440
WYLDER'S HAJVD.
But generals must sleep like other men; and even Tom
Wealdon was snoring in the fairy land of dreams.
The night was very still — a sharp night, with a thin
moon, like a scimitar, hanging bright in the sky, and a
myriad of intense stars blinking in the heavens, above the
steep roofs and spiral chimneys of Brandon Hall, and the
ancient trees that surrounded it.
It was late in the night, as we know. The family, ac-
cording to their custom, had sought their slumbers early;
and the great old house was perfectly still.
One pair, at least, of eyes, however, were wide open;
one head busy; and one person still in his daily cos-
tume. This was Mr. Larcom — the grave major domo,
the bland and attached butler. He was seated in that
small room or closet which he had, years ago, appropriat-
ed as his private apartment. It is opposite the house-
keeper's room — a sequestered, philosophic retreat. He
was not busy about his plate, nor balancing the cellar
book, nor even perusing his Bible. The fact is, he was
engaged over a letter, the writing of which, considering
how accomplished a gentleman he was, he had found rath-
er laborious and tedious. The penmanship was, I am
afraid, clumsy, and the spelling, here and there, irregular.
It was finished however, and he was now reading it over
with care.
It was thus expressed :—
"Respectet Sir,— In accordens with yourdisier, i av
took my pen to say a fue words. There has cum a leter
for a sertun persen this morning, with a Lundun posmark,
and i do not now hand nor sele, but bad writting, which i
have not seen wot contanes, but I may, for as you told me
offen, you are anceus for welfare of our famly, as i now
to be no more than trewth, so I am anceus to ascest you