“Oh, Will,” she murmured, in a low, respectful voice, “and ha’ ye left your poor mother to starve or go to the House? But there, it’s no yoose talking now. Words can’t free a bound man, nor yet any money that she or you could find.”
“Never fear,” said the young man. “I’ll come back rich and make her and you happy.”
He said this in a faint voice, having but partially recovered from the quartern of gin, under the influence of which he had been imprudent enough to enlist. He now began to feel qualms as to his future welfare.
“I should ha’ felt this more at one time,” murmured the woman. “For you’ve bin kind and good to me, Will, and it doant tak’ me long to count my frinds. But now I’ve only one thought in my head and one grief in my heart. I can’t think nor feel of anything but this sore trouble, for it be a trouble as will cling to me for many and many a long and weary day.”
She ceased, and those around were at no loss to comprehend that the speaker’s heart was too full to admit of her saying more.
The young man who had been called Will hung down his head, and but for very shame he would have sobbed; but situated as he was, surrounded by his companions, he bore up as best he could.
The woman turned her back upon the young recruit, and went half-way down the tavern passage; it was blocked up by soldiers who appeared to be discussing the character of their acquaintances.
“He’s got an oil bottle in his pocket,” were the first words she caught. “An’ so has your brave ’listing sergeant,” said the woman, “an’ bad luck to him an’ all such smooth-tongued varmints.”
“Don’t you speak ill of the sergeant, young woman,” said a soldier. “He’s a dooty to perform.”
“Has he?”