CHAPTER VII
LISBETH WRITES FROM LONDON
From the filthy wigwam, into which Rodney Allison had been thrust by his captor, to the little home in Charlottesville the distance was more than three hundred miles, as the crow flies, and much farther for those that travelled on foot and not by wing, threading the winding forest trails, wading and swimming the fords and climbing the mountains. Yet the lad’s thoughts sped across like a flash of dawn.
He lifted his head––his surroundings had, for the moment, cast the spell of despair on him––and looked out. He seemed to see, not the woods that hemmed in the little Indian village, but his humble home in far away Virginia. Poor and shabby outside, inside, the “living” room was as neat as soap and water and sand and plenty of scrubbing could make it. The meagre furnishings were tidily arranged. He could see, “in his mind’s eye,” the faces of his mother, and Mam, and Thello; fancied he could hear the whinny with which Nat always greeted his entrance to the stable. He imagined just what familiar task each of 58 them might be doing. He knew Thello’s forehead was wrinkled, as always when working, that Mam was humming a melody, and his mother’s face was anxious. He could not know that she stood by the west window looking out toward the mountains and thinking of him and his father; nor could he see black Sam stop at the door and with an air of importance give to the “Missus” a letter, dingy and worn by its long journey across the ocean, the negro scraping and bowing as he did so.
Sam was saying: “Squar, he says, ‘Sam, you done tote dat yar letter right smart to Missus Allison wid my bes’ respec’s. She’ll be wantin’ ter read it.’ Spec’s it’s from Lunnon. Squar, he jes’ home from Willumsburg.”
“Thank you, Sam. The squire is indeed kind, and you will say that Mrs. Allison thanks him for his kindness.”
“Yass’m.”
To most people the arrival of any letter was an important event in those days, especially one from “the old country,” six long weeks by sailing vessel at best. Moreover, at that time, there was only a weekly mail between Philadelphia and Williamsburg, unless sent by special messenger, and then on to its destination by any chance carrier, each person along the route being helpful in forwarding it. So it was not surprising that Mrs. Allison eagerly opened the letter, breaking what she recognized as the Danesford seal.
The ink on that letter has dimmed with the long 59 years, but time has not obliterated a certain daintiness in the writing, for Lisbeth’s innate grace was somehow transmitted through the quill pen to the neat, clear characters fashioned by her hand. The reading of it, too, will assist the reader to a better understanding of the girl and the conditions surrounding her, and Lisbeth was a girl worth knowing, though she may yet need excuses, and those will be the more easily made after reading.