Mrs. Martin and the good curate were there to welcome Rushmere back to his old home.
With the assistance of Polly and Mrs. Sly, who had been at work all the day, Mrs. Martin had succeeded in restoring the house to its original order, the absence of which, during the misrule of Mrs. Gilbert's brief reign, had been such an eye-sore to the sturdy yeoman. He was perfectly astonished, and no less gratified, to find everything in its accustomed place.
A bright fire was roaring up the huge chimney, as in the winter nights long passed away. A comfortable hot supper was smoking on the oak table, which was covered with a spotless cloth of Dorothy's own spinning. His easy chair in its own place, at the head of the hospitable board, fronting the portrait of his venerated ancestor, which had been cleaned from dust and fly spots, by Mrs. Martin's own hands.
The grand old soldier of the covenant looked down from his lofty height, and, by the glow of the genial fire, seemed to smile benignantly on his care-worn descendant's sorrowful face.
The old yeoman fixed his eyes long and lovingly on the time-honoured picture, then, stretching his large hands to the cheerful blaze, muttered to himself,—"The last. Am I to be the last o' his race that will leave the old place with an untarnished name? Oh, Gilbert! oh, my son! I had expected better things o' thee."
The cheerful conversation of the good curate and his wife, and the caresses of Dorothy, succeeded at last in winning Lawrence Rushmere from his melancholy, and something of his former honest hearty expression beamed forth from his clear blue eyes. He joined earnestly in Henry Martin's beautiful evening prayer, which he declared had done him a world of good, and refreshed his weary spirit. When Dorothy lighted him up to bed, he whispered in her ear at parting, "I thought this morning, Dorothy, that a' never could feel happy or comfortable agen."
It had been previously arranged by her friends that Dorothy was to remain at the Farm, as mistress of the establishment, until after Gerard's return, and do all she could to make her foster-father forget his past sorrows and present desolate position. Though such a result could hardly be expected at his age, she accomplished more than she had anticipated.
She read to him the newspapers, sang to him the old ballads he loved so well, in her clear dulcet voice, and talked to him cheerfully of his future prospects,—of the pleasant days yet in store for him, if he would resolutely abandon vain regrets, and trust in the goodness and mercy of a loving God.
Several days glided tranquilly away before she received a letter from Gerard, which informed her that the funeral procession would reach Hadstone at noon on the following day, when the burial of the young viscount would take place, Lord Wilton and himself being chief mourners, and Mr. Martin reading the service for the dead. He told her that he had found the Earl in better health and spirits than he expected. That his son had died in such a happy frame of mind, that it had done more to establish his belief in the great truths of the Christian religion, than a thousand homilies.
We will pass over the funeral, with all its black and melancholy details, which seem to have been invented by our progenitors to add unnecessary horror to death. The pagan rites of Chinese idolaters have a far more spiritual meaning than our dismal funereal processions. The mourners wear robes of spotless white—young children strew beautiful flowers along the path to the grave, and accompany the dead to their peaceful rest with music and song, rejoicing in the birth of the spirit to a better world.