CHAPTER XII--WORD FROM THE WARS
Above, below, the Rose of Snow,
Twined with her blushing face we spread.
GRAY'S Bard.
News did not travel very fast to Whitburn, but one summer's day a
tall, gallant, fair-faced esquire, in full armour of the cumbrous
plate fashion, rode up to the gate, and blew the family note on his
bugle.
"My son! my son Rob," cried the lady, starting up from the cushions
with which Grisell had furnished her settle.
Robert it was, who came clanking in, met by his father at the gate,
by his mother at the door, and by Bernard on his crutch in the rear,
while Grisell, who had never seen this brother, hung back.
The youth bent his knee, but his outward courtesy did not conceal a
good deal of contempt for the rude northern habits. "How small and
dark the hall is! My lady, how old you have grown! What, Bernard,
still fit only for a shaven friar! Not shorn yet, eh? Ha! is that
Grisell? St. Cuthbert to wit! Copeland has made a hag of her!"
"'Tis a good maid none the less," replied her father; the first
direct praise that she had ever had from him, and which made her
heart glow.
"She will ne'er get a husband, with such a visage as that," observed
Robert, who did not seem to have learnt courtesy or forbearance yet
on his travels; but he was soon telling his father what concerned
them far more than the maiden's fate.
"Sir, I have come on the part of the Duke of York to summon you.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109