

'You perhaps may remember a fellow, Miss Charlworth, a sort of black sheep,'

The old man turned his tongue to ironical utterance deep: 'He came of a Methodist dad, so it wasn't his fault if he kicked.

He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict.

His name was Tom, and, dash me! but Bridgeman! I think you might add: Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad.'

X

This prelude dismally lengthened, till Mary, starting, exclaimed, 'A letter, Sir, from your grandson?' 'Tom Bridgeman that rascal is named,'

The old man answered, and further, the words that sent Tom to the ranks Repeated as words of a person to whom they all owed mighty thanks.

But Mary never blushed: with her eyes on the letter, she sate, And twice interrupting him faltered, 'The date, may I ask, Sir, the date?'

XI

'Why, that's what I never look at in a letter,' the farmer replied: 'Facts first! and now I'll be parson.' The Bridgeman women descried A quiver on Mary's eyebrows. One turned, and while s.h.i.+fting her comb, Said low to a sister: 'I'm certain she knows more than we about Tom.

She wants him now he's a hero!' The same, resuming her place, Begged Mary to check them the moment she found it a tedious case.

XII

Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats, The voice of the farmer opened. '”Three cheers, and off with your hats!”

- That's Tom. ”We've beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, to be sure!

A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore.

I entered it Serjeant-Major,”--and now he commands a salute, And carries the flag of old England! Heigh! see him lift foes on his foot!

XIII

'--An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be; You'll own war isn't such humbug: and Glory means something, you see.

”But don't say a word,” he continues, ”against the brave French any more.”

- That stopt me: we'll now march together. I couldn't read further before.

That ”brave French” I couldn't stomach. He can't see their cunning to get Us Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings they net!'

XIV

The old man sneered, and read forward. It was of that desperate fight; - The Muscovite stole thro' the mist-wreaths that wrapped the chill Inkermann height, Where stood our silent outposts: old England was in them that day!

O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the fray They moved! He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slow Swung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows that grow.

XV

And louder at Tom's first person: acute and in thunder the 'I'