By this time Dr. Bathurst had descended, more cautiously, and Walter went to greet him, and repeat his news. Together they proceeded to meet the rest; and who can tell the tearful happiness when Rose and her mother were once more pressed in each other’s arms!
“My noble girl! under Providence you have saved him!” whispered Lady Woodley.
The next evening, in secrecy, with the shutters shut, and the light screened, the true pastor of Forest Lea gathered the faithful ones of his flock for a service in the old hall. There knelt many a humble, loyal, trustful peasant; there was the widowed Dame Ewins, trying to be comforted, as they told her she ought; there was the lady herself, at once sorrowful and yet earnestly thankful; there was Sylvester Enderby, hearing and following the prayers he had been used to in his early childhood, with a growing feeling that here lay the right and the truth; there was Deborah, weeping, grieving over her own fault, and almost heart-broken at the failure of him on whom she had set her warm affections, yet perhaps in a way made wiser, and taught to trust no longer to a broken reed, but to look for better things; there were Walter and Lucy, both humbled and subdued, repenting in earnest of the misbehaviour each of them had been guilty of. Walter did not show his contrition much in manner, but it was real, and he proved it by many a struggle with his self-willed overbearing temper. It was a real resolution that he took now, and in a spirit of humility, which made him glad to pray that what was past might be forgiven, and that he might be helped for the future. That was the first time Walter had ever kept up his attention through the whole service, but it all came home to him now.
Each of that little congregation had their own sorrow of heart, their own prayer and thanksgiving, to pour out in secret; but all could join in one thank-offering for the safety of the heir of that house; all joined in one prayer for the rescue of their hunted King, and for the restoration of their oppressed and afflicted Church.
Nine years had passed away, and Forest Lea still stood among the stumps of its cut-down trees; but one fair long day in early June there was much that was changed in its aspect. The park was carefully mown and swept; the shrubs were trained back; the broken windows were repaired; and within the hall the appearance of everything was still more strikingly cheerful, as the setting sun looked smilingly in at the western window. Green boughs filled the hearth, and were suspended round the walls; fresh branches of young oak leaves, tasselled with the pale green catkins; the helmets and gauntlets hanging on the wall were each adorned with a spray, and polished to the brightest; the chairs and benches were ranged round the long table, covered with a spotless cloth, and bearing in the middle a large bowl filled with oak boughs, roses, lilac, honey-suckle, and all the pride of the garden.
At the head of the table sat, less pale, and her face beaming with deep, quiet, heartfelt joy, Lady Woodley herself; and near her were Dr. Bathurst and his happy daughter, who in a few days more were to resume their abode in his own parsonage. Opposite to her was a dark soldierly sun-burnt man, on whose countenance toil, weather, and privation had set their traces, but whose every tone and smile told of the ecstasy of being once more at home.
Merry faces were at each side of the table; Walter, grown up into a tall noble-looking youth of two-and-twenty, particularly courteous and gracious in demeanour, and most affectionate to his mother; Charles, a gentle sedate boy of fifteen, so much given to books and gravity, that his sisters called him their little scholar; Rose, with the same sweet thoughtful face, active step, and helpful hand, that she had always possessed, but very pale, and more pensive and grave than became a time of rejoicing, as if the cares and toils of her youth had taken away her light heart, and had given her a soft subdued melancholy that was always the same. She was cheerful when others were cast down and overwhelmed; but when they were gay, she, though not sorrowful, seemed almost grave, in spite of her sweet smiles and ready sympathy. Yet Rose was very happy, no less happy than Eleanor, with her fair, lovely, laughing face, or—
“But where is Lucy?” Edmund asked, as he saw her chair vacant.
“Lucy?” said Rose; “she will come in a moment. She is going to bring in the dish you especially ordered, and which Deborah wonders at.”
“Good, faithful Deborah!” said Edmund. “Did she never find a second love?”
“Oh no, never,” said Eleanor. “She says she has seen enough of men in her time.”
“She is grown sharper than ever,” said Walter, “now she is Mistress Housekeeper Deborah; I shall pity the poor maidens under her.”
“She will always be kind in the main,” rejoined Rose.
“And did you ever hear what became of that precious sweetheart of hers?” asked Edmund.
“Hanged for sheep stealing,” replied Walter, “according to the report of Sylvester Enderby. But hush, for enter—”
There entered Lucy, smiling and blushing, her dark hair decorated with the spray of oak, and her hands supporting a great pewter dish, in which stood a noble pie, of pale-brown, well-baked crust, garnished with many a pair of little claws, showing what were the contents. She set it down in the middle of the table, just opposite to Walter. The grace was said, the supper began, and great was the merriment when Walter, raising a whole pigeon on his fork, begged to know if Rose had appetite enough for it, and if she still possessed the spirit of a wolf. “And,” said he, as they finished, “now Rose will never gainsay me more when I sing—