Mr Collington and his lady having heard Betty’s statement with the deepest interest, sent for Samuel, and had a long conversation with him.
“And what do you say to entering my service?” asked the squire. “We have learned to prize your father and sister so highly, that I shall feel perfect confidence in taking you with no other recommendation than your story and your relationship to them.”
“Well, sir,” replied Samuel, “you’re very good. I’m tired of roving, and shall be glad to settle, if you can find me a place as’ll suit me; only I mustn’t forget as there’s others I owe a duty to.”
“You mean the friends you have left behind in Bolton?”
“Yes, sir,” said Betty; “he’s bound to be looking arter them. And there’s Deborah, as he’ll be bringing to share his home with him.”
“And Old Crow too?” asked Mrs Collington.
“I cannot say, ma’am,” replied Samuel; “but I must either take his cart back to him, or bring him over this side to his cart.”
“Well, we’ll see what can be done,” said the squire.
Let us leave them for a while, and pass to Greymoor Park. Sir Thomas and Lady Oldfield have left it for an absence of several years; indeed, many doubts are expressed in the neighbourhood whether they will ever come back to reside there again. There is the stamp of neglect and sorrow upon the place. Sir Thomas has become a more thoughtful man—he is breaking up, so people say. His wife has found a measure of comfort at the only true Fountain, for her religion is now the substance—it was once only the shadow. But the past cannot be recalled, and a sorrow lies heavy on her heart which must go with her to her grave; and oh, there is a peculiar bitterness in that sorrow when she reflects what her poor boy might have been had she never herself broken down his resolve to renounce entirely that drink which proved his after-ruin. And what of the Oliphants at the Rectory? Bernard Oliphant still keeps on his holy course, receiving and scattering light. Hubert is abroad and prospers, beloved by all who know him.
And Mary, poor Mary, she carries a sorrow which medicine can never heal. Yet she sorrows not altogether without hope; for, according to her promise, she never ceased to pray for the erring object of her love; and she still therefore clings to the trust that there may have been light enough in his soul at the last for him to see and grasp the outstretched hand of Jesus. And sorrow has not made her selfish. She has learned to take a deepening interest in the happiness of others; and thus, in her self-denying works of faith and labours of love, she finds the throbbings of her wounded spirit to beat less fiercely. She has gained all she hopes for in this life, peace—not in gloomy seclusion, but in holy activity—and she knows that there is joy for her laid up in that bright, eternal land where the sorrows of the past can cast no shadows on present glory.