His mother, after the first moment’s fright, had reassured herself somewhat on his account; he was so mere a boy that it was not likely that Algernon Sydney, who then commanded at Chichester, would put him to death; a short imprisonment was the worst that was likely to befall him; and though that was enough to fill her with terror and anxiety, it could at that moment be scarcely regarded in comparison with her fears for her eldest son.
A long time passed away, so long, that they began to hope that the enemies might be baffled in their search, in spite of Diggory’s intimate knowledge of every nook and corner. They had been once to the shrubbery, and had been heard tramping back to the stable, where they were welcome to search as long as they chose, then to the barn-yard, all over the house from garret to cellar. Was it over? Joy! joy! But the feet were heard turning back to the pleasance, as though to recommence the search, and ten minutes after the steps came nearer. The rebel officer entered the hall first, but, alas! behind him came, guarded by two soldiers, Edmund Woodley himself, his step firm, his head erect, and his hands unbound. His mother sank back in her chair, and he, going straight up to her, knelt on one knee before her, saying, “Mother, dear mother, your blessing. Let me see your face again.”
She threw her arms round his neck, “My son! and is it thus we meet?”
“We only meet as we parted,” he answered firmly and cheerfully. “Still sufferers in the same good cause; still, I trust, with the same willing hearts.”
“Come, sir,” said the officer, “I must see you safely bestowed for the night.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” entreated Lady Woodley. “It is six years since I saw my son, and this may be our last meeting.” She led him to the light, and looked earnestly up into his face, saying, with a smile, which had in it much of pride and pleasure, as well as sadness, “How you are altered, Edmund! See, Rose, how brown he is, and how much darker his hair has grown; and does not his moustache make him just like your father?”
“And my little sisters,” said Edmund. “Ha! Lucy, I know your little round face.”
“Oh,” sobbed Lucy, “is it my fault? Can you pardon me? The pigeon pie!”
“What does she mean?” asked Edmund, turning to Rose.
“I saw you take it out at night, Rose,” said poor Lucy. “I told Deb!”