Another bond of intimacy, stronger than the same political opinions, now united the families of the castle and the hall.

In the beginning of the year 1658 Major Bridgenorth—­who had lost successively a family of six young children—­was childless; ere it ended, he had a daughter, but her birth was purchased by the death of an affectionate wife.  The same voice which told Bridgenorth that he was a father of a living child—­it was the friendly voice of Lady Peveril—­ told him that he was no longer a husband.

Lady Peveril placed in Bridgenorth’s arms the infant whose birth had cost him so dear, and conjured him to remember that his Alice was not yet dead, since she survived in the helpless child.

“Take her away—­take her away!” said the unhappy man.  “Let me not look on her!  It is but another blossom that has bloomed to fade.”

“I will take the child for a season,” said Lady Peveril, “since the sight of her is so painful to you; and the little Alice shall share the nursery of our Julian until it shall be pleasure, and not pain, for you to look on her.”

“That hour will never come,” said the unhappy father; “she will follow the rest—­God’s will be done!  Lady, I thank you—­I trust her to your care.”

It is enough to say that the Lady Peveril did undertake the duties of a mother to the little orphan, and the puny infant gradually improved in strength and in loveliness.

Sir Geoffrey was naturally fond of children, and so much compassionated the sorrows of his neighbour, that morning after morning he made Moultrassie Hall the termination of his walk or ride, and said a single word of kindness as he passed.  “How is it with you, Master Bridgenorth?” the knight would say, halting his horse by the latticed window.  “I just looked in to bid you keep a good heart, man, and to tell you that Julian is well, and little Alice is well, and all are well at Martindale Castle.”

“I thank you, Sir Geoffrey; my grateful duty waits on Lady Peveril,” was generally Bridgenorth’s only answer.

The voice of Peveril suddenly assumed a new and different tone in the month of April, 1660.  He rushed into the apartment of the astonished major with his eyes sparkling and called out, “Up, up, neighbour!  No time now to mope in the chimney-corner!  Where is your buff coat and broadsword, man?  Take the true side once in your life, and mend past mistakes.  Monk has declared at London—­for the king.  Fairfax is up in Yorkshire—­for the king, for the king, man!  I have a letter from Fairfax to secure Derby and Chesterfield with all the men I can make.  All are friends now, and you and I, good neighbour, will charge abreast as good neighbours should!” The sturdy cavalier’s heart became too full, and exclaiming, “Did ever I think to live to see this happy day!” he wept, to his own surprise as much as to that of Bridgenorth.

The neighbours were both at Chesterfield when news arrived that the king had landed in England, and Sir Geoffrey instantly announced his purpose of waiting upon his majesty, while the major desired nothing better than to find all well at Martindale on his return.