Her Bodley or her Vatican to lose,
All things that are but writ or printed there,
In his unbounded breast engraven are.
And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate
Thrust into th’ noise and business of a State.
He is too good for war, and ought to be
As far from danger as from fear he’s free.
“Lines on Lord Falkland.”—Cowley.
Little Helena Locke was made happy one day towards the end of July, by receiving a letter from her father. That it had been long upon the road did not surprise her, for letters naturally led a hazardous existence in war time, and she never knew how nearly she had missed receiving this one; never guessed that for many days it had lain securely in Colonel Norton’s pocket, that it had been through the battles of Lansdown and Roundway Down, and had finally been given by Norton, at Marlborough, to the first messenger he came across.
Whether the sight of the Major’s dead face had pricked his conscience, or whether he deemed it most to his own interest to have the little heiress safely bestowed at Notting-hill Manor, it would be hard to say. For a minute or two Helena’s fate had hung in the balance, but chancing to come across a man who was riding westward, Norton had entrusted him with the letter, and after many vicissitudes it had been delivered.