The windlass rattles and the rope goes down. A shout from the bottom
of the shaft proclaims all right; and in due time, sitting in
the noose of the rope, up comes Thomas Thurnall, bare-footed and
bare-headed, in flannel trousers and red jersey, begrimed with slush
and mud; with a mahogany face, a brick-red neck, and a huge brown
beard, looking, to use his own expression, "as jolly as a sandboy."
"A letter for you, Doctor, from Europe."
Tom takes it, and his countenance falls; for it is black-edged and
black-sealed. The handwriting is Mary Armsworth's.
"I suppose the old lady who is going to leave me a fortune is dead,"
says he drily, and turns away to read.
"Bad luck, I suppose," he says to himself, "I have not had any for
full six months, so I suppose it is time for Dame Fortune to give me
a sly stab again. I only hope it is not my father; for, begging the
Dame's pardon, I can bear any trick of hers but that." And he sets his
teeth doggedly, and reads.
"My dear Mr. Thurnall,--My father would have written himself, but he
thought, I don't know why, that I could tell you better than he. Your
father is quite well in health,"--Thurnall breathes freely again--"but
he has had heavy trials since your poor brother William's death."
Tom opens his eyes and sets his teeth more firmly. "Willy dead? I
suppose there is a letter lost: better so; better to have the whole
list of troubles together, and so get them sooner over.
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