No more pride than Lally had these young Dudleys. If work were not to them prayer, it was, at all events, pleasure. It would have been a weary life to those lads, lounging about the Hollow, taking purposeless walks, rising in the morning to do nothing, going to bed at night after having performed no task, executed no duty; but, as matters stood, each season brought its labours with it to them. They loved the place, and they loved Heather, and they loved work.
What need is there to say more? because of all these reasons, Berrie Down looked the Berrie Down we have visited.
But a change was coming, and Heather knew it—knew Alick was going away, that her best helper was about to be taken from her. Many a talk had the pair held together over the inevitable parting; many a word had they exchanged in the twilight, under the shadow of those dear old trees; and, if Alick thought Bessie’s words and talk had been more sad and more attractive, still he knew Heather’s discourse was the best, and so listened to it attentively.
“You have been my very right hand, Alick,” she repeated over and over again; “and I do not know what I shall do without you.”
“Nor I without you, mother,” he answered, sadly.
“And you are going all alone, my boy, to a place which every one says is very, very wicked. I do not know much about wickedness myself, Alick,” she added, with that sweet simplicity that made her seem so inexpressibly innocent to people who did know much about that wicked world, which was a terra incognita to Heather Dudley; “but I hope, dear, that a person may be as good in London as in the country; that you will not be led away, nor fall into expensive habits, nor associate with undesirable people, if only for my sake, Alick.”
“You darling mother!”
“If ever anyone asks you to do what is wrong, it you are ever tempted to extravagance, to folly, or to sin,” she added, “think of me at Berrie Down, and of how your trouble would grieve me, Alick, will you?”
“Mother, there is no need for fear; I hope there is no need.”
“I hope not, either,” she answered; “but yet who, setting out to travel a strange road, can tell what companions he may meet with by the way—what troubles may assail him? More than all, Alick,” and the sweet voice which was never hurried, never much excited, grew low and pleading as she spoke, “If ever you do fall into any trouble, promise to come and tell me; promise, whether I can help you or not, to come and talk it over. If you cannot come to me, I will go to you; and do not think any sin or sorrow—however bad it may seem to you—too bad to tell me. If you have to bear its consequences, I can bear to hear of it. Promise me, Alick! If I think you mean to keep no great sorrow from me, I can let you go—not otherwise.”