Under so much contradictory emotion, old Backhouse's balance had wavered a good deal. He received Nelly's remarks with a furtive smile, as though he were only waiting for her to have done, and when they ceased, he drew a letter slowly from his pocket.
'I'se juist gotten it from t' Post Office. They woant gie ye noothin' till it's forced oot on 'em. But I goa regular, an to-day owd Jacob--'at's him as keps t' Post Office--handed it ower. It's from Donald, sure enoof.'
He held it up triumphantly. Nelly's heart leapt--and sank. How often in the first months of her grief had she seen--in visions--that blessed symbolic letter held up by some ministering hand!--only to fall from the ecstasy of the dream into blacker depths of pain.
'Oh, Mr. Backhouse, I'm so glad!' was all she could find to say. But her sweet trembling face spoke for her. After a pause, she added--'Does he write with his own hand?'
'You mun see for yorsel'.' He held it out to her. She looked at it mystified.
'I hadna juist me spectacles,' said Father Time, cautiously. 'Mebbee yo'll read it to me.'
'But it's to his mother!' cried Nelly. 'I can't open your wife's letter!'
'You needn't trooble aboot that. You read it, Mum. There'll be noothin' in it.'
He made her read it. There was nothing in it. It was just a nice letter from a good boy, saying that he had been knocked over in 'a bit of a scrap,' but was nearly all right, and hoped his father and mother were well, 'as it leaves me at present.' But when it was done, Father Time took off his hat, bent his grey head, and solemnly thanked his God, in broad Westmorland. Nelly's eyes swam, as she too bowed the head, thinking of another who would never come back; and Tommy, thumb in mouth, leant against her, listening attentively.
At the end of the thanksgiving however, Backhouse raised his head briskly.
'Not that I iver believed that foolish yoong mon as wrote me that Dick wor dead,' he said, contemptuously. 'Bit it's as weel to git things clear.'
'I may be going to London next week, Mr. Backhouse. You say your son will be in the London Hospital. Shall I go and see him?'
'I doan't know, Mum. His moother will be goin', likely.'
'Oh, I don't want to intrude, Mr. Backhouse. But if she doesn't go?'